Tulip Hotel, independent office suite on the west side of the third floor.
The afterglow of the sunset streamed through the bullet-proof glass, casting long golden streaks on the floor.
The air conditioning system emitted a barely audible low-frequency hum, maintaining the indoor temperature at twenty-two degrees Celsius, creating a separate world from the still scorching afternoon air outside in Baghdad.
Robbin stood at the bar, retrieving a bottle of bourbon whiskey from the solid wood liquor cabinet.
The label on the bottle was worn, a product from a small batch distillery in Kentucky from ten years ago, no longer available on the market.
When he unscrewed the cap, the amber liquid swayed gently inside, reflecting an oily sheen in the angled light.
He poured half a glass, without adding ice.
The temperature of the crystal glass in his palm gradually replaced by the warmth of the whiskey. He
brought the glass to his nose and took a deep sniff.
