Airborne over the AtlanticR
oyal Jordanian served a fairly sumptuous meal to Crown Class passengers. Shake ate enough to make him comfortably drowsy and waved away the dessert cart that trundled by his seat. He glanced at the drink menu and found no hint of bourbon available. He decided he’d go with a couple of slugs of gin over ice rather than experiment with the highly-touted single-malt scotch whiskies listed. He’d never developed a taste for the stuff despite the concerted efforts of several scotch-snob friends who tried to educate his pallet.
When the Beefeater was sufficiently chilled, he sipped and reviewed the mission outline he’d been given on the secure web site following the conversation with the man who calls himself Bayer. Despite his initial skepticism, it did seem fairly s
