Sweat, Part 2

SWEAT
A Redemption Story
Part 2

 

    “It’s a good one this time,” Mr. Morris panted when he sat down at the conference table in Aida’s apartment. He tossed his overcoat over the back of the chair, sprinkling the carpet with droplets that shone like crystalline shards of amber, reflecting the streetlights five stories below. “We’re flying you off to Spain tonight. That’s a new one for you, right?”

    Aida nodded and sat across from him. It always seemed weird that Mr. Morris sat in the cushioned office chair behind the desk. This left her to sit on either of the two hard-backed chairs facing the floor-to-ceiling windows, like she was a student and he the principal in the school that was her home. She crossed her legs carefully. Even though her pantsuit was super itchy, she would try to do Mrs. Strickland right and look the part of a professional agent.

    “Basic gala event,” Mr. Morris continued, opening his briefcase and passing over a manila envelope with a slim stack of materials inside. As Aida flipped it open and pulled out a passport, a gilded invitation, and a building schematic, he continued, “An opening for a new museum exhibit. It’s a particularly insensitive one about the Spanish monarchy, so the Basque people there are a little upset. Your job is security - infiltration and surveillance, hopefully. Our client heard that there might be some separatists planning on busting up the party, as they say. Do you speak Spanish, Ms. Rosenbaum?”

    “Not well, but that shouldn’t be a problem,” Aida replied, now reading her cover sheet. “You have me as a delegate from Liberia. I’ll need to speak English.”

    “Oh, right right right,” Mr. Morris said, wiping his handkerchief along his receding hairline. “Well, you may want to brush up on your Basque history, but other than that it’s pretty straightforward. 48 hour turnaround, I think. Your plane will be ready in an hour. It’s a long flight, so pack what you need.”

    He stood up. Aida hurriedly flipped the folder closed and rose to complete the obligatory handshake that signaled the end of the meeting.

    “Good mission!” Mr. Morris grinned.

    Eighteen windswept hours later found Aida assembling the last of her ensemble for the evening: A particularly gorgeous gown of cobalt silk, matching blue stilettos, and her favorite semiautomatic pistol tucked inside an eggshell-white clutch. She put her hair in a complicated up-do, adjusted her special clip-on diamond earrings, and finished everything off with a faux-fur coat. Aida demanded the agency to only supply her with the finest and animal-friendliest of materials for her missions, and they had certainly held up their end for this. She would enjoy the short strolls from the towncar to the museum and back, even if the evening was far from cold. She could handle a little sweat.

    Of course, once she checked her coat and declined to leave her purse, Aida’s fun appeared to be over. All the muckety-mucks at the gala were inclined to admiring the museum pieces and chatting through their noses in rapid Spanish, dripping with class. The old gold and gemstone pieces were remarkable, as was the museum building modeled after a medieval castle, but also only worth about two seconds of her attention.

    She knew she wasn’t doing any justice for her cover by sipping sparkling cider from a champagne glass by the bar, slumped over slightly, head in her hands and a blank expression on her face, but there were no separatists in sight, and she was getting tired of white-haired old men commenting on how tall she was, how long her legs were, how finely toned her muscles and features. She had known the stilettos would make her stand out, but she wanted to treat herself. Now she’d give anything to go back in time and kick past-Aida in the shins.

    “You look as bored as I feel.”

    Startled, Aida’s instinct drove her hand to the patient pistol - but a second instinct kept her from dumping the magazine into the man’s stomach. She did her usual visual scan of this new element, and then did a double take. This was not a white-haired Spanish politician; this was a young man with a golden-brown mane, a shade of stubble on his chin, and rough dimples wrapped in military formal. He even had a few medals pinned to his chest. No firearm, though. Not a threat. Just ruggedly handsome.

    Quickly rifling through the memorized file in her head, Aida sat up straight and gave him what she knew was a shy, winning grin. Her accent well in place, she said, “Well, I really have no personal interest in Spanish history, but I rather hope I’m not disrespecting your hospitality, Captain. Your people have put on quite a show.”

    He rolled cottony gray eyes. “You mean they are showing off. Don’t be afraid to speak your mind, querida. I am not blind to my government’s ploys.”

    “Good, because except to those old men who lived through it, all this history is a snore. As they say.”

    Aida rather enjoyed the genuine quality of his laugh. He smiled at her and extended his hand. “Captain Armando Aguilar, of the Spanish Navy.”

    Armando’s hand was rougher and yet far more pleasant in hers than Mr. Morris’ could ever be. “Ariana Adams, delegation from Liberia.”

    His thick, masculine eyebrows arched and curled with his amusement. “Ah, I see. I am avid to make your acquaintance, Miss Adams.”

    A quick smile slipped from her painted lips. “As am I, my alliterating ally.”

    Their charmed laughter rose together and echoed into the corners of the arched ceiling above them. Aida didn’t get to chastise herself for the temporary lull in her surveillance in which Armando surprised her. Her interest in the evening’s activities restored, she didn’t even notice the other naval officer across the room who took a surreptitious glance around the ballroom before slipping behind the velvet rope, pulling a revolver from his belt as he went.

TO BE CONTINUED!