West District of Mosul, on the top floor of the Tulip Hotel.
The thick bullet-proof glass isolated the nighttime clamor of the city, leaving only a near tomb-like silence in the top-floor office.
The blinds were tightly shut, with only an old-fashioned brass desk lamp at the corner of the desk emitting a dim glow, casting a lone, elongated shadow of Robbin on the mahogany tabletop.
It was 2:17 in the morning.
The ice in the whiskey glass had long melted, and the amber liquid shimmered with a cold luster under the lamp.
Robbin leaned back in the leather high-back chair, tapping his index finger on the desk in a rhythm almost neurotic—
Tap, tap, tap.
The satellite phone on the desk suddenly vibrated, its sound piercing the quiet.
Robbin picked up the receiver slowly.
"Speak."
"At exactly six o'clock tomorrow morning, six warehouses will commence operations simultaneously."
The voice on the other end was low and urgent.
