[b]Larnaca International Airport[/b]

The fair-skinned, grey-eyed woman with shining blonde hair cut far above the neck is hardly a startling sight among the British tourists making their way out of passport checks at Larnaca International Airport, what with her grey tank top, camouflage trousers and skin glistening with sun cream; the only thing that she perhaps lacks to complete the picture would be a pair of sunglasses.

Upon closer inspection, however, an observer might notice certain things to mark her out.  Her stride is remarkably assured, even as her fingers rapidly tap at her thighs in ever more complex patterns; she scans her surroundings, pupils focussing and dilating as she does so.

Of course, after a few minutes idling irritably at the baggage claim, the great pack and metal case that she plucks from the conveyor belt separate her further.

Stepping into the sunlight at the airport’s exit, she leans back, feeling the warm air and the Sun’s radiance on her face.  For half a second, the sensation consumes her – the light shining through the skin of her eyelids, the heat running across her cheeks and brow like a caressing hand of flame.

It is only a half-second.  After all, unlike those others on the plane, her primary goal isn’t enjoying herself.

Slinging her pack up onto her shoulders, she flicks through the case’s combination lock, which opens with a satisfying [i]click[/i].  Opening it, she reaches past the assault rifle with the strange-looking rail to take hold of a cylinder of brass, glass and ivory, the button in its compartment released as she does so.

[i]A pain but no point in trying to get around it.  Security’s security.[/i]

Nonetheless, she smiles as if to an old and familiar friend as she looks upon the spyglass again.  Then, purposeful, she flicks it open, holding it at the far end and raising the other to her face, wedging it between her nose and cheekbone as she looks towards the hills above Larnaca.

[i]Yep, they’ll more than do.[/i]

In one moment, she is by the airport, checking the left and right to make sure she won’t bifurcate anyone by mistake.  In the next, she is adjacent to one such hill.  And, in the moment after that, with a quick step forward, she is atop them.

The smile becomes a grin.

Looking back, she pulls and unfolds the printed map from her pocket, eyes drawn immediately to her pen circle marked ‘Dock’ in tidy, efficient scrawl.  Gaze skimming between it and the coast before her, aligning the two, she finds her true target.  Dropping the case, she takes the spyglass in both hands now, adjusting it.

There she looks upon glorious opportunity.

Callie Lidmann steps forward once again.