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
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.
She moved casually, making no effort to hurry and no effort to avoid being noticed, but always keeping the three men in sight. It wasn’t difficult; like her, they stood out in the crowd of Asian faces. She moved with the crowd to the exit and got in the taxi line, while the Westerners climbed into a waiting sport utility vehicle. As their ride pulled away from the terminal building, she took out her cell phone.
“Red Toyota Fortuner,” she said, getting right to the point. “Brand new. Can’t miss it.”
“New?” came the response. New vehicles were a rare thing in Mandalay. The military rulers of the country imposed strict limits on the number of cars that could be imported. Only the very wealthy could afford to buy them, and in Myanmar, most of the wealth came from illegal activities — primarily from the drug trade. “Do you think our friends are involved?”
“As Lieutenant Ball would say: ‘Signs point to yes.’”
The man on the other end gave an easy laugh. “Any idea which flavor?”
“‘Reply hazy, try again.’”
“Well, at least this won’t be too much of a distraction. Might even be the break we’ve been waiting for.”
“‘Cannot predict now.’ Just keep your distance. The sooner we can hand this off to those Delta testosteroids, the sooner we can get back to our own mission.”
There was a momentary pause on the line, and then the man spoke again. “I’ve got them.”
“Then hang up and drive, pretty boy.”
“‘You may rely on it.’”
THIRTEEN
Shin Dae-jung kept a healthy interval between the red Toyota and his own Honda Rebel 250, though once his quarry left the urban environs of Mandalay, it was more a matter of trying to keep up with the Toyota rather than holding back. The other driver, evincing the kind of confidence that can only come with familiarity, maintained an average speed of about seventy miles per hour. Shin had to keep the speedometer on the motorcycle pegged to keep a visual fix on the red vehicle, which barely slowed through the series of hairpin turns that wound between the hills between Ongyaw and Thon-daung-ywa-wa.
It had come as no little surprise when the target vehicle had left Mandalay behind. Now, nearly sixty miles out and nearing the border of the rural and mostly uninhabited Shan state, he wondered if he had not been given a fool’s errand. He briefly lost sight of the red Toyota when the road straightened as it approached Pyin Oo Lwin, gateway to one of Myanmar’s very few — and thus far unsuccessful — tourist attractions, the Kandawgyl Botanical Gardens. His assignment in the country that many still called Burma had taken him to all of its major cities, but he rarely traveled those long distances by road, and so he was unfamiliar with the highways. He did know that the further out the target vehicle went, the less likely he would be able to successfully track them to their destination.
It was a white-knuckle ride, even for someone like himself, who routinely indulged in dangerous activities: combat in Iraq and Afghanistan; covert insertions into Pakistan to kill or capture terrorist leaders and North Korea, where he could pass as a native, to reconnoiter suspected nuclear weapons facilities; recreational SCUBA diving, particularly the exploration of sunken wrecks; and perhaps riskiest of all, maintaining his hard-earned reputation as a Korean Casanova.
He had actually been looking forward to just such an amorous encounter tonight at the Sunrise Hotel Mandalay, where he was supposed to meet with Giselle, a beautiful but slightly homesick Swiss Doctors-Without-Borders doctor. When he’d gotten word of this little errand for the Delta boys, he had expected that he would have to ask for a rain check, but then again, if the red Toyota slipped away, he might make it back in time for cocktail hour.
He spied the Fortuner, a red smudge that appeared for just an instant on the black ribbon of highway heading out of Pyin, and then it vanished over the horizon. With the throttle wide open, he blasted through the town. He continued along the highway, scanning the road ahead for another glimpse, but the Toyota was gone.
Damn it, where did they go?
He felt a growing sense of apprehension. He was a realist — sometimes, shit happened, and that was just the way it was — but he was also a soldier, taught to live by the simple, if simplistic slogan: “failure is not an option.”