PORTIER STUDIED THE copy of the flight plan. The plane was going to be taking off from the Munich Oberpfaffenhofen Airport. It was an airport used exclusively for business aviation and private jets. Without commercial aircraft, the security measures were much lighter. As long as the paperwork was correct—or rather looked correct—there would be no problem with unusual and not-quite-identifiable cargo.
Now he only had to decide the final details. The development at Barvikha, called Sputnik Luxe, was toast even if the pilot was a little inaccurate in dropping the bomb. The flight plan, the names and background of the crew and pilot, would all be traced back to the Black Plague, another arm of Daesh. Their signature would be all over it, from the Koran “mistakenly” left behind in the pilot lounge, to the manufacture of grieving “relatives.”
The client was certainly satisfied.
But if everyone thought he was now going to be serving clients, and taking their billions gratefully, when his piss dribbled out with excruciating pain ten times a day, they were all sadly mistaken.
At the scheduled hour an email with attachment would head to Moscow. Whoever was in control—and not unfortunate enough to be cavorting in their Barvikha mansion on the fateful hour—would be given photographic and written evidence of the order that came from their scheming loan-holder. It wouldn’t take the Russians long to put it together that they’d been duped.
Washington would soon look like Sputnik Luxe and the surrounding moonscape of Barvikha, he surmised. And Sadler’s precious and safe Potomac estate would look like Nagasaki.
It was hard to hide his glee.
That’d teach them. That’d teach every last one of those motherfuckers, he thought miserably as he went to his private bathroom in the never-ending agony.