There was no one else on the plane except the two pilots. One of them told her to make herself comfortable and enjoy the flight. This Gulfstream was equipped with a cabin door. The pilot and copilot shut themselves in and Malak relaxed a little when she heard the lock click into place.
She was exhausted, mentally and physically. The need for sleep would eventually cloud her judgment and dull her reflexes. The Leopard did not take risks, however. She wrapped one end of her belt around the cockpit door handle and affixed the other to a nearby hook in the galley. If the pilots meant her harm, they wouldn’t be able to get out without her hearing them.
This plane was smaller than some of the Gulfstream models she’d traveled on before. There were two leather chairs facing each other across a shiny wooden table and a long leather bench along the starboard side of the aircraft. Once she had secured the pilots in the cockpit, she quickly searched the cabin. It only took a few minutes and she found nothing suspicious, like audio- or video-recording devices. If someone eventually confronted her with video of her actions, she would shrug it off. As always, she would simply tell them the Leopard takes no chances.
Looking at the cockpit door she chuckled softly, wondering if the pilots would need to use the bathroom adjacent to the galley. Too bad. They were locked in. They would just have to hold it. She sat back in the seat and closed her eyes.
When the plane’s landing gear bumped her awake, she hurried forward, removed her belt from the door, and quickly put it back on. Taking her seat, she looked out the window as the jet taxied to a stop. She checked her watch. The flight had taken a little under three hours.
The landing strip was in the middle of a big ranch. She saw fences and cattle in the distance. Next to the runway was a small building. A four-wheel ATV with a canvas roof attached pulled up with a man at the wheel. Apparently her journey was not yet over. A few yards away, a black Lincoln Town Car sat parked next to the small building.
The pilot emerged from the cockpit, opened the door, and let the stairs unfold until they bumped gently on the concrete. He said nothing as Malak passed by him to the aircraft door. As with most of her encounters with cell members, the less said among them the better.
Once on the ground, Malak took several deep breaths and strode confidently to the ATV. Wearing the sunglasses she kept in her blazer pocket, it appeared that she was facing the driver but Malak’s eyes darted everywhere, gathering as much intelligence as she could. It was a technique every Secret Service agent learned early in training and the reason most of them wore dark glasses when they were on a protection detail. The darkened lenses hid the true target of an agent’s gaze.
She climbed into the ATV as the pilots descended the aircraft steps and entered the waiting car. The car followed an asphalt drive leading toward the mansion. Eventually Malak spied it pulling onto the road in front of the property and speeding away.
The mansion rose in the distance, at least a half-mile from the runway. It was a sprawling structure with flat, tiled roofs. Long wings spreading off in several directions gave it a slapdash appearance. Malak took mental note of everything she could see. This isolated location made an ideal hiding place for terrorists.
“We’ve been expecting you,” the driver said. He was big, wearing a black polo shirt stretched tight over a huge chest and bulging arm muscles. His pants were also black and he wore a straw cowboy hat. The heat was starting to rise and Malak felt perspiration forming on her forehead but he didn’t seem to be sweating at all.
The ATV turned around and sped down the same drive the Town Car had taken moments before. It took less than a minute to reach the back of the mansion. The driver got out of the ATV.
“This way,” he said.
Malak followed him across a stone patio and through french doors. The house was a maze of rooms and hallways, but eventually he led her into a large library. Each wall was essentially floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
At the far side of the room sat a good-sized executive desk, covered with file folders and papers. A finger of smoke curled up from an ashtray, the remnant of a hastily stubbed-out cigarette. Someone had just been in the room.
Pacing slowly back and forth, Malak kept her hands crossed behind her back, certain she was being observed. She studied the room, memorizing as much detail as she could but at the same time trying to appear relaxed. The Leopard did not like being caged.
The door opened and a tall woman with bleached blond hair piled high on her head entered the room. A pair of reading glasses hung on a lanyard around her neck. The woman was heavily made up, and as she walked toward Malak with her hand out, a watch peeked out from under the sleeve of her blouse. It was surrounded by some of the biggest rubies Malak had ever seen.
“Hello, sugar,” the woman said, pumping Malak’s hand. “My name is Ruby Spencer. Or Miss Ruby to almost everyone.
“But you can call me Number Three.”