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The sunlight glinted backwards and forwards, reflecting through the small aeroplane window and catching Olezka's eye-line. Their subtle prances across his face awoke him slowly, his eyes peeling open to view the Moscow runway. It drew ever closer, ever closer to the planes mechanical feet at full extent. Then there was that nudge, the one that woke everyone on plane and told them, they where in Moscow. With the soft meeting of rubber to concrete, and the air stewards pleas to stay seated, the plane was alive with busy business men and holiday-goers, jostling for position in the cramped iles while sorting out thier luggage and personal items. Olezka had nothing of great quality to his name, a wad of bills and a piece of paper with a number on it. This number, although small and subtle, was the key to the rest of Olezka's life. It was a job prospect, the details of which were to be discussed with the 'employer'. Exiting the plane Karadzic's wooden soled shoes clicked accordingly on the terminal's marble floor as he purchased a bottle of water from a small stall to quench his thirst. The automatic doors opened to follow his stride as Olezka flagged down a taxi that was parked near-by. Ordering the driver to the nearest hotel, Olezka would make contact with his future employer tomorrow, owing tonight to a slight case of jet-lag, and a bed.
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