Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Two young women walk into the immigration hall in a South American airport. They are tired after a long flight and one seems a bit on edge. Perhaps it is the tiredness; perhaps it is the hot, humid air in the hall. Typical tin pot dictatorship one thinks: A/C broken and a couple of fans only stir the hot air.
One is in her early thirties, with brown hair. Dark glasses hide her brown eyes. She is slim and is small-boned but has a tight ass and shapely legs. She wears a short, dark skirt with a loose dark top hanging over it. The blouse clings to her skin in places, stuck with sweat. The police and immigration officials are clearly staring at her butt and at her C cup breasts that bounce enough to be interesting at each step. Her name is Barbara Moore and she works in an admin role with the US State Department. She seems quite nervous and she should be. She has no experience of field work but has taken on a mission because she feels she needs to earn her mother’s respect. Barbara’s mother was a Cold War spy. The mission should be easy. It is to deliver cash in the form of bonds to the leaders of a possible coup. Washington wants the dictator gone.
The other woman is fair with long blonde hair. She is of a similar build to the darker woman and the ogling officials see a great body and nice legs. She wears blue jeans with fashionable rips, a light silk jacket over a white tank top. Like Barbara she has dark glasses but hers hide blue eyes. She isn't nervous at all. A bit sassy. Her name is Siss Little and she works for the CIA. She has to play nursemaid to Moore and it grates on her. She could have done this job alone in her sleep.
As cover the women are in this god-forsaken hole to do a swimwear photo shoot sponsored by a magazine looking for an edgy article. The dark one is playing the model and the blonde the photographer. The bonds are hidden among her camera gear.
The women join what passes for a queue leading to two immigration desks. In reality the queue is just a throng of people and the women feel knees move against their thighs and regular movement of knuckles and hands across their hips and butts. The darker one kicks out as she feels a hand reach under her skirt. "Discúlpeme, qué está pasando? Megustaría saber por qué me está agarrando, ysoltarme!" spits the blonde in colloquial Spanish as a hand slides up her inside thigh and gropes her crotch through her jeans.” She spits it just loudly enough that the surrounding men ease away but she does not want to attract too much attention.
Eventually they reach the head of the queue and the official sneers, “Nort Americano?” The women nod. “Passports?” They hand them over and he runs them under a scanner. “Camera,” he points to a primitive looking camera on a frame beside his desk and the women take their turns being photographed. They are finger printed and, finally, their passports stamped and returned. “4 days”, he grunts. Don’t hang around.” They are given a filthy rag to wipe the ink from their fingers.
In an observation booth hidden behind one way glass two men watch the women. “Recognise them, jefe,” asks a latino lieutenant. “The blond, yes. Little. She is CIA.” “The dark one, no. Looks amateur.” The speaker is a man with European looks and just a hint of a part-latin heritage. He picks up a phone. “I want them set up. A half key of cocaine. In the blonde's camera bag. Make sure it is missed as they are searched.” He hangs up.
The women wait with the rest of the passengers as a creaking conveyor delivers their luggage and they wheel it across to customs. The darker one is worried. “What if we are searched? What if they find the bonds?” “They won’t,” says the blonde. “Harden up.”
Their luggage gets a perfunctory search and they move towards the exit. “You!” A police office with customs epaulettes points at Barbara. “Here.” She is ushered behind a low screen. “Spread your legs." He kicks her ankles apart. "Stand still.” She can see 3 or 4 police peering over the screen. He has his hands around her left ankle and she feels them slide up her legs until his knuckles brush her sex. Then she feels the same on her right leg. Again the knuckles touch her sex but this time there is more pressure. She stands frozen. She feels his hands under her arms and feels them pat her breasts, down her ribs and on to her pubis. “Go,” she hears.
She wants to run from the terminal but the blonde grabs her arm. “Slowly,” she says. “No more attention.” They get through the exit and find their driver with a sign “Edge Magazine”. He leads them to an old but serviceable Mercedes and loads their baggage. They sit in the back and feel grateful for a weak air conditioning. They sit close together and talk quietly not noticing the driver watching them in the rear vision mirror. They don’t see the red light blinking on the tape recorder in the dash as he drives them to their hotel.
One is in her early thirties, with brown hair. Dark glasses hide her brown eyes. She is slim and is small-boned but has a tight ass and shapely legs. She wears a short, dark skirt with a loose dark top hanging over it. The blouse clings to her skin in places, stuck with sweat. The police and immigration officials are clearly staring at her butt and at her C cup breasts that bounce enough to be interesting at each step. Her name is Barbara Moore and she works in an admin role with the US State Department. She seems quite nervous and she should be. She has no experience of field work but has taken on a mission because she feels she needs to earn her mother’s respect. Barbara’s mother was a Cold War spy. The mission should be easy. It is to deliver cash in the form of bonds to the leaders of a possible coup. Washington wants the dictator gone.
The other woman is fair with long blonde hair. She is of a similar build to the darker woman and the ogling officials see a great body and nice legs. She wears blue jeans with fashionable rips, a light silk jacket over a white tank top. Like Barbara she has dark glasses but hers hide blue eyes. She isn't nervous at all. A bit sassy. Her name is Siss Little and she works for the CIA. She has to play nursemaid to Moore and it grates on her. She could have done this job alone in her sleep.
As cover the women are in this god-forsaken hole to do a swimwear photo shoot sponsored by a magazine looking for an edgy article. The dark one is playing the model and the blonde the photographer. The bonds are hidden among her camera gear.
The women join what passes for a queue leading to two immigration desks. In reality the queue is just a throng of people and the women feel knees move against their thighs and regular movement of knuckles and hands across their hips and butts. The darker one kicks out as she feels a hand reach under her skirt. "Discúlpeme, qué está pasando? Megustaría saber por qué me está agarrando, ysoltarme!" spits the blonde in colloquial Spanish as a hand slides up her inside thigh and gropes her crotch through her jeans.” She spits it just loudly enough that the surrounding men ease away but she does not want to attract too much attention.
Eventually they reach the head of the queue and the official sneers, “Nort Americano?” The women nod. “Passports?” They hand them over and he runs them under a scanner. “Camera,” he points to a primitive looking camera on a frame beside his desk and the women take their turns being photographed. They are finger printed and, finally, their passports stamped and returned. “4 days”, he grunts. Don’t hang around.” They are given a filthy rag to wipe the ink from their fingers.
In an observation booth hidden behind one way glass two men watch the women. “Recognise them, jefe,” asks a latino lieutenant. “The blond, yes. Little. She is CIA.” “The dark one, no. Looks amateur.” The speaker is a man with European looks and just a hint of a part-latin heritage. He picks up a phone. “I want them set up. A half key of cocaine. In the blonde's camera bag. Make sure it is missed as they are searched.” He hangs up.
The women wait with the rest of the passengers as a creaking conveyor delivers their luggage and they wheel it across to customs. The darker one is worried. “What if we are searched? What if they find the bonds?” “They won’t,” says the blonde. “Harden up.”
Their luggage gets a perfunctory search and they move towards the exit. “You!” A police office with customs epaulettes points at Barbara. “Here.” She is ushered behind a low screen. “Spread your legs." He kicks her ankles apart. "Stand still.” She can see 3 or 4 police peering over the screen. He has his hands around her left ankle and she feels them slide up her legs until his knuckles brush her sex. Then she feels the same on her right leg. Again the knuckles touch her sex but this time there is more pressure. She stands frozen. She feels his hands under her arms and feels them pat her breasts, down her ribs and on to her pubis. “Go,” she hears.
She wants to run from the terminal but the blonde grabs her arm. “Slowly,” she says. “No more attention.” They get through the exit and find their driver with a sign “Edge Magazine”. He leads them to an old but serviceable Mercedes and loads their baggage. They sit in the back and feel grateful for a weak air conditioning. They sit close together and talk quietly not noticing the driver watching them in the rear vision mirror. They don’t see the red light blinking on the tape recorder in the dash as he drives them to their hotel.
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