Scott sat patiently at the café on the side street of Rue du Chopin, near the heart of Paris. He nursed his coffee and watched the crowd.
Scott was waiting for a young woman named Chloë.
Her pattern of life, gathered by the analysts within his organization, described a routine that would bring her past Scott's position within the next half-hour. She would be walking from her job at a government office to the nearby shops before heading to her one-bedroom apartment. Chloë lived with her cat, Henri, and a goldfish named Tuna. While Scott knew most of the details of her life, he didn't know her personally. His job is to fill in the details that can not be gathered from online profiles and public records and collect as much intelligence about this young lady as possible.
Scott attended a briefing two days prior. His superiors explained the whys and "who cares" in meticulous detail, six hours of detail, to be exact. A mere six minutes into the briefing and Scott knew the mission was justified and necessary. This young woman would save the world.
Scott had memorized most of the pertinent facts. She was five foot, six inches tall, and weighed one hundred and five pounds. Chloë had green eyes and brown shoulder-length hair. She had a very athletic build, which she maintained with a disciplined running and weight program. The result was that Chloë had a very firm, round ass and a great set of legs. Her arms were toned as well.
Scott was professional enough not to stare too much at a photo of Chloë at a topless beach from last summer. Nevertheless, the image managed to sear itself into his mind. On that summer day, Chloë had worn a black string bikini. Well, at the least, the bottom was a string bikini. There wasn't a top anywhere in the photo. Chloë had nice C-cup breasts with small, pink nipples. Scott noticed the prominent camel toe in the image. It appeared to Scott that Chloë shaved.
Scott would have to send the recon team a nice bottle of Scotch for these photos. They could have just snapped a few images of her as she walked onto the beach. Apparently, they had spent some time enjoying her time at the beach, too.
At 4:17 PM, Chloë rounded the corner exactly where Scott was told she would appear. She was even prettier than her photos.
Today, she wore her brown hair pulled into a bun behind her head. She wore thin black-framed glasses and small single-pearl earrings. Her clothing was typical of many Parisian office workers: a blue pinstriped suit with a tight skirt, a white blouse open to the third button, and matching shoes with a four-inch heel. She carried a brown leather case over her left shoulder.
Scott felt his attraction rise. He already knew he would be attracted to her based on the photographs provided by his team. However, it was one thing to see a person in a photo. It was another altogether to see her gliding down the street looking as sexy as Chloë.
Scott willed his arousal into submission as he left his seat and began to walk down the street. He heard his security team in his earpiece.
"Allons-y! Elle promenés plus rapidement que toi."
Let's go. She walks faster than you.
Scott didn't respond. He never does. Oddly, talking to yourself isn't always as socially acceptable as movies make it out to be. He also did not quicken his pace. What is the point of having multiple observers if you never use them?
Scott knew Chloë would go to the patisserie first. Then she would walk to the Carrefour to pick up a few things for dinner and breakfast. So he walked to the Carrefour, grabbed a trolley, and started his grocery shopping. Scott stayed near the front of the store for two reasons. First, she might skip the grocery shopping and walk home. In that case, Scott would abandon his cart and try to make contact elsewhere. Secondly, being at the front of the store would allow him to resume following her when she entered the store.
Just as Scott began to examine some bananas, his conscience spoke into his earpiece.
"Elle est la en trois, deux, un."
She's there in three, two, one.
As expected, the entry doors of the Carrefour slide open, and Chloë walked inside. Scott tossed the bananas into his trolley and fell in behind Chloë.
"God, she smells amazing. Why do French women smell so sexy?" Scott thought. It was true in Scott's experience. Most, if not all, of the French women he had encountered, had a scent that turned him on. Chloë was no different. Still, she could smell like the ass-end of a dead Rhino, and Scott would still do everything he needed to do.
Fortunately for Scott, Chloë wore a floral scent, with undertones of vanilla and cherry. It wasn't overwhelming. Scott found it very subtle, almost like a tease of a woman's silhouette through a sundress on a sunny day.
Scott and Chloë crisscrossed through the store, never coming more than ten feet within each other for twenty-five minutes. As Chloë rounded the corner of aisle 12, Scott ran into her with his trolley.
"Pardon! Je suis vraiment désolé. Je suis comme un idiot. Ça va bien?"
Pardon me! I'm so sorry. I'm such an idiot. Are you ok?
