Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [170]
“Good point,” Chavez said. “Business is business, and you let a sleeping dog alone, until you get bit. I wonder when they’ll have that happen to them.”
“Depends on the bad guys, but making enemies gratuitously is not good for business. Remember, a terrorist is a businessman whose business is killing people. Maybe they’re ideologically driven, but business is still business.”
“How many have you bagged?” Dominic asked Clark.
“A few, all in Europe. They’re not well trained. Alert, and they can be sly like a fox, but that isn’t the same as training. So you just exercise caution and take them down. Helps to shoot them in the back. Hard for them to return fire that way.”
Dominic frowned. “Huh.”
“Ain’t supposed to be fair. This isn’t the Olympics.”
“I suppose.”
“But it goes against your grain, doesn’t it?”
Dominic gave this a moment’s thought, then shrugged. “I don’t know about grain—just a different mind-set.”
Clark smiled grimly. “Welcome to the other side of the looking glass.” He checked his watch. The flight would be descending now.
It struck Hadi that the ground under an airplane always looked the same—but different. Distant but inviting as you came back down. Like America, all the roads and cars coming into view. He gauged height by whether or not he could see individual cars and trucks. The “Air Show” setting on his mini-TV said that altitude was 4,910 feet and dropping, ground speed 295, well down from their cruising height and speed over the ocean. They’d land soon. Ten minutes, according to the computer. Time for him to wake up all the way. The stewardess took his coffee cup away. Italian coffee was much like that of his distant youth in its acidity, and truth be told, he much enjoyed Italian food, though they served pork far too much, and though he drank wine, he drew the line well short of pig flesh. He’d get off, waltz through customs and immigration, spot his greeter, and get his ticket on to Chicago from him, who’d drive him also to his connecting flight for United Airlines Flight 1108, and he’d have a cigarette but not much of a chat.
He had to be alert coming through customs and immigration. He had nothing to declare, of course, not even a bottle of Italian wine. Business traveler, he was supposed to be, for whom such a trip was routine. Jewel dealer, that was his cover. He knew enough to have a brief conversation on the subject. Not enough to impress or fool a real Jewish diamond merchant, of course, but he knew how to deflect any conversation, even to fake an accent. Well, he was a business traveler of sorts, and this sort of trip was routine, though this was his first-ever visit to Canada. One more infidel country, with simple and gentle rules for people in transit, and they’d be just as happy to see him on his way, taking no notice of him as long as he didn’t carry a firearm or commit a crime.
The touchdown was a little rough. Perhaps the flight crew was weary as well. What a terrible life they had, Hadi thought. Sitting down all day, not walking around, constantly changing their body clocks to different places and times. But all men had their places in the world, and theirs was well paid, just unpleasant, even for infidels. His job and his cover compelled him to be pleasant to all he met. That included infidels who routinely ate pig. It was hard, but it was required by his place in life. The airliner stopped, and with the other 153 people aboard, he stood, collected his carry-on bag, and stumbled to the door.
You could tell the Canadian officials in their navy-blue visored caps, blank expressions, and scanning eyes. Greeters who didn’t care a whit about those whom they greeted to their infidel country. There were probably mosques within a mile or so, but he would not go near one of those. The local government might permit Muslims to worship Allah in a place of their own, but surely they were all watched, and the entrants photographed. His job was to be invisible.
It’s down,” Clark said, looking at the TV monitor hanging twenty feet away.
“All we know is that he