The 747 lumbered across the sky as dozens do every day. As it descended towards the airport it passed behind the office tower next door and only its tail was visible above the roof line reminding Patrik of a shark’s dorsal fin. A moment later the whole bird came back into view and continued on its way until it moved beyond the edge of his window and out of view.
It was a brilliantly clear day today. The ridge of what millions of years ago had been an island but today was known as the Palos Verdes Peninsula stood tall against the crisp blue sky behind it. To the left and much farther out Patrik could even make out the big cranes at the ports that loaded and unloaded the big ships that came and went. The weatherman on the television this morning had gushed about the surprise conditions and referred to the day’s expected temperatures as “unseasonably warm.”
But if all went according to plan it was about to get a lot warmer, and maybe Patrik a lot richer. He checked his mobile phone for the tenth time in the last four minutes. Still nothing from Olaf. A couple more minutes and he knew what could be taking his partner so long. He was either dead, in custody, or on his way to Sao Paulo with their ten million dollars. Either outcome was troublesome, especially the last.
A voice from his office doorway that he didn’t recognize asked “Mr. Patrik Helt?” And he spun slowly around in his chair to find two men in suits that matched in color but clearly one bothered to have his tailored whereas the other wore his off the rack. That one had his gun drawn on him and a weird smile on his face.
“Gentlemen?” Patrik asked.
“FBI, Mr. Helt,” said the one without a gun pointed at Patrik’s chest. “I’m Special Agent Walen and this is Special Agent Anster. We have a warrant for your arrest.”
Well that answers that, Patrik thought. Happy trails, Olaf.