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She entered the office, moved aside to let Jamil pass in front of her. A thin man, clad in yellow coverails, was standing at the window, staring with fixed intensity outdoors in the direction of the tarmac.
"That's odd ..." the man began.
Jamil gave a loud and hacking cough.
Startled by the sound, the man turned his head.
Jamil was on him instantly, grabbing the technician's hand and shaking it heartily. "How do you do, sir? I'm Coleridge. Kevin Coleridge."
"Darminderpal." The man gave his name vaguely. He turned his head, looked back out the window. "What is it?" Kohli asked.
"I thought I saw a stranger out there--"
"My business card."
Jamil reached into his pocket, took out a can of hypnospray and blasted Darminderpal in the face. The man gagged, gargled. His eyes rolled. He slumped forward. Jamil caught the flaccid body, lowered it to the floor.
"Don't move or make a sound," Jamil ordered, holding the spray can in front of Ms. Kohli.
Gliding past her, Jamil shut and locked the office door. Then, pocketing the spray can, he pulled a .22-decawatt lasgun from a shoulder holster. He glanced at his watch. 0930. They were running late.
"Keep very quiet and no one will get hurt. Your friend on the floor is just taking a nice little nap."
"What do you want?" the woman asked fearfully.
Jamil gestured with the gun toward a wall safe
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