Read The Egyptian for Free Online Page B

knew who I really was, you would ask for a different seat. No, a different plane.
    “You are so lucky to live in Florence. What do you do there?”
    Ah
, he thought,
the inevitable delicate question.
What do I do? I’m a mercenary. I work for those who pay me, pure and simple. I have loved and fought and wept and tortured and killed. I should be in prison, I have a thousand regrets and I would change a million things.
    But I’ve lived, my dove.
    I have lived.
    Jax beamed a smile at her, full of bourgeoisie charm. “I’m in the import-export business.”
    •  •  •
    At Miami International Jax gave Graciela a gratuitous squeeze and wished her well. If he didn’t have a connecting flight it would have been a rental Bentley, poolside drinks and his usual suite at the Delano. He was quite sure his corralled libido would be loosened by a couple of stiff gin and tonics.
    He had to admit he loved Miami. America’s advanced judicial system was bad for his line of work, but unchecked capitalism had its benefits.
    Work, however, came first. He settled for a double espresso and turned on his laptop.
    In the beginning, Jax had advertised for a few years as a mercenary. Places existed, online and in newspapers and in certain magazines, where mercenaries of all sorts, even hired killers, advertised their services. Whatever dirty job one wanted done, someone would do it for the right price.
    The problem was, cops also knew of those sources. Jax had never been to jail, and would do anything to avoid it. Loss of freedom was his greatest fear. He avoided taking work in countries with modern prisons and with officials less willing to take a bribe. Should he ever find himself sweating his life away in a third-world hellhole, his friends and business acquaintances knew he had a standing reward of one million pounds for his rescue. It would clean out half his savings, but would be worth every penny.
    Jax thought of himself as a mercenary not in the classic definition of a hired soldier, but in the secondary definition: one who serves or works solely for monetary gain. Just like any businessman.
    Jax maintained a personal ad in the London Times. The potential client would email Jax and mention importing furniture, and leave a return email address. Jax would reply, get a phone number, then make contact via his virtually untraceable satellite phone. If Jax liked what he heard, he would set up a meeting place of his choosing.
    Jax had enjoyed the Venezuela job; it had a danger element, and he worried he was getting soft. Too many of his recent jobs had been like the Cairo job: meet with middleman and supplier in shady location, take secret package halfway across the world to ultra-wealthy buyer.
    The buyer in the Cairo job was some suave Eastern European scientist who looked like a class president. Jax felt like he was delivering baked goods. He needed a good old-fashioned arms deal in a war-torn republic, where he had to stay steps ahead of a rival warlord and parachute out of a helicopter into a burning canyon to make a delivery.
    For this job, Jax had been emailing someone named Mohammed, who wanted to meet in New York to discuss the transport of an unnamed but valuable object. Jax didn’t usually go to the client, but he assumed Dorian had passed his name on. He had to change planes in New York anyway.
    Mohammed fought hard for choice of venue. He tried to persuade Jax to come to his suite, and Jax had laughed at him. Jax told him he could meet him at the cafe in Grand Central Market, or find a cheaper mercenary.
    They set a date. Jax told him to arrive at the cafe at eight p.m., and to leave a newspaper open on the table with the obituaries showing.
    Today was the day of the meeting. Jax planned to relax someplace after this job, maybe Sicily. He loved the change of pace there: the morning light, the culinary perfection, the absolute absence of the rule of law.
    Jax’s plane landed in New York at five. He dropped his bag at Hotel