Laced Impulse (3 page)

“
Is there anything I can do for you before I go home Director Vance?”

Nothing in particular held Vance’s gaze but his eyes lay latched on to whatever he’d been staring at for the last few seconds. Bianca stood, gathering her purse. She skirted around her desk, trying her best not to disturb him. Whatever burdened him, she didn’t want to be blamed for interfering in his thought process.

Edging her way around him, when she walked across his field of vision, Vance said...

“
Bianca... There is something you can do for me.”

She stopped, then turned to face him.

“
Yes sir...?” Her voice rose in question.

“
Be in my office tomorrow morning.... 0500.”

Vance met her eyes, then he turned, heading to his office without a break in his stride. Bianca stared at his back, perplexed, confused; feeling like Dorothy when she woke, finding herself in Oz. She couldn’t begin to imagine why her boss would make such a strange request. Then she toyed with the idea that maybe he was finally ready to test her skills in a field exercise. She’d trained and with him as her mentor; she was more than ready. Or at least, that's what she'd persuaded herself to believe. In cases like this, one never knows. The testing provided the only true answer. One of her instructors had put it best. Field work is the place to show off your talents. Being seen, yet not seen. Unearthing that thing that eludes others. Overtaking your prey, without firing a single shot. These were the traits of an agent. Characteristics that defined a ghost. It would have been foolish of her to walk away, believing that she harbored these attributes because the only way too truly know, was if she’d proven herself. Vance knew this. She supposed he was finally ready to see what she was made of.

***************

Chapter 3

The plane landed, skidding to a stop, then pointing its nose where the ground crew directed it. Two days ago, after meeting Director Vance as requested; Bianca was sent to a handler, to prepare for her first field mission. Mission Director, Tate Cunningham; better known by most as TC. A quiet man with steely eyes capable of persuading Buckingham Palace guards to unhinge their jaws and talk. During a grueling one day session, TC prepared her to travel outside of the country. His role was pretty straightforward, but in the end, Bianca knew less than she’d known when she first met the man on the top floor of the building that morning.

After doling out fake documents, a quick rundown, telling her about the person she would pretend to be. Bianca fell face first in her bed that evening. Only to wake three and a half hours later by her alarm clock. She was spirited away from her building by a man dressed in a turtleneck sweater, denim jacket and a pair of loosely fitted jeans. He didn’t have to introduce himself because she was certain that he was an agent, pretending to be a cabby. After taking her to the airport, the rest of the trip was nothing more than a blurry fuzz of this and that.

Bianca replayed Director Vance’s words in her head countless times.

“
First, I feel I must apologize for the way I’ve chosen to best utilize your talents. I understand that you’re fluent in three languages, and one of those languages is French.” He paused for a beat then he added. “Is that correct?”

He stared at her expectedly, even though he knew the answer.

“
Yes sir... That’s correct. I am fluent in French.”

“
Good. Good.” He said, while tapping out a message on his computer.

“
I also understand that you have a series of contacts in Canada and France. Is that correct as well?”

She’d sat forward in her seat when she answered him.

"Yes sir. My first cousin lives in Windsor. Her husband. Jean Marc; his family lives in Caen but presently he’s a Canadian citizen. He's a barrister." She added the point; thinking this was important to share. But Vance.... Well, the man sat quiet, contemplating if he was committing a horrendous mistake. After listening to her telling him about Canada and France... The question had been a rouse. He’d only wanted to put her at ease. Make her think that her multilingual skills would be needed, when in fact it wasn’t. But having confidence was important. In his business you rarely got more than one chance, and in this case he was placing every hope on Bianca. His neophyte agent. A woman he’d taken a personal interest in. It had been several years since he’d mentored an agent. The odds were solidly stacked against her but there was little time to waste. He knew this and even if she never learned why he'd thought to choose her for this mission; he wouldn't regret it. Because the truth was simple. Week after week, she'd trained, then returned to her desk; doing whatever he asked of her. It didn’t pass his notice that she quietly envied the other agents. It wasn't until she crossed his field of vision. Seeing her in that instant; Vance realized that
she
could be a secret weapon, and the field agent had been right to suggest her. Bianca Milton was a woman too fresh to know that she should be afraid and not knowing the full extent of this danger. Ignorance would be her valor. A cloak-and-dagger that would shield and safeguard her return home.

The ivory colored tower lit brightly in the evening sun; surrounded by hedges trimmed to perfection and circular flower beds. Bianca sighed.

"Ah, Paris." This was her first real trip outside of the country. On more than one occasion she'd told whomever asked the question about world travels.

Bianca would summarily say...

"Canada is attached...so technically it doesn't count as out of the country travels. The same can be said about the countries south of the border."

She'd visited her cousin Candice countless times; driving over the Ambassador Bridge or taking their chances, using the tunnel. But until today, her passport hadn't received a lick of ink.

She stepped back from her window view. After checking into her hotel room, she unpacked a few dresses to avoid further wrinkling. With that chore done, Bianca perched herself in the window seat, watching the garden and church below. There were small children accompanied by their parents. Laughing, running, picnics and all manner of enjoyment. How could anything possibly be wrong, she'd thought? These people were the personification of familial compassion. She had to tear her eyes away from the view. Nothing in life is perfect. Everything is flawed, requiring minor or major adjustments. She told herself this. The mental exercise had been meant to corral her thoughts. She told herself; she'd been sent here, across the Atlantic to perform just that thing. There was something out of whack. A situation was no longer in sync and she'd come to perform an adjustment. It was her job to restore the imperfection.

***************

Chapter 4

Three days later

That evening, at 2045, Bianca's gold plated watch sounded. She'd set the alarm as a precaution. She didn't dare be late. Her body was coiled like a spring. It would take little to send her spinning out of control. Truth be told. There had been no need for setting alarms. After she showered, primped, got dressed, then did up her hair. Bianca had been ready to leave hours ago.

Lifting from the cushioned seat, she crossed the room. She took one final look in the mirror beside the door. Perfection. The word paraded across her brain, then the words...

"Don't get cocky." Danced off her tongue.

"Steady..." she said, reminding herself to breathe and not to panic.

Bianca opened the door, then stepped out into the hallway. There was no turning back now. For all her reading and preparation; inside and out, her nerves were unleashed, firing at will. Walking down the long hallway, she stopped short of the lift. On the wall above a half moon sofa table, Bianca caught her reflection in an oval mirror. She turned to assess her makeup, then her hair. Her eyes lowered to the outfit she'd been instructed to wear. The woman staring back at her was a mystery. A person so unlike her true self. But she reminded herself; while being here, she wasn't supposed to be herself.

She stepped back, turning her head, deciding that she'd seen enough. When she stood near the elevator, her ears recognized the ding. In the next second, the doors opened, spilling out its riders. Three men, smelling of wine and liquor passed her while speaking Portuguese. She stepped on board, only to be stopped by one of the men. He spoke to her using his native language, then he corrected himself, by addressing her, speaking French instead.

"My friends and I are celebrating. We are in high spirits. Won't you join us?"

In field work, improvisation is a necessity. She recalled her characters description, then like magnets pulling themselves together. Bianca did the same. She embraced the idea of the spy games.

In French, she supplied her answer.

"I'm happy for your good fortune but I already have plans for the night."

Further down the hall she could hear boisterous voices. His comrades calling him in between their drunken laughter.

"Pity." He said with a frown, then he smiled, stepping away from the elevator sensors. As the doors closed, he said...

"If you change your mind...” His hopeful expression implied his meaning. But she couldn’t join him. She had more important things to do.

Bianca had studied the hotels floor plans after she’d arrived. There were three lounges. One on the top floor, with a roof balcony and table seatings. Then there were the two lounges on the main floor. She headed for the lounge where she'd been told to meet her contact. Bianca walked in, purposely avoiding faces. She pretended to absorb the rooms ambiance and doing this came easy. The room was done up in rich leather furnishings, some black and others a deep shade of burgundy. The woods were dark shades of brown and the mingled smells complimented the other. There were tables with high back chairs; perfect for groups or quaint romantic rendezvous. Along the walls were booths with lush love seats and large comfortable sofas. Bianca didn't choose any of these places to sit. She skirted around the tables then headed for the bar. Heads turned, just like her handler had said they would. Men gawked while women whispered, obviously jealous of the attention she’d gained. The length of her dress hugged her luscious toned thighs and the height of her heels did wonders for her calves.

She'd only been settled in her seat at the bar for less than a minute before the complementary drinks began to arrive. A glass of Chardonnay, vodka and tonic. One man paid for a glass of Dom Perigean, then insisted she have what remained in the bottle. She raised the flute, stealing a sip primarily because she'd never savored expensive champagne. The attention her presence received made her head spin. And she'd only been seated at the bar for less than five minutes. But her attempts to maintain an aloofness washed away the moment she sensed his presence from behind.

"You're late. What took you so long?"

His sensuous voice hinted of impatience but his hands relieved her of guilt. Strong arms wrapped around her waist, warming her body from behind. Words flashed in her head. She told herself, she'd arrived at the pre-agreed time. She even wore the dress suggested by her handler, yet her mouth couldn't form the words too defend herself. She was flooded by his alluring aroma. A mix of man and woodsy musky smells. She steadied herself, because she didn't dare over think this scenario. Yet, his touch and his smell aroused her body entirely. She still had not formally addressed him, by turning around to face him. But when his fingers relaxed, she took the cue. Bianca stepped free from his loosened hold to face him. She morphed her expression to mask her surprise. Mot. His name echoed in her brain.

"Dance with me." He said loud enough to be overheard by the few people seated at the bar. Bianca had been so focused when she walked into the room. To the point of not hearing any music. Her attention had been centered on her feet. She'd mentally coached herself. Walk with your head held high. Keep your eyes trained on objects and not faces. She'd even counted her paces, so as not too make her entrance appear hurried or staged. Every detail had been performed too prevent tipping her hand. She'd been masterful, to the point of not hearing the small three piece band. In the corner of the room, now she saw them. A woman with her hair twirled in a bun. She sat at a piano, playing a slow tune. Her musical accompaniment was comprised of a four piece drum set and a double bass keeping beat. She could feel it now. The vibrations tingling her hairs like a stringed instrument. Or was she heady because of Mot and the overpowering affect he's always had over her.

Mot cupped her hand in his; maneuvering her as if this was old hat for them. He touched her face, fanning aside locks of hair with the back of his hand. He leaned in closer, brushing his lips where her hair had once been. He drew her close, angling their bodies, leaving not even a hairsbreadth width between them. Agile hands skillfully coaxed his directions. His bold wanton manner, exposed for all to witness. They were on the dance floor now, and her body responded to his slightest touch. Somewhere along the way, his attentiveness swept her away. They were dancing and it didn’t really matter that, the small space that held them both enthralled; it wasn't really a dance floor in the true sense of the word. Right near the area where the band was playing, the open space was just large enough for five maybe six couples to dance, and currently one other couple was swaying to the band. The young woman looked to be ten years his junior and her partner looked to have had three too many cocktails. The man was tipping to the left, off tilter. Too Bianca he looked like, at any minute he just might tumble over, falling into one of the tables. She'd been studying them; anything to center her wayward thoughts. This wasn’t for real. They were acting. Pretending to be what, exactly? This mindless game had been working. That is, until Mot angled his head, pressing her lips with a kiss. Not just any old kiss, mind you. This was a full on, lips spread wide, probing tongue in her mouth; mother loving,
good
God, the man can kiss, kind of kiss. Then, to add insult to injury. He tilted his hips, while pulling her in closer; then the man continued with a grind. She was a slightly above average dancer and she always held her own; but Mot bordered on professional. The man could dance. The way his hips moved and swayed. The way his hand molded into the small of her back. His touches were electric. Mesmerizing. She couldn’t even begin to imitate him. While they danced her brain was racing, attempting to juggle too many things. While on the other hand, Mot didn’t appear at all putout. On the floor, while he held her in his arms; his mouth and body were in effect, making love to her. Just short of them both being naked; she was quite certain, twice she’d come close to having a few orgasms. Heading off this sensation was veering her thoughts. She should have been mapping out her next move, or playing a game of chess in her head. When she failed at mind games; Bianca allowed her brain free rein. She wondered about Mot’s fingers and what he does with his powerful hands? Who does he touch and how does he touch them? Is he married or not? Or does he have countless affairs and lovers?