Gliding over the Caspian Sea, Jaxon brings me up to speed with the real world. While I was on the lam, in U.S. America, flirting with desertion and Stacy; my office decided to call the incident a much needed vacation. During that time, the C.E.R.N debacle got cleaned up with the help of Mohammed and project R.A.P.E. Greenpeace purchased the bio-diesel, to fuel a multinational South American septic pumping firm’s fleet. An oil tanker full of atomically pure olive oil powering ‘honey wagons’ is pure justice.
Several kilometres north of Ngari Gunsa Airport, our intended destination, we land in a dormant poppy field. After wiping the sailplane down for fingerprints, Jaxon sets the incendiary charges that he keeps on hand for just such purposes. “We walk from here. It’s best if the method of our transport is not discovered”, Jaxon explains simply. About twenty yards from our craft, Jaxon thumbs the remote, triggering the explosives. I feel the blast of superheated air on the back of my neck and think sarcastically, “that won’t attract any unwanted attention”.
Hiking down the hill to a dirt covered road, we flag down what appears from the distance, a local transport. Instead, we catch the attention of a local detachment of the P.R.C. army. It seems our descent through China airspace wasn’t as stealthy as hoped. I’m sure the still smouldering remains of the torched plane helped pinpoint our location. Regardless, Capucine, with a wardrobe adjustment, manages to charm the solders into giving us a ride to the Nepal / China border. While Jaxon was mutters something about how much altitude was lost over Kyrgyzstan dodging fighter patrols, I utilise my Sat-phone, to arrange a “limousine” ride to Kathmandu and the C.I.A.A. headquarters. Capucine keeps busy being “very” friendly to our captors.
True to their word, the P.R.C. detachment take us to the outskirts of Hilsa, Nepal. Capucine presents the men with a tin of cookies to “thank” them for their efforts. Already outside of their nation’s border, the solders are eager to return to their patrol. We watch as the P.R.C truck beats a hasty retreat north. With no sign of our ride, we decide to start walking into town, perhaps a tavern will exist to parch our thirsts. Ten minutes into our walk on this hard packed dirt road, we see what must assuredly be our ride. A Range Rover is speeding toward us, followed by a cloud of dust
Stopping about ten feet in front of us, the dust cloud catches up to the vehicle. My sight of the Range Rover is obscured, instinctively I finger my peacemaker. Through the cloud I am aware of only one door opening, then closing. Suddenly, appearing from within the cloud, with an outstretched hand of friendship is Montique! “But.. How..”, I am only able to mutter incoherent monosyllabic queries. “I saw you die in that Swiss restaurant..”, I manage.
Monti’s reply, “Quando Omni Flunkus Mortati”.