After a hot shower, he got his case out and opened it, it was full of clothes, all of them expensive, all of them brand-new. A suit was on top. He took out a suit and laid it on the bed. It was charcoal grey, silk, with a Miu Miu label. Next a white shirt to go with it: Armani.
He got dressed and examined himself in the mirror. The suit was in the classic mod style, with small lapels that barely came down to his chest and tightly fitted trousers. The tie he had on a dark blue, narrow, and straight. Reaching into his case he picked out black suede shoes from D&G. To complete it he opened a slim leather box and fitted his watch on, a Baume & Mercier with a polished steel bracelet, finally a light spray of Burberry Brit cologne and his SIG-Sauer P226 pistol placed in his jacket holster. As always, a 12' Tanto dagger was tied to his waist and his omnipresent leather journal and black Platinum Striated fountain pen were both placed in his jacket pocket.
Locking the case he glanced down at his watch as he walked out the door.
He got off the elevator, turned a corner and went through a thick steel door into a small room with another thick steel door. Submitting himself to a retinal scan as a small p***k drew blood from his finger, he waited as the central computer beeped and identified him before opening the door for him. He stepped into a narrow corridor with a plush, gold-coloured carpet which led to a single door at the end. Two dark clothed men stood impassively on either side, armed with Heckler and Koch 9mm machine guns. He walked along the corridor past the guards without so much as a glance, his cologne lingered in the air for a moment as he typed in the seven-figure security code and then it was gone as the door closed softly behind him.
The room he entered had no windows. If someone had thought to cut through the soundproofed panels, the reinforced steel walls, and the complicated circuitry designed to prevent any form of outside surveillance, they would have found themselves with a beautiful view of the Gambino Ocean.
But windows were a security risk - and anyway, the people who met here had no interest in beauty.
Anthony Kuyuki had arrived.
He sat at the head of a highy polished conference table - cut from a type of tree that was now extinct - and briefly surveyed the men who had gathered here. There was eight of them, and it was clear that they came from many different parts of the world, but they had one thing in common; a stillness, a coldness even, that made the room as cheerful as a morgue. Not one of them greeted him as he took his seat. Nor did they bother looking at the time. If he had arrived it must be exactly one o'clock. That was when the meeting was meant to begin, and Kuyuki was always on time.
"Good afternoon," Kuyuki said.
A few heads nodded, but nobody spoke. Greetings were a waste of words...
The meeting had begin.
He got dressed and examined himself in the mirror. The suit was in the classic mod style, with small lapels that barely came down to his chest and tightly fitted trousers. The tie he had on a dark blue, narrow, and straight. Reaching into his case he picked out black suede shoes from D&G. To complete it he opened a slim leather box and fitted his watch on, a Baume & Mercier with a polished steel bracelet, finally a light spray of Burberry Brit cologne and his SIG-Sauer P226 pistol placed in his jacket holster. As always, a 12' Tanto dagger was tied to his waist and his omnipresent leather journal and black Platinum Striated fountain pen were both placed in his jacket pocket.
Locking the case he glanced down at his watch as he walked out the door.
.......
He got off the elevator, turned a corner and went through a thick steel door into a small room with another thick steel door. Submitting himself to a retinal scan as a small p***k drew blood from his finger, he waited as the central computer beeped and identified him before opening the door for him. He stepped into a narrow corridor with a plush, gold-coloured carpet which led to a single door at the end. Two dark clothed men stood impassively on either side, armed with Heckler and Koch 9mm machine guns. He walked along the corridor past the guards without so much as a glance, his cologne lingered in the air for a moment as he typed in the seven-figure security code and then it was gone as the door closed softly behind him.
The room he entered had no windows. If someone had thought to cut through the soundproofed panels, the reinforced steel walls, and the complicated circuitry designed to prevent any form of outside surveillance, they would have found themselves with a beautiful view of the Gambino Ocean.
But windows were a security risk - and anyway, the people who met here had no interest in beauty.
Anthony Kuyuki had arrived.
He sat at the head of a highy polished conference table - cut from a type of tree that was now extinct - and briefly surveyed the men who had gathered here. There was eight of them, and it was clear that they came from many different parts of the world, but they had one thing in common; a stillness, a coldness even, that made the room as cheerful as a morgue. Not one of them greeted him as he took his seat. Nor did they bother looking at the time. If he had arrived it must be exactly one o'clock. That was when the meeting was meant to begin, and Kuyuki was always on time.
"Good afternoon," Kuyuki said.
A few heads nodded, but nobody spoke. Greetings were a waste of words...
The meeting had begin.
