The Counterfeit Agent

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All private planes were not created equal. The woman who called herself Salome usually rode a Gulfstream G550, a jet that could jump nonstop from Zurich to Johannesburg. But her boss had commandeered the 550 a week earlier. Busy month. Take the IV. The G-IV was a fine aircraft, but it would have run out of fuel over the jungles of Congo.

And the meeting could not be postponed.

So Salome made a virtue of necessity, overnighting in Nairobi. She added a pistol and extra ammunition to the deposit box at the Standard Chartered. She checked the alarm in the safe house in Westlands. True, she had nothing planned in Kenya. But better to have and not need…

Salome was pretty, when she wanted to be. Not exactly beautiful, but outright beauty was not an asset in her line of work. Beautiful women were memorable. She preferred to be forgotten. She was in her thirties, slim, with shoulder-length hair, light brown eyes. Her least attractive feature was her nose, which seemed imported from a bigger face. She could have been Spanish or Italian, but she wasn’t. Her English was flawless, but she wasn’t American or British. She wore a simple gold band on her ring finger, but she wasn’t married. Men paid much less attention to married women.

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