Profit of Death

By Leon Margie

With the world under threat from global warming a new resource has been discovered that could save consumers billions of dollars along with reducing greenhouse gases. The problem is this resource can only be found in one place the moon. With the chance to make billions of dollars the US and China are in a race to secure this resource first and will stop at nothing to win the new space race. Throw in a multi-conglomerate energy company wanting to stop this material ever reaching Earth, CIA Director Ted Contire will need his best man on the mission.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Dec 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514443637

Leon Margie

Having worked in the corporate resources industry for over 10 years Leon has seen first hand the methods employed to protect company profits. Having worked in all the resource sectors from gold to oil he has seen the many available options that could give this world a cleaner environment.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Leon Margie.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 12/14/2015

Xlibris

1-800-455-039

www.Xlibris.com.au

728335

Contents

1 Near Lake Annecy, France

2 Hong Kong City, Hong Kong

3 Washington DC, USA

4 Langley, Virginia, USA

5

6 North Queensland, Australia

7 Northern Amazon Jungle, Brazil

8 Houston, Texas

9 Salt Lake City, Utah, USA

10

11 New York City, USA

12 Houston Texas, USA

13 Langley, Virginia, USA

14

15

16

17

18

19

20 Langley Virginia, USA

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

Book 2 Profits Returned

1

2

1

Near Lake Annecy, France

No, please, no! his target pleaded with the assassin. Having already shot the man’s wife, mother-in-law, and 7-year-old daughter, this was the only target left and the only one he was paid to kill. It always amazed him how easy it was to kill even now as the man begged for his life. Never any remorse, never any second thoughts, life was just a cheap gift given at a party that was simply thrown away when it was no longer useful. Someone had determined that this man was no longer useful.

The assassin didn’t care that the man, a computer engineer working for many years in the Iraqi oil industry, was close to creating a program that would revolutionise the world’s energy market and save households billions of dollars at the expense of world energy companies’ revenue and profits. All he cared about was fulfilling his contract, taking his money, and protecting his professional reputation.

Staring deeply into his targets eyes, the assassin fired his silenced Luger P76 into the man and watched as the bullets tore into his body. The eyes, he noted, truly were the gateway to the soul as he watched these ones close forever. Al-Hilli fell forward onto his killer, holding the man’s gaze, trying to comprehend why his life and the lives of his family were being taken. Where he saw life and energy dissipating, Saad only saw the blackness and evil of what man was capable of.

The assassin lowered the now-lifeless body to the ground and searched the man for the hard drive holding the detailed information of his invention. Searching the inside pocket, he found what he was looking for; and taking it out, he held it up triumphantly in the air before putting it into his inner pocket. After finishing patting the man down for any other material and satisfied there was nothing else, he prepared to execute the next phase of his plan when he noted a sound behind him in the now-wrecked rented BMW.

Turning quickly and reloading his weapon, he located the sound of the movement. It was Saad’s 7-year-old daughter, Zainab, whom he had shot twice after stopping Saad’s car. The act of being injured, falling off his bicycle coming down a steep hill just outside of the French village of Chevaline located at the southern end of Lake Annecy, was successful. Having disabled the BMW with shots to the front tyres, the assassin worked his way around the vehicle, routinely killing the occupants. One shot to the head and one to the chest in the classical double-tap style used by his profession was all it took. Saad had managed to get out of the car before the assassin had completed his work and was trying to run from the scene when the assassin hit him with a bullet in the leg before completing his murderous contract. Although the assassin was not contracted to kill the family, he could not let there be any live witnesses to his day’s work. Smiling inwardly, he revelled at the enjoyment he got out of the task. Four for the price of one, he thought, and he may just ask for a bonus from his employers as he moved in to finish the job.

The girl was trying to get out of the car, but it was obvious the 7.65mm parabellum bullets the assassin had fired at Zainab had completely destroyed her left shoulder, making it difficult for her to open the cars’ rear door. She had been sitting opposite the now-deceased mother-in-law, whose left side of her head had been sprayed all over Zainab, giving her the appearance of someone who had been dipped in red paint. He had to move quickly for although he had chosen an area that was not well used, there was always the chance that some tourist or local villager may come across the scene, and he could not afford to waste any more time than he had already.

Raising his weapon to fire into the now-frightened and hysterical girl, he was alerted to the sound of a bicycle coming from behind, moving very quickly. Turning to identify the new threat, he failed to move out of the way in time as the bicycle and its occupant slammed into him, pushing him up against the car and forcing his weapon from his hand.

With the years of training as an army commando, the assassin immediately sprang to his feet and assessed the situation within microseconds. He noticed that the bicycle’s occupant had disentangled himself from the bicycle and was getting to his feet. He held the bicycle’s pump as a makeshift weapon as he approached menacingly towards the assassin. The assassin had noted that his own weapon was under the rear of the BMW with the bicycle now blocking the way. The girl had also managed to open the car door and was holding her damaged shoulder and was moving slowly away from his killing zone.

The bicycle’s occupant had gotten to his feet and started moving towards the assassin, getting ready to strike him with an old-style foot bicycle pump that weighed at least four kilograms. The adrenaline in the assassin was now coursing through his veins for this is the type of death the assassin preferred to inflict on someone, not with a weapon but with the savagery of man-to-man combat.

The assassin noted as the man came on to him that he did not have the skill of a professional, but as the man was well over 6 feet and weighed over 200 pounds, he was not to be taken lightly even though the assassin was nearly 6 feet 4 inches and had the body of a well -toned wrestler. Moving with the gait of an angry bear, the man swung down on the assassin who had already anticipated this move and had ducked under the amateurish attempt to strike him. With the man now off balance, the assassin threw in a right-handed uppercut with a clenched fist straight into the man’s solar plexuses, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Then with the speed of a cobra, he stepped around behind the man and put him into a chokehold before the man could catch his breath. He could feel the man struggling to try to breathe and felt his life fading away from lack of oxygen.

With a last-ditch effort, the man forced all his remaining strength into his legs and pushed back on the assassin. In an effort to keep his balance so as to strangle the last of the life out of the man, the assassin stepped back, causing his right foot to get caught up in the frame of the bicycle and losing his balance. The assassin, fearing the man would fall on top of him, had managed to push him away to the left-hand side of the BMW and away from where the assassin would land on the bicycle. In the motion of falling, the assassin had tried to get his left foot back to help correct his fall, which has struck the bicycle’s seat, further unbalancing him and causing the assassin to land heavily on top of the bicycle with the bike’s pedal pushing into his ribs with such force that he could feel a rib break as his head struck the rear of the BMW. He could feel the warm trickle of blood start down the back of his head, but rage had now taken over the assassin.

The man recovered very quickly and was on his feet, moving towards the assassin holding the bike pump, now ready to rain blows down on him that would most definitely if not kill him and cause him a large amount of physical injury.

With the imminent threat of having his head pulverised into pieces, the assassin had reached down with his left hand in an attempt to get to his feet. The man raised the bike pump now to inflict the coup de grace when the assassin felt the butt of his weapon and in one quick motion fired his silenced Luger into the man.

A look of shock and confusion appeared on the man’s face as he felt the bullet tear into his throat. The momentum of his swing action propelled the man forward and towards the assassin. In an effort to stop the man’s forward motion, the assassin fired six more times into the man, forcing him to land on his knees and topple lifeless on top of the assassin’s legs and over the bicycle.

Having disentangled himself from the man and the bike, the assassin gingerly got to his feet and took a quick assessment of the injuries he sustained in the fall. Possible broken rib and minor concussion was what he concluded as he felt around the back of his head.

As he looked down at the man who had attacked him, an image appeared in the fogginess of his mind, which was a photo he had been given of a man that was suspected of working with Saad on his project. Had Saad been intending to meet the man, or was it a coincidence that the man who worked at a French nuclear facility had been in the area? The assassin did not have time to think further on the subject, for he had to chase down the girl and eliminate any witnesses.

Looking now to see where the girl was, he noticed her about 100 metres along the road, still moving slowly and holding her arm to support her damaged shoulder.

With time running short, the assassin went to his getaway motorbike, which he had hidden in undergrowth just off to the side of the road. Removing the overgrowth from the stolen Honda 250cc, the assassin roared the motor into life and set off in the direction of the girl.

Closing in for the final kill, the assassin could hear another vehicle racing down the hill towards where the girl was running. Swearing to himself, the assassin realised he was not going to make it as the vehicle came into view just ahead of the terrified girl; so turning the Honda and gunning the motor, he sped off in the opposite direction.

Looking back in his rear-view mirror of his motorbike, the assassin saw the vehicle, a black four-wheel-drive Jeep, stop and a man of about 50 get out and run to the girl. What did surprise the assassin was the man was holding a pistol. This day was turning out to be one full of questions with no answers, which heightened the frustration in the assassin, making him very angry and a little bit reckless as he pondered going back to finish the job. The assassin was not sure if he had been spotted by the man, but the girl would have alerted the man to the danger he posed and so using retreat as the better part of valour enacted his exit strategy.

Racing the bike two kilometres along the road, the assassin suddenly turned off down an overgrown hiking trail, which would eventually take him to a disused barn hidden deep in a valley south of the village of Semnoz.

Every movement or breath the assassin took caused his damaged body to cry out in pain, but after years of army service, he had come to push the pain into the recesses of his mind. Even when the army had put him through university, he still continued to keep up with all aspects of his training to maintain and enhance his survival skills.

After riding along the trail for 20 minutes at breakneck speed, the trail intersected an old farm access road. Turning left onto the road, the assassin pushed the Honda to as fast as he could go on the poorly maintained road. Having gone for about 20 kilometres along the road, for the first time that day, the assassin could smile with a sense of relief as he reached an abandoned farmhouse with a run-down barn where he could take some time to stop, think, and treat his injuries.

The assassin knew time was short now as he had not intended anyone to arrive at the scene until he was well away. With the man in the Jeep appearing, he knew the authorities would be alerted and the hunt for him would begin. Every second he hesitated meant that the police could set up roadblocks along his intended escape route. The time for treating his injuries would need to be short.

Quickly pushing the motorbike into the barn and removing his multicoloured helmet and black leather jumpsuit that he wore, the assassin felt each movement of his damaged body as it cried out in pain, especially now the adrenaline was starting to wear off. Moving towards the stolen Land Rover Jeep he had hidden earlier as part of his escape plan, he went to the field medical kit he always carried when on assignment. Wiping away the now-dried and crusted blood from his head and neck and applying some antiseptic to prevent any possible infection, the assassin started to wrap his damaged ribs with a broad bandage. To say it was painful was an understatement, for it felt like someone was sticking a hot poker into him with every circuit of bandage. To numb the pain, the assassin took two Tramal pain relief tablets, which would help get him to his next destination. As he tied off the bandage, he took note of the many scars his muscled torso had sustained over the years, and he recounted the many times he came close to death but lived to tell his story, which others he faced had not.

After ten minutes of stripping off his clothes and putting on new ones; removing his prosthetic nose, ears, blonde wig; and makeup; and finishing his first aid, the assassin was hurtling down the disused farmer’s road in the Jeep. He would throw out the props he used for the murders and his Luger when he went over the Gorges du Cheran on his way to Grenoble.

The assassin had a 7pm flight for Paris from the Grenoble-Isere airport and then an 11pm flight to New York out of Charles de Gaulle airport using his American passport. The time was approaching 4pm, and as he was behind schedule by an hour, he would have to push his speed to the limit but was conscious not to attract the attention of the police. He chose the long way to Grenoble via the A41 rather than the shorter way through Albertville so as to avoid the possibility of coming across a police roadblock. The authorities would not have expected him to come the long way, but it didn’t matter as the false plates he had on the Jeep and his false identity papers would not have aroused suspicion.

Having arrived at Grenoble-Isere airport at just after 6pm, the assassin sent a text message to his contact with the simple message Issue Resolved. Then parking the Jeep and after he was sure the message was sent, the assassin took out the phone’s SIM card and destroyed any evidence of the card’s existence and threw the phone into a nearby bin.

Walking up to the Air France check-in counter, the assassin noted extra police presence around the airport.

Bonsoir mademoiselle, the assassin politely said to the very pretty but heavily made-up service attendant, which was returned with a friendly smile and a similar greeting. The attendant, realising the greeting had a British accent and assumed he was not French, asked for the assassin’s name and passport. After he produced one of his many false passports, this one being his English one, the attendant had her astuteness confirmed and proceeded to find his name on the booking manifest.

Monsieur Terrence Smythe? the attendant enquired to ensure the accuracy of the passport and verifying the name on the manifest.

Oui, the assassin replied, trying to put on his best French accent while using his British accent. The attendant looked up and smiled at the assassin with the familiar look he always received from the French when using his British passport, which was one that looked more like a sneer than a smile. It was funny he noted that when he used his Irish or Australian passports, he received a more pleasant smile and greeting than his British one.

You have any baggage to check in? the attendant enquired of the assassin in a nonplussed sort of tone.

Two bags for checking in, please, he casually replied. He had only been in France for three days but did not want to give the impression of someone who had only been here a short time, which could have aroused suspicion carrying a small amount of luggage, if he had of been stopped and questioned. The bags contained clothing and a large amount of photographic equipment, which was his alibi for being in the region; it was also a hobby he had acquired over the years, which was his outlet from his work and his former studies at university.

Please put them onto the scales, Mr Smythe, the attendant demanded of the assassin. After checking the weight and printing the required bag tags, she handed the assassin his boarding pass and wished him and safe and pleasant flight. Strange he didn’t feel like she wanted him to have either, but hey, after years of aggression between the two nations, who could blame her? He often got the same when travelling anywhere on his American passport.

Moving towards the security checkpoint, which had become commonplace at all airports since the attacks of 9/11, he started to remove all items of metal from his person. Arriving at the security screening point, he observed two policemen eyeing him off with the look one receives when a child walks into a candy store.

Putting his wallet, coins, mobile phone, and notebook computer into the screening tray and then placing his carryon bag next to the screening tray onto the screening belt, he patted himself down so as to assure himself and the security personnel that he had gotten everything.

After walking through the metal detector without incident, the assassin went to retrieve his carryon bag and equipment from the screening process. As he approached the machine, he noticed that the two policemen were waiting on the other side of the screening belt for him.

After he picked up his gear and putting his notebook computer into his carryon bag, the larger of the two policemen requested the assassin’s passport; in fact, it sounded more of a threatening demand than a request. Producing the document with a smile, the assassin handed over the passport and proceeded to put his coins and wallet back into his pockets.

The purpose of your visit to Grenoble? the taller of the two policemen, even though he was five inches shorter than the assassin, demanded in broken English that had a touch of arrogance.

I have been taking photos of the hills, railway line, and old buildings around La Mure, for I am a photographer, you see, the assassin said in his best London accent.

Did you get any good photos? the smaller of the two policemen asked in a manner that showed a general interest in the response.

Why, yes. September is a very good time for getting vibrant, colourful photos, especially with the change of seasons occurring, the assassin replied, sounding as if he had been a professional photographer all his life rather than the amateur he was.

Where are you going now? the taller of the two interjected.

To board my flight, the assassin answered, overemphasising his response in English so as to make the policemen seem as stupid as he was arrogant. This caused the policemen to look at the assassin with the look one gives a snail before it is about to be crushed under foot.

You can go, the larger of the two policemen said, handing back the assassin’s passport in a way that suggested that they had hoped to never meet again in his country.

Quickly picking up his bag and moving off towards the gate, he had gone about five metres when he was abruptly stopped by the larger French policeman, calling him to stop. Had he overstepped his mark by taunting the officer? Or had he been made for the recent days’ events? He was about to find out but not before looking for his escape route should he need to run. Turning slowly to face the officer, he took in all his possible options. Standing with the look on his face of that of a cat that had caught a bird was the larger policemen holding the assassin’s wallet, which the assassin must have forgotten to pick up out of the security tray.

I presume you will be needing this, the officer said in his best Sherlock Holmes accent.

Why, yes, merci, my good man, the assassin replied in the most obsequious manner he could, but deep down, he was seething from the fact the man had got the better of him. No one gets the better of the assassin he raged inside.

Having safely boarded his Air France flight at Grenoble, the assassin had time to consider the success of his mission but also the events that could have caused his mission to fail and possibly ended his life. Never had he come so close to failure, and never had he allowed a witness to live; but they would not find him, and the girl, Zaniba, could not possibly identify him. In short, he had fulfilled his contract and lived to collect the money that was owed to him, so it was a success, but something was gnawing at him about how the man on the bike came to be there and the man with the gun. Another time he thought as he tried to get comfortable with the effects of the drug wearing off and the pain of his mistakes starting to rack his body again. He was glad it was only a one and half hour flight to Paris after which he could get some food, grab a drink or numerous drinks depending on the pain, at the Air France first class airport lounge. He had a long flight ahead and people back in New York who will want answers that he didn’t have.

2

Hong Kong City, Hong Kong

In other part of the world at the same time as the al-Hilli hit, another assassin was going about his deadly craft. The difference between Hun Sen and the murderer of al-Hilli was that Hun Sen did not kill for pleasure, for money, or for professionalism. He killed because he was simply told to do it. Everything that Hun Sen did was what he was programmed to do. After years of being part of the Chinese government system he knew no better, from his days as ward of the state, his army cadet training to his days in the army, until finally his acceptance into the Ministry of State Security, Hun Sen was told what to do every step of the way.

As it was being just after 3am, there was very little movement on the Hong Kong streets except for the usual night-time crawlers. Hun Sen felt confident he would have little trouble completing his assignment. Following his target from the hidden gambling den that was illegal in Hong Kong but had been allowed to flourish under British rule and the local government after the handover in 1997, Hun Sen observed his target was swaying as he walked. This is good, he thought as drunken men would have slower reaction times, and with the limited lighting in the back streets of Kowloon, the kill would be made easier. The darkness was his friend Hun Sen noted with a smile as he increased his pace so as to come up behind his target just as he was passing the alley ahead. Hun Sen knew he had to be quiet, or his quarry would be alerted to his presence as he continued stealthily up behind his target. Timing was everything in Hun Sen’s craft, for timing made sure the job was either a success or a failure, and Hun Sen did not fail.

Pulling out the five-inch serrated knife that Hun Sen always carried up the sleeve of his left forearm, he prepared to strike. Hun Sen was not a big man, only five feet ten, but he was still taller than his target, and years of martial arts training and gym work made him a very lethal opponent for any man. As the target walked past the alley, Hun Sen pounced on the man with the speed of a leopard, placing his left hand over the target’s mouth and with his right hand plunging the five-inch serrated blade into the man’s neck, which cut the windpipe and severed the jugular vein, rendering death almost instantaneous. The target had no time to react except to let out a muffled cry as he collapsed to the ground and forfeited his ability to live. Dragging the target into the alley, Hun Sen laid the man out behind some bins and wiped the blade of his knife onto the dead man’s clothing. His thoughts were not of the man he had just killed or why he was killed but if his job was to his master’s satisfaction as he stood over his lifeless victim.

Hun Sen then searched his victim for the backup hard drive from the man’s coat pocket that had been passed to him earlier at a restaurant on Victoria Bay by a government scientist suspected of passing on nuclear technological advancements. The government had been suspicious for some time of the scientist but needed to be sure that this was the guilty party and how they were getting the information to the state’s enemies. After months of surveillance work and feeding false information to the scientist, they had all the evidence they needed to enact the order to kill. Hun Sen had been told by his superiors. The lifeless figure was a Chinese national who was the go-between for one of the local triad lords and the Iraqi government, only because they paid the highest price. Hun Sen had hoped his next assignment was the triad lord, for he could not abide by anyone selling out his country, and these people compromised the safety of his beloved motherland.

After searching everywhere for the hard drive on the man, he could not find it. Hun Sen checked the man over again, but still there was no trace of the item. What could he have done with it? he thought as he retraced in his mind where the surveillance officer had told him the victim had received the package. Hun Sen had followed the victim everywhere since the meeting with scientist and had not let him out of his sight, and yet the hard drive was not there. He couldn’t loiter any longer as time was growing short and people would be coming onto the street to start their day, Hun Sen knew as he fought back the frustration of his failure.

Satisfied that the man was now resting with his ancestors, Hun Sen then removed all identification from the man and jewellery to make it look like a robbery. Hun Sen took one last look at the man he had just executed and saw not the man but the threat to his people, his masters, and his secure way of life. No one was going to take that away from him as he held back the urge to kick the lifeless body.

Carefully surveying the scene to ensure that there was no evidence left, Hun Sen casually walked down the quiet Kowloon Street, knowing that the moonless night was his ally, shielding him from the state-sanctioned crime he had just committed.

Walking back to his rental car he had parked nearby, Hun Sen would make the 20-kilometre drive to the airport where he had a 7am Cathay Pacific flight to Beijing.

After arriving at the airport and parking his rental car, Hun Sen checked into his flight and made his way through security. Hun Sen could never prove it, but when he travelled on his own passport through Chinese-occupied territory, he was always given the strictest of security examinations. It was he thought a subtle way of the government letting him know he was theirs and they would always be watching and controlling every aspect of his life as they had done for the past 34 years.

After passing through security, Hun Sen made his way to the Cathay Pacific lounge where he would shower and change before his flight to Beijing.

At 42, Hun Sen did not think about the wife or family he did not have or about the parents he only briefly knew but what his next assignment was. He surely hoped it was the task of ending the triad lord’s life along with the nuclear scientist who he noted was a very attractive woman of about 30. He would still have no problem in ending her life if directed of him, for he despised traitors.

In Hun Sen’s ten years in the Ministry of State Security, he had purpose and was part of a select few entrusted with keeping the state safe from its enemies. The state had been good to him, ensuring that he was fed, clothed, housed, and educated in the way the great leader Mao wanted his people to be. He had suffered enough when his parents died in the earthquake of 1976 and was forced to scavenge as a 6-year-old through his village of Fengnan located on the outskirts of Tangshan in the province of Hebei. When the winter came, he had nowhere to keep himself warm except in the makeshift cardboard house he built at the rubbish dump, which became his home for the next two years until he was rounded up after the introduction of the economic reforms of 1978.

Where Hun Sen thought that living in the rubbish dump at Fengnan was hard, he soon realised that although the state had taken him in, his life was no longer his and he would have gladly returned to the simple existence. Living in the makeshift cardboard house gave Hun Sen independence; here he had none, he thought miserably. To Hun Sen, living under state control, the word independence was as foreign as knowing love from a family, which was just a fleeting memory. What Hun Sen did come to learn was although he did not have independence and life as a ward of the state was difficult, he would get other opportunities that he would never have received living in Fengnan.

Hun Sen had blossomed under the state system, for he simply learned to get along and do as he was instructed. Where other boys would refuse to do tasks or get up for the 5am roll call, Hun Sen remained silent and dutifully went about his instructions. After watching the other boys being punished for their indiscretions, Hun Sen had no desire to be whipped or left out in the cold with little to no protection. Maybe it was the street smarts that Hun Sen had acquired from his two years of scavenging and living off the streets that gave him the control he had developed, or maybe he was just smart enough to grasp the simple fact that he could never beat the system, so why fight it? Whatever it was that Hun Sen had come to understand, his guardians had also noted in the boy and made every effort to nurture and develop him to be another functioning piece of the government machine.

After 30 minutes of soaking in the warm-scented water, Hun Sen showered off and dressed for his flight, which was due to take off in 90 minutes. Tidying up his gear and putting on fresh clothing that Hun Sen carried with him in his carryon bag, he would shave and come out of the Kabana Room of the Cathay Pacific lounge refreshed and relaxed for his flight to Beijing.

Taking a table at the nearly full dining room located at the rear of the lounge, Hun Sen would have time for a cooked breakfast a few cups of coffee. Scanning the dining room for any potential threats and planning an escape route in the event of an incident occurring, it dawned on Hun Sen that he could never truly relax. Even though he was in his own country and he should be safe, there was always the element of danger as he thought back to what he had seen and done for his country. Was he ever going to be safe? Was this going to be his lot in life even in his declining years should he get there? Hun Sen thought as he got up to get a plate and select from the hot buffet counter.

After completing his second omelette with bacon and hash browns along with the customary orange juice and cup of coffee, Hun Sen could hear the first of the boarding calls for his flight to Beijing.

Flight CX3700 to Beijing is now ready for boarding through gate 5, the announcer said in both English and Mandarin for the second time in five minutes. Hun Sen got up from his seat, checked he had all his belongs, and walked towards the gate.

After showing his passport and boarding pass to the ground crew, Hun Sen took the short walk down the air bridge and found his seat, which conveniently for him was in the first row of the Boeing A320. Placing his bags into the overhead, Hun Sen collapsed into his seat and proceeded to go to sleep for the duration of the three-hour-and-fifteen-minute flight. One thing that Hun Sen had learnt over the years was to take sleep whenever he could because in his line of work, he never knew when it was coming again.

Hun Sen was awakened by the cabin manager going through the customary landing procedure of asking all passengers and crew to take their seats, put on their seatbelts, put seats into their upright positions, and ensure that all electronic devices have been turned off. Hun Sen was always excited by this announcement, for