There are men in yellow work suits clambering over the devices, smiling at me like Cambodian worker bees. Until now, I’ve been prepared to dump my weapons, but this is too perfect. I walk onto the plane with my shoulder bag filled with pistols, a gun in the waistband of my pants, and nobody is the wiser. It isn’t until the plane lands in Hong Kong for changeover that I begin reflecting on my luck with the metal detectors, and it’s not something I want to dwell on. It’s best not to read too deeply into signs from above. I board another plane immediately, no dicking around. This way I don’t have to chance my luck with metal detectors again. No customs officials. Disembark from one flight, transfer immediately to the next on the runway, get out of there. I’m sitting on an empty plane for an hour while everybody else is sitting at the Hong Kong airport bar or in one of the coffee shops waiting until the flight is ready to depart. Airborne, I can sit in my seat by the window, watching the world slide by below, wondering how I’m going to get this bag full of weapons through customs in Sydney.
