Prime (Chess Team Adventure, #0.5)

Sigler glanced at Tremblay and the man he knew only as “Silent Bob,” but their faces were unreadable. Even though Delta operators were consummate professionals, every team relied upon the unique chemistry of its individual members. It was impossible to predict whether the remnants of Cipher element and the survivors from Alpha team would mesh seamlessly, or burn up in a fireball of friction. “No objection from me.”


“If you need additional personnel, you can draw from 7th Group. I’ll travel with you to Myanmar and liaise with our assets on the ground.” The general checked his watch. “It is now 1630. I want to be in the air no later than 1800. Now, if there’s nothing else…”

Sigler recognized that was Keasling’s way of signaling that the discussion was at an end, but he knew this might be his only opportunity to show everyone in the room that he was ready to be their leader. “Actually, sir, there is one thing.”

Keasling frowned. “Go on.”

“I’d like to change the mission designation. We’re not really Cipher element anymore, so it doesn’t make sense to keep using Cipher callsigns.”

“Bad juju, is that it?”

Sigler shrugged. “If you like.”

Keasling waved his hand as if the matter were of no consequence. “Fine. Use your Delta handles. Make sure to submit an updated roster. Just out of curiosity, Sigler, what’s your callsign?”

“Elvis, sir.”

Keasling made a face. “How on God’s green Earth did you get tagged with that?”

Tremblay gave a theatrical gasp. “Sir, are you disrespecting the King of Rock and Roll?”

Sigler couldn’t help but grin. “I’ve always kind of been an Elvis Presley fan. TCB—‘Taking care of business’—is sort of my unofficial motto.”

“I loathe Elvis Presley. My ex-wife ran off with an Elvis impersonator,” Keasling groused. He squinted at Sigler. “But in the interest of getting this show on the road, let’s say we compromise. Your new operational callsign is—”

“Pelvis!” Tremblay chortled.

Keasling ignored him and spoke just one more word: “King.”





FACTOR





TWELVE


Mandalay, Myanmar



Everyone noticed the blonde woman.

She wore a tight beige T-shirt that clung to the firm contours of her breasts, exposing just enough of her décolletage to be enticing without being obvious, and a pair of dark green cargo shorts that had been rolled up a couple of times to reveal even more of her toned and tanned legs. Her long hair was pulled back—though hardly restrained—in a pony tail that conveyed that elusive girl-next-door allure; a seemingly effortless beauty, all the more desirable in its apparent innocence.

She seemed oblivious to the attention, yet there was something intentional about the way she leaned, almost seductively, over the perfume counter at the duty free shop. Every few minutes, she would ask the man behind the counter questions about price or request a tester bottle, spritzing a small amount of aerosolized eau de toilette into the air. Occasionally, her eyes would dart to the concourse outside the shop, often encountering a lascivious stare from a male passerby, or less frequently, a jealous sneer from less appreciative females. She would then, regardless of the expressions or gender of any onlookers, arch her back like a cat stretching after a nap—an action that drew even more attention to her breasts—and then return to perusing the perfume selection.

Wherever she went, everyone noticed the blonde woman, and a few of those who noticed took the added step of inquiring about her. Those who did would be informed that the woman was a Canadian humanitarian worker with the Red Cross…or maybe it was UNICEF… Her specific affiliation remained the subject of some debate. She had been in country for several months now, visiting clinics, dispensing vaccines and medical supplies...generally getting noticed, but somehow never staying in one place long enough to allow idle curiosity, or even a flush of arousal, to escalate into something more overt.

Everyone noticed her, and that was exactly what she wanted, not because she craved attention, but because while they were busy looking at her, they hardly noticed that she was looking back.

The three Caucasian men who got off the plane that had just arrived from Yangon certainly noticed her, even the one who had his arm draped possessively over the shoulders of his female traveling companion—a Eurasian woman who, for a change, paid the blonde woman no heed.

The blonde happened to look up at just that moment and met the man’s stare. She smiled, stretched, and then turned back to the counter. “This one,” she said, pointing to the fragrance she had most recently sampled. She laid a 100 kyat note—worth about fifteen US dollars—on the counter and took her purchase. “Keep the change,” she said, flashing the man the same smile she’d shown the three Westerners. She exited the store, joining the flow of disembarking passengers.