Tigers on the Sudan

Prologue

For an American stuck in Australia it was anything but a picture of tranquil side resorts and endless horizon of pale blue. In fact, it was as far from Perth as one could get, with a shithole of depressing vistas and abysmal poverty. And as Grip might’ve said, Alice Springs would never be placed on the travel brochures sent by the Outback Tourism Board. Known simply as ‘The Alice’ by the locals it was never a place that Grip thought he’d find himself holed at…but there he was.

It was hard for him to even imagine that only three days earlier he’d been jetting into the beautiful Perth Airport on a night flight and had been awestruck by the twinkling scenery from miles above. But now he was stuck in the dry town of The Alice, searching for the one man who’d led him haphazardly across the globe. Grip Donovan was a bounty hunter extraordinaire, although never graced with the pseudo-masculine moniker of Grip. He’d decided years before that few would take him seriously in his line of work if he went by his given Christian name: Ernest. After a few well-placed introductions as Grip Donovan the name effectively stuck, and at least gave it him less of a pussy-vibe. It was a name that suggested masculinity and therefore it remains today. Donovan traveled the world through his career of international man-hunting, but oddly enough he’d never traveled solely as a tourist. Nothing he’d ever done could’ve been considered fun, he thought. He’d walked the mires of mud-filled roads in Afghanistan, and trudged through deep brush in the Kerala backwaters and tea plantations off the coasts of India. Always in constant discomfort and on a mission to locate some foreign national wanted by international authorities. He’d developed a reputation for success over the years and this became the reason he was at times paid off the books of the powerful cabals and elitist governing corporations like the United Kingdom’s illustrious Section 6, The Hague, and on one occasion the Met at Scotland Yard. When a government couldn’t track a suspect with boots on the ground they enlisted Grip’s assistance, lest they endanger unwinding some already chilly governmental threads.

The key to his success was discretion and Grip knew how to maintain secrets. And yes, it was better when one of the holders of those secrets was lifeless in the ground. That isn’t to say, that Grip refused to work with backup, he had his own trained team of professionals back in the States that he was quite proud of, he just found it better to make the smallest shadow, which meant working alone. Then it was a simple phone call across the globe while sitting pretty in a state of surveillance until help arrived. But that wouldn’t happen today.

Grip had been hired to locate Alistair Amann, a wealthy philanthropist turned arms dealer that the American government was keen on interrogating. But the idle rich have private plans and banks of industrious lawyers at the ready, which makes it a tad difficult to request a meeting without proof of some impropriety. Grip’s task was to find said target, to gain information that would allow the US government to further their investigation…because in this particular part of the world no one gave a shit’s snack about any of those idiots claiming to represent Homeland Security.

In this age of satellite scrutiny, where most individuals can be tracked as they run toilet paper along their cracks, Amann was becoming a bit of a challenge. Sometime after the Soviets launched Sputnik in ’57 the world itself was forced into change. There are over a thousand working satellites circling the globe at any moment. And over twice as many non-working ones, that still corkscrew the heavens like heavy paperweights without their original function. Satellites could track Alistair Amann as he headed from point A to point B, but it was useless in the close contact world of spy-craft. Grip wasn’t an operative, covert or otherwise. But he was a man-hunter and at times the two realms diverged as it were.

Amann was a British National of mixed-blood descent. With a mother from Pakistan and father a devoted teabag dunker, he still possessed a hint of heavy dark features and coal black hair. Though from the pictures given to Grip he could see the gray was drifting in around the temples giving him a devilish appearance that some would surely have attested came off as threatening. The strangest aspect of Amann was his thick accent. His British vernacular was laden with stilted tones of Urdu dialect hidden just beyond the edges. This gave him an appearance of being a Victorian Empire explorer just back from the jungles; regaling others with his stories of adventure or deadly lion attacks on their encampments. He presented himself as if he came from another era entirely. As did all Brits of means, as Grip already determined.

Surrounded by a cadre of sycophant servants, Amann was rarely alone. Satellite photos of him disembarking from his Cessna Citation showed him trailed by a small contingency of suited men. One Grip knew had to be a personal executive assistant to the man, while others carried themselves like aged military. When he viewed the pictures that first time at Langley, he recognized their stance and knew they weren’t private militia or simply hired bodyguards. The paunch in their suit jackets was clearly hiding automatic weapons, he surmised. To him it was the kind of armament that spoke of Uzis far more than traditional Glock Nines.

He was clearly a man who valued his security.

Mr. Donovan, we cannot stress enough how this is a simple tag operation. Stalk and report your findings, nothing more.

Agent Jameson’s words spilled out atop the table like circus flyers to a hyper bumpkin boy of ten. Not to worry Agent, I am never as eager to try and haul a target out of a gun-protected compound as some may have you believe...tag and not bag, got it. All this suits me just fine and leaves me nothing but smiling.

Agent Jameson was unimpressed and squinted his derision from across the room. We here at Langley know who you’ve worked for in the past, and we have some idea of your methods. But this will not be that I assure you.

But if you or any of your IM staff are caught or captured, the state department will disavow any…blah, blah, blah. I know the drill Agent, and as you’ve already said you know some of my previous contractors. You know my methods and you know I can get the job done. And you know I can do it quietly, without any of the fuss of getting your fingers in anyone else’s sticky pie.

Testosterone in the room became palpable. It was Grip, Agent Jameson and two other men who chose to remain as silent as gravestones throughout their initial meeting. They’d reached out to Donovan Risk Management through traditional means, a phone call made to a local switchboard. There had been no inference of subtlety about their approach, making Grip believe they wanted to bypass their normal methods of hiring a subcontractor. They requested a meeting asking for Grip in particular. There was nothing clandestine about their request and they even asked that it be held in a Langley facility. That should have been his first warning, he thought later.

He flew in with his usual traveling companion, Scott Bonney. He hired Scott nearly eight years earlier, having seen his impressive military record. He approached Bonney quickly, knowing if he didn’t pounce soon, the SEALS or even the CIA would. And he didn’t want to lose another asset to those dickheads whom he was presently being forced to be cordial with. He made Scott wait outside in the anteroom. But before they escorted him into a private office to chat, he caught that the male secretary introduced himself before acknowledging Donovan and Bonney with their surnames, (despite the fact they was quite certain he hadn’t offered them.) So they did their homework, but that was to be expected. But when you feign disinterest while still building a dossier of Grip’s second in command you cross the line of decency in his view. But all he could do was smile and hold his anger in check until he was free to unleash it over a stiff cocktail once this bullshit was complete.

Chapter One

It was hot…35.6 °C kinda hot. One assumes the plains of the Australian outback would be hot, but it was the type of heat that sucks the moisture from your lungs and forces you to move slower than usual. Alistair Amann was not the kind of man to spend any time in The Alice. It was far too provincial a place for a man of his means. But Grip had tracked his flight there and was equally obliged to hop yet another flight from Perth. The difference being Amann would be sipping champagne from a fluted stem while he would be crammed into coach, required to remain buckled throughout most of the three-hour-long flight. There went any hopes of his plane going down, he thought.

Once he’d arrived in Perth, before being forced to the asshole middle of the Northern Territory, Grip began his task by locating Amann’s hotel. The Perth Crown Victorian was the swankiest of hotels and a decidedly good choice if you had the money to throw around like confetti ribbons on V-Day. But Grip Donovan did not. So after locating Amann’s suite of rooms he checked into someplace more reasonable for his price range but was pissed off to discover he had to check out almost immediately once he learned Alistair was on the move yet again.

Who the fuck does that? He asked himself. Who the hell rents a room and then departs for destinations unknown without a care in the world? Did he continue his leasehold of the suites at the Crown Victorian? Grip wondered. If so, was this just a quick jaunt before a return back to Perth? And if so, should he be doing the same? Disgusted, Grip decided to check out right before he could get comfortable because one never knew in his line of work and unlike Amann he couldn’t afford the same privileges as the idle rich.

Alastair Amann had made his money in legitimate trade. He was a self-made millionaire, as any in his entourage might suggest he enjoyed boasting. He was unmarried but did enjoy the company of women. Satisfied he wasn’t a poofter, Grip surmised that being wealthy had its own style of determent, at least whenever it came to marriage, and no matter how ironclad the pre-nup appeared to be. Yes, he had his problems Grip figured, but they were problems he would’ve easily have taken on if he were given half the chance.

It was a good thing that money didn’t mean that much to Grip, because despite all his successes and even the reputation he eventually garnered throughout the world, he was still living paycheck to paycheck. But by then the paychecks had gotten incrementally bigger over the years, as regrettably the same occurred in his expenses. This wasn’t a cheap assignment he knew, and he cringed every time he made a reservation for a car, translator, hotel or flight. It was all cutting into his profits and the only saving grace came with the knowledge that everyone in his line of work had those same demands.

Pulling a bandana from his back pocket Grip wiped a line of sweat just beginning to bead on his forehead. Any casual observer might’ve taken him as a native by his appearance, but he was far from that. He once read that the Aussie vernacular was derived from speaking in a clenched-teeth sort of fashion, their way to keep blowflies from darting in whenever they spoke…or so he’d read.

Grip may have looked like a local Bushie, with his jeans, dirty lace-up boots and sweat-stained button-up, dark from the tortuous humidity. But that was just appearance. Raised in the Black Hills of South Dakota he was rural from birth, and simple in character. At a buck ninety-five of solid mass he could’ve easily been mistaken as any farm boy turned professional athlete. And that might have been his future, had he stayed long enough to graduate college or even worked harder to impress the visiting scouts. But he never saw his future in those bare-bones microcosms of his lesser peers.

Instead, Grip saw the military as his way out of mediocrity. And after several tours and a short stint in the Military Special Ops Command he left, taking all the skills the SOC gratuitously bestowed upon him for want of something more rewarding than a bronze star or a folded flag. Seeing a ridiculous television show once about a bounty hunter he decided he could do it far better, and once the decision not to become a federal marshal for drug-running local thugs was made, he decided he could do something grander and set his path to those ends.

Donovan Risk Management was formed two years later. Though the name implied mahogany tables and twenty-story skyline views, it was much like Grip himself—more boastful pride than what could be delivered in a name. He learned quickly how to work his clients though, always making his grand entrance into the Donovan conference rooms with as much bravado and weight that his one-ninety-five could carry. For most new clients he struck an impressive figure. His swashbuckling tone of confidence and his use of military slang dropped like obvious shards among their feet. He was nothing but bravado and machismo whenever he approached a client and most everyone signed on the dotted line after a twenty-minute meeting to discuss the potential operation.

Over time smaller clients gave way to larger ones, and by the time he hired Scott, his business was just becoming lucrative and housing an impressive total of satisfied, high-rolling customers who relied on his discretion. Originally their work dabbled in many areas: putting away obsessives and romantic stalkers, giftwrapping the identity of a corporate hacker or those attorneys keen enough to have hired Grip and so forth. Risk management has many faces and he’d been known to have accepted clients for tracking the occasional international bond jumper and though he’d never admit to it, he’d even done a little corporate espionage when the money was right. Soon the company’s reputation drew interest from D.C. and the Langley folks. Then even a few agencies around the globe, such as the GCHQ, BND, and Mossad. It was a strange setup since it was a business built solely upon word of mouth by tightlipped individuals who never spoke of such things, even in those quiet diplomatic whispers. Before long, Grip was attracting a steady stream of well-heeled clients.

Done were the cheating husbands with their secretive bank accounts. Done were the stoic lawyers who engaged their services for less than honorable tasks. They went from a staff of five retired investigators, which is what they called themselves since none of them knew a better description for what they did…to what they were: a team of fifty plus support staff and a floor of office suites that would’ve made Grip blush with conceited pride only a few years earlier.

Donovan Risk Management had become international. And though Grip oversaw every operation from a distance, he wasn’t always an integral part of their successes or failures. This one however, was different. It was unique because it came from Langley brass and it gave their agency a boost in certain guarded circles. The same spheres of influence generated in terms like espionage, foreign asset, and national security. And even if the intelligence community knew Donovan wasn’t a trained operative, they certainly knew his skills in subterfuge and surveillance. Careful examination of his military background also ensured a strong possibility of success. Along with attributes for hand-to-hand combat and a driven self-protection that made one ideal for getting in, staying under the radar, and providing disavowed information by performing black bag retrievals. The Brits called it birdwatching, but Grip held very little regard for any country that performs dangerous assignments such as those he undertook on a regular basis, but still gave them cutesy names like Birdwatching.

While his target Amann traveled in a hired car, Grip had to work to keep pace at a comfortable distance. Thinking ahead he’d rented an outdated Audi wagon as he was checking out of his hotel. It was satisfying making the desk clerk do something for him, since he was unable to convince him to issue a refund even though he hadn’t stayed in the shitty room for even an hour. Another expense, he thought as he breathed a heavy sigh of frustration then signed for all the useless charges he’d incurred.

As he drove through city-congested streets he wondered what might’ve brought a man like Alistair to this heap-of-nothing part of the world. Agent Jameson had been careful not to disclose their interests in the world jetting businessman, Amann, but it didn’t take a genius to figure it was arms or terrorism that frightened them so. Where deals were made from seaside villas or discreetly whispered around crowded cocktail parties it seemed a strange destination to hammer out anything good or profitable. And that simple fact caused the embers to burn inside his gut.

We only want a dossier of his comings and goings, Jameson had barked from his corner of the room.

But if you’re able to get close, well then better for us all.

So just who he meets with…where he goes and what the little fuck is doing…got it!

Grip became unexpectedly pissed off but it wasn’t the job. He’d worked with less information before this. It was just the simple calculated caginess billowing off Agent Jameson like a foul odor that disturbed him most. It would have been different if he weren’t trained in the art of warmongering but they treated him like a fucking errand boy whose only expertise came from him being able to cross international date lines undetected, then report back like some flunky bridge agent.

"Arm’s dealer or just a bagman for some terrorist cell you aim to close down?" He wanted to spit out the words like venom but decided quickly to hold his tongue. Better to play nice while the nice was still working, he figured.

We will require a list of any…um contractors you hire for this job, names and histories would be nice. Expenses paid per usual business, after the close of the operation. But not to worry, the government always pays its bills.

China might disagree with you on that, Grip said with a stuttering smile of defiance.

Just do the tasks for what you were hired for, Mr. Donovan. We will take care of any blowback gained in the operation...but let’s make 100 percent certain none will exist, understand?

Like crystal agent.

The entire hour of their meeting became a litany of scanning documents that Grip could read there, but wasn’t allowed to remove from their secure facilities. Simple enough to do his own legwork he thought, or more aptly described as having Scott perform them in his stead, while he slept through his return flight. When Jameson became antsy he started searching the horizon outside the windows with a furrowed brow, it became clear to Grip their meeting was at its end. He’d be expected to suss out the rest on his own time.

They shook hands but Donovan never extended his reach to the other suits in the room. Since they offered nothing of substance to their meet and greet, he figured they weren’t worth his acknowledgment. Closing the conference door behind himself he boldly headed down the corridors to meet-up with Scott, who he knew would be sitting stiff backed in a chair like some robotic door guard.

Sure enough Bonney was seated square-shouldered in his chair and staring lifeless out the anteroom windows overlooking the park. He was a disciplined soldier and no matter how hard Grip tried to break him of his engrained habits, he found himself failing year by year.

Are you still here you ole sack of shit? I figured you would’ve gotten bored by now and headed out to find the nearest titty bar.

The closest one is just off Chesapeake, he said with a subtle grin. So what’s the deats’ boss? Is it going to be worth it in the end?

With a dismissive wave Grip nodded quickly. Later soldier…when we are back at Ronny Regan Airport.

During the cab ride Grip’s mind was racing through scenarios, mostly travel plans and what equipment and in-country assistance he was going to need for this job. He knew Langley had watched Amann from a discreet distance, and that their last contact put him in D.C. But he wasn’t going to stay idle for long, and as Jameson described rather haughtily, there was some clear chatter indicating an international flight was imminent. As well as other targets would be accompanying him, targets which he implied were holding a fair degree of scrutiny by U.S. agencies. So did this mean he was wire-tapped Grip wondered? Or was it something more hands-on, like a turned asset in his cadre, or as they still referred to them; an Agent-in-Place.

Donovan didn’t know Alistair Amann but suspected he was the type of man who kept a tidy ship. No doubt he rotated out his personal staff with some regularity. You don’t become a person of interest to the C.I.A. without some heady secrets, and any intelligent man knew how to remain discreet about his businesses. So if it probably wasn’t electronic monitoring Grip thought. Maybe it was far-reaching technology he surmised. The type of audio surveillance equipment you can’t buy online at a spy gadget store, something with a range he’d never heard of before.

Donovan’s had their fair share of equipment. Bug sweepers, tiny hidden cameras in false smoke detectors, even a tiny handheld digital RF indicator that ferrets out any Bluetooth in the vicinity. Grip had few reasons to use much of the equipment that his company owned but he was still male. And what man didn’t like to play with gadgets and electronic toys. Most of the time they sat unused in a storeroom back at the office. But on occasion Scott was known to pull something fun from his duffle. To him it was like opening presents on Christmas morning. He always looked so eager whenever he pulled one of his tricks from a bag. His grin was infectious and the two men would share an enthusiastic moment in whatever hotel room they’d found themselves in. For them, it meant the game was afoot, and when you exist by a diet of tension and fear as they did, it was a glorious moment that illustrated to Grip that he’d made the right decision in his choice of careers. You couldn’t beat this, he figured. Selling insurance after a pro-ball occupation cut short by injury had nothing on this.

So by whatever means, Langley had gained some quantitate data on Amann’s movements. And as he stared out the window of the cab he began mulling over something he rarely did; his particular target’s motivation. Obviously the rich enjoy keeping their money, and many of them like to acquire even more. But you had to eliminate the clear choices in favor of a new possibility, namely being ideologies. Amann was a citizen of Great Britain yet he spent far more time traveling the globe than tending his garden in Shropshire. He was at best an arms dealer and at worst a Jihad terrorist, the question was could he be both, and a traitor to his country as well?

Most of the assignments Grip took had him hunting for a specific individual. Whether it was some poor sap evading arrest, prosecution, or a wife with schemes on his hidden accounts, it held certain clarity. You follow the money, you follow the man. Although there had been one time he remembered, his target was of the female kind. That recollection brought a sinister smile to his lips, because not only had he located her and completed the mission, he also had the good fortune of tasting her juices. It had been a rich barrister who hired him to find his wayward mistress. It seemed she’d acquired much of his cash and many of his buried secrets. Yes blackmail and lust, he remembered coyly…they always brought him the best clients.

The catalog of jealous lovers and anonymous lawyers who’d hired his company was long indeed, but he rarely needed to explore the mind of any target in the same way he wanted to do with Alistair Amann. If the man traded in illegal arms then it begs the question of how much money does one man really need? And if he was nothing more than a lowly terrorist, it stood to reason that once he enjoyed the freedoms and possibilities of his homeland then why would you want to see it torn asunder?

Grip shook his head to clear his thoughts. He rather liked simple things and unsophisticated cases, and this didn’t appear to be one of those he could add to the books.

Is this one going to go long Scott asked, needing to break the silence?

Just another stamp on the old passport I suppose Grip muttered back. He was seemingly engrossed in the passing buildings and traffic outside. Scott knew this look he’d seen it many times before. It was a worrisome look, one that suggested a manhunt was eminent and whoever the target was, Grip already didn’t much care for him.

They had checked out of their hotel before visiting Langley so with their bags in tow they hustled through the airport heading home. But not before stopping for a drink in the concourse.

It’s shitty to say I know, but I always get the best bourbon in-between flights, Scott murmured staring at the cubes in his plastic glass.

It’s not that the bourbon is top shelf in these places, Grip announced. It’s just that feeling that you’re finally getting to go somewhere, you know, that homesick feeling before you board.

Suppose so… Scott said with a casual grin. But I have to admit the best taquitos I ever had come from a sloppy little vendor in Dulles.

You know Scotty you have a guileless way about you. Grip whispered slowly with a wide grin. Considering what you do for a living I’d think that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

"And fuck you back sir", Bonney chuckled in an equally expansive grin.

"I want a full dossier built on a Mr. Alistair Amann as soon as possible Grip said, turning instantly professional and stalwart. He’s a well-to-do business tycoon who has fingers in many pies, I believe. Import/Export originally. It seems the bastard made his money selling overseas shipping containers then began using them to freight his own goods for sell internationally."

Sounds like prepackaged smuggling. Is that who were dealing with here? Bonney asked quietly, leaning closer for privacy.

I don’t think that’s his bag. Mums all around from the suits we left behind. But it’s gotta be arms considering how well traveled he is. Then like an afterthought Grip muttered, Could be smuggling though, maybe it arms trades for contraband…you can put a lot of shit inside one of those containers.

I doubt customs is allowing anything illegal to come in after nine-eleven but maybe we can hack the manifests for the business he runs, just to be sure.

With a nod of acknowledgment Grip thought about Kit back at the office. Kit Brewster wasn’t just the company’s I.T. guy, he was a hacker extraordinaire. Grip had scooped him up in those early days when clients were scarcer. Actually it had been one of his first assignments, even before Scott came aboard. Grayson Pharmaceuticals hired the agency to track a cyber terrorist who was playing havoc deep inside their network. In retrospect, nothing more than a little harmless fun, as Grip recalled it now. Simply an innocuous up-and-coming activist who wanted to publish for the world, the price of drug manufacturing versus profit margins, highlighting their corruption…a fat middle finger to big pharma, as it were.

Grip found the cyber geek, then collected his fee. But without Grayson Pharmaceuticals ever knowing he’d placed the young man on retainer and eventually became a full-time staffer at the risk management firm. Some treasures are worth keeping under-wraps he thought. Kit wasn’t cheap, but in truth he’d made his annual salary many times over. It was a shoddily held secret around their conference tables that many of the ops they undertook wouldn’t have been successful without Kit’s knowledge of computer science. Hell, simply hacking into something as big as the U.S. Customs and Border Patrol’s network was a risky and difficult operation.

Start at the beginning and work down. I want every aspect of his life unearthed. Grip ordered. Get everything…banks, social media, business listings, IRS, the whole ball of wax.

And then… Scott asked?

Then we get to use our passports like I said. You’ll remain street-side while I try to get close.

Street-side wasn’t a man-hunter term, it was solely one Grip used. It meant that Bonney would remain at the hotel or base camp, depending upon the type of OP. Both men knew how Scott hated being left behind but both knew how necessary it would become. Scott could relay with the agency’s technical sides and could retrieve information quicker before disseminating out to the primary on the ground; that agent usually being Grip. It was damned near impossible to learn background on someone while still in the throes of it. And as Donovan often preached it was like scaling a wall with a laptop under one arm. It just couldn’t be done.

Scotty had saved his bacon many times, he remembered. Whispering names and dates into his earpiece just as his arm raised for a handshake greeting from a face he didn’t recognize. It was movie time shit, but it always worked. Or at least it had so far. Kit might hack into someone’s home security system at the exact moment Grip was nearing the door. And all the while Scott balanced the two worlds like a maestro working his baton. It was a healthy connection the three shared, which is why Grip preferred no other employee guarding his back. It was military loyalty; from two men who’d learned to serve in real combat and one computer geek sitting usually a few hundred miles away.

But you didn’t say where we are going, Scott asked as a crowd of passengers from another plane were disembarking in a flurry of activity.

Cuz I don’t know yet, Langley wasn’t very helpful today. I suppose our first task is that one. To find out exactly where Mr. Alistair Amann is scheduling his next destination.

Chapter Two

The upper floors were deathly silent when Alistair woke that morning. Usually one heard the clatter of porcelain as his young Vietnamese girl worked to prepare his coffee on silver trays. He drank his morning caffeine in the study every morning, like clockwork. It became a necessary pattern in his life, a routine that he could rely upon and expect. That every morning without fail, around eight A.M. he could smell the aroma of freshly brewed coffee beckoning him into the study, crooked little fingers of scented smoke drawing him closer in a funny cartoon fashion.

Regimented times were important to him. He often considered his life as running on a train schedule, where should one miss a train’s arrival they might have to wait for an eternity for another one to show. It was one of the reasons Alistair thought he admired the Swiss, with their tightly wound set of unbreakable rules and all. But in fact, Alistair Amann respected very few things and certainly not the Swiss. What he did admire was dependability and honor to one’s word. He believed he practiced that throughout his entire business life, and expected the same from others. Nothing could draw bigger ire for Alastair than an associate missing a pre-arranged deadline, or falling short in the previously agreed on terms of a sell.

The man himself never questioned his nearly fanatical need for order, discipline or strict adherence to required time-tables. He took it on faith that it was a necessary aspect in shrew business practices. Had he felt a need to explore that trait in himself, he might have uncovered its origin. That place where as a child he felt the shambles of a broken home, and the legal battle for custody that ensued.

If you are a child of five or six and you find your world crumbling around your feet, you tend to reach for that consistency that life once offered you. Having been raised in a multi-cultural home where he was constantly traveling from Pakistan to England and back again, Alistair felt that compulsory need for order and stability. And after his parents separated it only got worse.

This might’ve shed some light on a behavioral trait that many found quite restrictive about him. But for Alistair it gave his life balance and meaning. Certainly his staff knew this, because many a morning he’d awaken in a terror after finding a bare table where a coffee carafe would normally be setting. Screams and near violent tirades abounded then, at least until his current Vietnamese girl was hired and trained so meticulously. Alistair had to trudge through a long list of available young servant girls before finding one that could actually service his needs. And her name was Anh Lee.

Anh once whispered the meaning of her name to her new boss. Eagerly, but her own humble way she told Anh in Vietnamese meant Bright or Intellectual. But that was before she learned of her employer’s quick and unpredictable temper. Now she spoke rarely, and as little as possible to complete her chores. Scurrying in quietly carrying a large tray with coffee, a cup, and a bowl of cubed sugar, she learned fast how to become a vapor in the farthest recesses of any corner. How mysterious and taciturn she could be she thought, whenever Mr. Amann was awake or moving restless through the halls.

Breezing into the study in a silk robe Anh first thought her employer didn’t like women much at all. Her first impression of the man suggested he was the type who enjoyed the company of lady-boys but she realized later that wasn’t the case. He was just particular about his things, she found. He was a man who demanded cleanliness, order and adherence to strict schedules. It took every ounce of her resolve to maintain his home in the manner he demanded since Anh needed her job desperately, as she was still sending money back to her family in Salavan, Vietnam.

As difficult has her employer was’ the young woman was still proud to work for him. She knew his reputation from others she met at the market when she was picking up his fresh vegetables. She knew there many young girls before her who failed him, Anh however, did not. She had a place in the hierarchy of his Georgetown residence. She was respected by others who’d worked there, many who came and left on a fairly regular basis. But somehow the current flavor of the month had chosen to remain. She even learned to flourish there at the brownstone. It was an honor for such a young woman like herself to be so good at her position and so admired by those in Mr. Amann’s employ.

Alastair took his coffee with the paper. A ritual everyone in his home knew was precious quiet time. The only sound he heard besides the clanking of his spoon against the cup was Anh slinking down the stairs in her tiny, black, canvas shoes. She was always wearing them, the type of shoe which Vietnamese women found so appealing. But he wasn’t aware she only wore them in his home, and only to hinder any noise that she might not wish to make. The brownstone had been equipped with a private elevator but none of the staff were allowed to use it at any time. To a man of his means having to wait for elevator to swoosh upstairs defeated the purpose of having one installed in the first place. He might’ve allowed his treasured Anh to use it but feared