Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

He gives me a nod. The translator speaks Burmese. The secret service guy grunts.

“Please,” I say. “We need to get to Yangon. I don’t like what’s going on here.”

And I don’t. But I really, really hate what happens next.

That’s because bullets begin to fly.

12 00

Six tense hours later, we hurry into the airport, check with the airlines, beg for help, and then stake out S.T.U.D.-world. At any other time we would’ve been guilty of a human-body version of urban sprawl, but today we glom together, needing all the togetherness we can get.

You know what? I’m scared. But if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it all the way. I’ve never been so scared in my life, not even of Max and how he makes me feel. Here I am in Myanmar, at the Mandalay airport, running from crazed locals with guns. Wouldn’t you be scared too?

It’s so not a good thing.

The next flight out of this rathole isn’t until tomorrow morning. And who knows if there’ll be room for all of us. We decide, though, that we’re all about a Three Musketeers deal—all for one, and one for all. None of this three on this flight, three on the other, and the last poor schmuck’s left behind to bite her nails and freak out while she waits. Since I’m responsible for this whole fiasco, and since I can’t see the

S.T.U.D.’s stud hanging around here in a burst of chivalry, guess who’d be that poor schmuck?

Now that we’re at the airport, one would think we’re off the hook, right? Think again.

As we huddle, a braided and medaled, official-looking guy comes up to us, a stamped and sealed paper in hand. Not exactly Big Bird lovable.

Goody.

“Miss Mona Latimer?” he asks. “Miss Andrea Adams?”

We look at each other, squeeze hands—oh, didn’t I mention I need that much reassurance? Really? I didn’t? Oh, well. Trust me. I do.

“How can we help you?” Miss Mona asks.

In a British-accented voice, he says, “We must do body checks. You’ve come from Mogok, we know you’ve been at a mine site, and in the past we’ve lost too much national treasure to greedy foreigners. There will be a woman to examine the ladies, and the gentlemen will come with me.”

Hey! Remember me? The one with the personal thundercloud overhead? It just got darker.

I put on my very best puppy-dog look. “Is this really necessary, sir?”

His eyes narrow and his jaw morphs into granite. “Yes, it is, Miss Adams. Allow me to mention a theft we suffered two and a half years ago. Tourists and gem tradespeople went into the Mogok Valley for two weeks. By the end of that time, Myanmar had lost a parcel of top-gem quality rubies valued at many millions of your dollars. I’m sure you will agree we have every reason to check visitors to Mogok before they leave our country.”

Sounds familiar. What are the chances of two identical heists in Mogok?

Miss Mona picks up her tote bag. “I have bought myself a large inventory of gemstones here in Myanmar, sir. But I’ll have you know I do have my bills of sale for each and every last one of them. Besides, you can check with that perfectly nice officer over there”—she points to the customs counter— “who’ll tell you that when we first got here about an hour ago, I filled out a declaration form for all the gems I bought.”

“You do realize you must pay a 20 percent royalty to the government on any gemstones you buy in Myanmar, right?”

What a bargain.

“I’m afraid no one told me a thing about that special fee of yours, but I can pay,” Miss Mona answers. “Who do I make the check out to?”

“You must pay the government of the Union of Myanmar, madam, but we cannot accept a bank check, not from another country. We can accept cash or credit card.”

“Well, then, why don’t you and I take care of that little matter right away. Cash will be difficult, but I think we can make use of my credit card.”

For the first time since he came up to us, his expression goes from icicle to mud puddle. “We appreciate your understanding our nation’s needs, and we also hope you can extend that understanding to the need for the body searches. We make no exceptions.”

Miss Mona looks less happy about stripping in front of a stranger than shelling out the 20 percent. I feel awful for her. “Do you want me to come with you?”

The glance she gives me is full of pure love and gratitude.

“If this kind gentleman will allow it,” she says, the southern in her accent belle thick, “I would surely be much obliged if you would.” She turns to him. “I do so hope you understand.”

The mud puddle icicles up again. “That is not how we operate, madam. We prefer to provide privacy.”

Miss Mona stands tall, towers over him. “But no personal dignity, sir?” The accent’s back to its usual light touch.

Faced with such an indomitable spirit in its statuesque physical form, the government flack backs down. “I suppose we could make a rare exception. But only this once.”

One by one, except Miss Mona and me, since we do a Noah’s Ark twosies deal, we’re searched. Not so pleasant an experience, but not so impossible either. They don’t frisk us.

Then we hunker down in our bunker in the terminal to count the seconds until the airline finds seats—we hope— for us. Somewhere in the deepest, darkest bowels of the night, I remember I stink at waiting. I fidget, I pace, I sit again, and then jump back up to start the whole process yet another time.

“Hey!” Max says in a soft voice. “Can’t you sleep?”

“Not a wink.”

Unexpected gentleness softens his features. “Want to go for a walk? I’ll keep you company.”

“You can’t sleep either?”

He shrugs. “I don’t have too much trouble dozing off just about anywhere, but you seem wound up so tight that I feel bad for you. Maybe walking will help. And talking, if you want.”

Those blue eyes . . . they’re going to be my downfall. Oh, I know I need to have my head examined. It’s either that, or run the guy back to the weather job in Podunk, Missouri. Because, against my better judgment— “Okay.”

To my surprise, he doesn’t say another word. He matches his steps to mine and seems content to just stay at my side, to let me work the nervous energy out of my system.

Ten minutes later, my gratitude for his sensitivity— Wait a minute! The gem-dunce sensitive? That, and the moon’s made of the green fur on last week’s leftovers.

But honestly? I can’t fault him for a thing, no matter how hard I try. The whole time we’ve walked he’s been the perfect companion. Not one word has crossed his lips, not even one about football or golf or his . . . Buckeyes. Not that I’ve said anything either, but thoughtfulness is not something I expect from Max.

Maybe that’s my own fault . . . Uh-oh.

And then I yawn. “Hey, Max. I think I am getting sleepy. How about we head back?”

“I was wondering if you’d ever get around to noticing we’ve gone around this sales kiosk in the middle of the place fourteen times.”

I glance toward the stand. “Really? I didn’t realize we were doing ring-around-the-rosy. I didn’t even notice it there.”

“That deep in thought, huh?”

“You could say.”

“May I ask why?”

“Sure, but I’m not sure I can put it into words. It’s more a feeling . . . maybe a pre-thought.” I shake my head. “That doesn’t make sense, does it?”

“You’re asking me if you’re making sense?”

I chuckle. “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer.”

“Phew! I’d hate to stomp right into that minefield.”

“More like a field mined with piles of dog doo.”

“Care to explain?”

I sigh. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that we got shot at only after we bought material down at the market? And after the mine shaft was dynamited.”