At the time of my last entry, I had once more placed my gun at the mercy of Fate and Alaskan Airlines, and was about to board the plane for Seattle. In Seattle I changed planes, and now 4hrs later, I am back in my headquarters. Together with my gun and all my luggage. I set my Fortis chronograph two hours back. Unfortunately I couldn't get room 2162, my old, familiar room.
There is a Chinese government delegation being put up in the hotel, along with all its staff and paraphernalia!
They have booked the whole of the 21st floor and no-one is allowed up there. Even the Chinese Prime Minister is here! Earphoned Chinese and American security men stare at me with piercing eyes, especially at my gun. I don't touch it more than I have to, and call a porter over to take it up to my room. (Now they can shoot him, instead of me.)
Chapter VI.: Return to Alaska
Page 4
While I'm having my dinner, the waiter - we've become quite good pals during my two stays here
- tells me that the hotel is full of people from the CIA, the FBI, and several other secret service organizations whose names are also made up of three letters. There is complete chaos down in the lounge, the hotel staff are aimlessly standing about among the Chinese, and the police are out in force in the street. As for me, I'm not going to forego my time in the jacuzzi just because of some prime minister, so I quickly pack my bag, ready for tomorrow - I'm only staying one night -
put on my trunks, and head for the pool. But the hotel is designed in such a way that, if you want to get from the Anchorage Tower, where room 1164 is situated, to the West Tower - where the pool is - you have to cross the lounge, past the hordes of journalists in their smart suits, the government officials and their secretaries, the security guards, the secret agents, the advisors, and the all the other hangers on;it would make a perfect photo - opportunity for an alert paparazzo. (It will be even better when I come back, with the water dripping from my trunks...) In my room I find cold beer, my reserve ammunition, and my laundered clothes... or, rather, not my laundered clothes; they seem to have been irretrievably lost. There's no doubt; the hotel staff have definitely mislaid them. I speak with the supervisor, Moe Hanltaz, who is a kind of manager -
but the clothes still don't show up. He is stunned; it is really shocking; such a thing has never happened before. He promises to court martial the culprits, and publicly execute them. This doesn't make me very happy; it has to be sorted out, as I don't want to spend the rest of my trip in the same pair of underpants.