Inheritance

Falcons edge

"Armani, Keyaan Russel Armani it's a pleasure to meet you." dressed in a turtleneck with a gold revealing Cuban chain, high waisted skinny jeans, and a pair of Balenciaga aviators, spoke the man briefly looking at me in disregard. He seemed nervous; I caught a sweat gland run off his forehead. Make yourself at home Keyaan, Maisha has told me all about you I see you have been treating her well. "Yeah, no hard feelings she means the world to me I wish for nothing but her wellbeing." That is what I like to hear. So, I have heard you have already been introduced to Mr. Hussain meaning Kayden." Yes, I have been within his company multiple times, we both studied at Blyth Academy together, where Mr. Handsome haha received his art scholarship to be precise we are remarkably close friends." So, I have been told. I exclaimed tapping the nervous bloke across his shoulder. Make yourself at home and please do not take anything Malia says to heart I apologize in advance. He smiled at me and nodded as I spoke. How's life as a Sheikh bro? "Honestly, it's quite lush not to gloat but you Mughals are quite the talk I must say you have a beautiful house here." exclaimed Keyaan whilst sipping a cup of macchiato. Holy much? "I'm learning yet." That is good to hear mate. We went down to the lobby. He had chosen the hotel room very carefully. As he crossed the reception area towards the lifts, he was aware of everyone around him. Two receptionists, one on the phone. A Japanese guest checking in ... from his accent, obviously from Miyazaki in the south. A concierge printing a map for a couple of tourists. A security man, Eastern European, bored, standing by the door. He saw everything. If the lights had suddenly gone out, or if he had closed his eyes, he would have been able to continue forward at the same pace. Nobody noticed him. It was a skill, something he had learned, the art of not being seen. I see you are well trained. The hotel was in King's Cross, an area of London with no attractive shops, few decent restaurants and where nobody really stays any longer than they must. It was called The Traveller and it was part of a chain; comfortable but not too expensive. It was the sort of place that had no regular clients.

Most of the guests were passing through on business and it would be their companies that paid the bill. We drank in the bar. We ate the "full English breakfast" in the brightly lit Beefeater restaurant. But they were too busy to socialize, and it was unlikely they would return. Keyaan preferred it that way. He could have stayed in central London, in the Ritz or Dorchester, but he knew that the receptionists there were trained to remember the faces of the people who passed through the revolving doors. Such personal attention was the last thing he wanted, being a son of the well-known Armani's. A CCTV camera watched him as he approached the lifts. He was aware of it, blinking over his left shoulder. The camera was annoying but inevitable. London has more of these devices than any city in Europe, and the police and secret service have access to all of them. Kayaan made sure he did not look up. If you look at a camera, that is when it sees you. I reached the lifts but ignored them, slipping through a fire door that led to the stairs. I would never think of confining myself in a small space, a metal box with doors that he could not open, surrounded by strangers. That would be madness. I would have walked fifteen storeys if it had been necessary – and when I reached the top I would not even have been out of breath. Kayaan had kept himself in superb condition, spending two hours in the gym every day when that luxury was available to him, working out on his own when it was not. His room was on the second floor. He had thoroughly checked the hotel on the Internet before he made his reservation and number 217 was one of just four rooms that exactly met his demands.

We set out to Bicester the next day. Afghanistan was merely the starting location in Falcon's edge. A do not disturb sign hung in front of me as I turned the corner and approached the door. Had it been obeyed? Kayaan reached into his trouser pocket and took out a small silver device, about the same size and shape as a pen. He pressed one end, covering the handle with a thin spray of diazafluorene – a simple chemical reagent. Quickly, he spun the pen round and pressed the other end, activating a fluorescent light. There were no fingerprints. If anyone had been into the room since I had left, they would have wiped the handle clean. He put the pen away, then knelt and checked the bottom of the door. Earlier in the day, he had placed a single hair across the crack. It was one of the oldest warning signals in the book but that did not stop it being effective. The hair was still in place. Kayaan straightened up and, using his electronic pass key, went in. No wonder he was one of ASA's best agents. Now that the Armani's were in the game, we had nothing to lose, security measures were tight, and we all had mutual respect. "Ryan Reynold's, you sure you aren't the actor mate? Haha what a name you look a lot like the man himself." Ryan smiled. Kayaan this is my nephew Ryan, as you can see, he looks a lot like me."He really does doesn't he right?" exclaimed Kayaan whilst patting my back. Ryan, im sure he removed the digital tape recorder that had been clipped magnetically to the side of his service fridge and glanced at the dial. Nothing had been recorded. Nobody had been in. Was he experimenting on himself per chance? I glanced at the nearest mirror. His eyes were red wine. My heart pounded as if it was about to leave my chest. Ryan, your eyes... they're red. That's not normal. He began to growl. Ryan fell to the floor. Had my eyes deceived me? I began to sweat profusely.