Priced to Move (15 page)

Maybe I can get on his nerves so much that I’ll chase him away—
Whoa!
I can’t be that awful. True, I feel as though I’m teetering on the edge of a cliff, and Max is either about to push me over or catch me on the way down. Beats me which, but I’m scared. Still, aside from knowing nothing about my field of expertise, what has Max done? Nothing so bad. Right?

Oh, phooey!
The truth is, I’m afraid if I have to spend a whole lot more time around him I might . . . let’s just say I don’t even want to know what might happen.

He’s way too attractive. And I might start to believe there’s lots more behind that amazing smile, those twinkling sky-blue eyes, the dumb-jock routine.

Miss Mona’s nobody’s fool. She hired him. Maybe . . .

Even if he doesn’t know his chalcedony from his chryso-beryl.

Heaven help me.
Please!

Dinner tonight is more of the same mystery mix— fishy-flavored this time—veggies, and rice. The best part of the meal is the fresh tropical fruit we’re served for dessert. Afterward, I sleep like a dog—totally oblivious to everything but my off-the-wall dreams. Okay, so maybe I don’t chase my tail in my sleep, but I do spend a ton of time trying to catch Max before he makes another one of those bloopers of his.

In the morning, we follow yesterday’s routine of shower and dress, then breakfast in the hotel’s dining room. We head out to the mine as soon as we push away from the table.

“Miss Andie,” the mine manager says when I do like a dust devil, and my cloud of grime and I approach. “We dig tunnel more today.”

“Great! I can’t wait to film that. How do you want us to go about it? Do you need Hannah to go in by herself, or can both of us go down together?”

“I no want you there. Danger in tunnel is big.”

“But we came to tape the operation here. If you’re going deeper into the ground, I want to get that on film.”

I can just hear the rusty wheels in his head cranking around the idea of two loony American women going into his mine while his workers jackhammer their way farther into the earth’s crust. Poor guy. Life as he’s known it is history. Wait till we leave and he gets a chance to really think about what hit him.

From her practically bottomless tote bag, Miss Mona pulls out two dust masks. “Hold it right there, Andie-girl.”

I give her a sheepish look. “Thanks. I forgot we’d taken them out of my suitcase at the hotel. Then I was so ready to get back to the mine, I never gave them another thought.”

She grins. “A girl has to be prepared, I always say—so does Livvy, but she’s not here, so she doesn’t count right now. And don’t you go telling her I said that. But I had me a good idea this mining business was going to be a filthy affair, so I wasn’t about to leave them back in the room to do you no earthly good.”

I slip a mask over my head and hurry after Hannah. She takes the extra one and gives me a mischievous wink. “I see Miss Mona’s version of the Boy Scouts’ ‘Be prepared’ motto strikes again.”

“I’m glad she was more on the ball than I was.” I give her a wry grin. “We’re going to walk out of that pit over there with lungs that work. I know a good thing when I see it, and Miss Mona’s the real deal. Wacky, but smart too.”

“You don’t get to make a success of your own cable shopping network at the time of life when others are crocheting doilies if you don’t have a good set of brains and smarts. I love the lady.”

“We all do,” Max says from right behind us. “Even though I’m new to the network, I already think the world of her. She’s a class act.” He points. “Do I get one of those things? Every time Andie moves, she kicks up a windstorm and chokes us with her dust.”

“And you don’t kick up dirt when you walk around this place?”

“I don’t impersonate tornadoes. I walk.”

The nerve of the man. “I walk too. But I’m a woman on a mission. You know—places to go, people to see. What you call shuffling, others more on the ball would call a busy hustle.”

With that, I turn to follow Hannah and the mine manager—I can’t even begin to torture my tongue into the foreign noises that make up his name. I’m not Burmese. I’ve never had to utter that kind of sound. I’m now convinced you have to be born Burmese for your tongue to twist like that.

One by one, the miners make their way down the mouth of the mine. I follow, then Hannah comes in, her camera whirring away, capturing every last detail.

“It’s hard to believe I’m really in a ruby mine in Burma,” I say loud enough for Hannah to get on tape. “But lucky for you, ladies and gentlemen, you get to come along with me.”

The mine tunnel is about eight feet high, seven feet wide, and goes into the rock for about twenty-five feet. While I’m thrilled to be here, the candles the miners use to light the way don’t do a thing for me. They eat up a whole lot of oxygen, and I kinda like to breathe. The alternative? Not so much.

Now I wish I’d brought one of those Tim-the-Toolman-Taylor kind of three-foot-long halogen lanterns with me. But, back home, I knew getting just about anything past customs into this country would be a hassle. I didn’t want to square off against Myanma authorities the moment I landed. And to think Max the Magnificent made fun of my plenteous luggage; I could have brought more.

Where was I? Oh yeah. That’s right. I reach out and touch the rough stone walls, etched with the tracks of the jackhammers that carved it out of solid rock.

Then, from somewhere out beyond the other side of the mine tunnel, an explosion steals my voice.

The world tilts off its center.

The earth shakes.

When I lean against the wall of the tunnel to keep myself from going down, it continues to shimmy up a storm. To my horror, a creaking reverberates down from somewhere near the mouth of the pit.

Deathly silence follows.

Then, in hushed tones, the miners start to jabber. Bet they’ve seen more than their fair share of killer mine explosions in their lifetimes.

Besides all that, clouds of dust eddy around us. Even through my mask, I breathe in the dirt mixed with the scent of humidity, a rare stink of mold, mildew, some sort of organic rot. I don’t know what it might be. I just know I don’t like it. I grab Hannah, who looks shocked and beyond the grasp of reality. “Come on! Let’s get out of here. This place is about to crash. And I don’t want us to be here when it does.”

Her face goes gray. Her teeth chatter. But in spite of her obvious fear, she starts to move forward, her camera still on.

What a pro. But one in danger. “Run!” I urge her.

The men either hear my cry or figure they’d better do likewise, because moments later, they ooze out of the tunnel and cluster on the dust-clouded mounds outside.

“Hurry, hurry, hurry!” I urge Hannah and wave at the men. No one should stop until they’re far, far away from this place.

Finally, I spot the mine manager. “What happened? I didn’t think you used dynamite here.”

“We no dynamite, Miss Andie.” The tight line of his clenched jaw leaves me no alternative but to believe him. Not that I’ve ever not heard him speak the truth. “I
will
find who do this.”

As we reach the entryway, another blast shocks us. I spot Miss Mona at Max’s side, all frothed up into a lather. Who can blame her?

I stick my fingers in the corners of my mouth and give a good blow.

They turn.

I point to the van.
“Now!”

What a change! Max doesn’t give me grief. The only thing that does give me grief is the thought that one of us could’ve been hurt—or worse.

He rounds up the rest of our crew, gets them into the van.

That’s when I make my decision. Miss Mona or no Miss Mona. I ask, “Do you have your king’s ransom with you?”

She pats her tote bag. “I’d never leave it at the hotel.”

“Good.” I lean forward to speak to the driver.

The translator turns sideways in the front seat and gives me a leery look.

I don’t let him see me sweat. “Get us out of here,” I tell the man at the wheel. “Now. And take us straight to the airport. We’re leaving.”

Just to give you an idea how bad this scene is, neither Miss Mona nor Max say a word about luggage, the hotel, or the hassle of changing flight reservations.

And I’m thankful. I meant it when I said we had to go. Something really bad’s going down here. I don’t want us caught up in whatever it might be.

Oh yeah. We’re out of there so fast that natives can track us by the trail of dust we leave behind.

Lord? Why does this really weird stuff follow me around
like one of those evil cartoon shadows? Can you do me one
favor? If it wouldn’t be too much to ask. Can you take that
shadow and retire it? I am so outta Myanmar as soon as we
can get standby seats to fly back home. Help us, okay?

“Hurry!” I urge the driver. I’m sure he understands. Fear and urgency don’t really come in different language flavors. At least, I don’t think they do.

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.