Score two for the team. Quit prying. Boring him is better than prying.

She told him about visiting her parents after four years away, and about her mother's cooking and her father's private dislike for brown gravy. She told him about her parents coming to pick her up at the airport and thinking that they looked smaller. She told him about arguing with the parakeet and wishing that Elisabeta permitted pets so she could take one of the cats with her.

Then she told him about her flight to London and learning to talk to people in person again, and trying to learn French in Rouen and getting laughed out of Paris when she tried to use it. She told him about the cows and the countryside and the little dusty inns she'd stayed in that reminded her of home, and she told him about her thwarted trip to Spain and her subsequent watery entrance into the Café Pharaon.

All this telling took time, but Henri was a good listener. Every now and then he rose to do something magical to the boat to make it go. She didn't realize how low the sun had gotten until her story began to draw to a close.

Why did he have to do that? She probably wouldn't have asked anything he couldn't have answered. And a pleasant lie would have been much kinder than his brusque dead-ends.

Except Henri liked Heather, and would not lie to her.

He seemed content with her response, and she watched him steer the small boat back towards the docks. His mention of lunch had made her hungry, and the sea seemed saltier, less an odor and more a taste. As they approached the slips, the taste grew a little danker, with more of a hint of fish, and she watched Henri throw one of the ropes to the young man who'd met them this morning and anchor the boat into place. Henri held her hand as she stepped from the boat to the dock, and for a moment they were close enough for the scent of old boats and fish to be replaced by a cool faint wisp of aftershave.

He offered his arm and she took it, and together they walked back towards the Café Pharaon. By the time they arrived she was ravenous, but decided she could make it back to the boarding house; the day could have gone better if she'd let him get a word in edgewise, but there was still plenty of room for it to get really messed up before bedtime, and she didn't want to risk it. When they paused outside the café, she disengaged to wish him farewell.

Heather looked over Henri's shoulder into the restaurant behind him, and asked, "Would here be okay? Noon?"

There was the briefest flicker in Henri's expression. "Certainly. But would two o'clock be acceptable?" He added, with a faint grin, "I promise not to eat before you arrive."

Heather grinned back. "That would be just fine."

They exchanged partings, and with a smile, Heather started away. Henri watched her until she was out of sight, standing in front of the Café Pharaon's entrance. Sinclair appeared at his side, but said nothing, just looked down the street in the direction Henri was staring.

"Sinclair," he said, at length.

"Oui, monsieur?"

"Vous rappelez-vous la réunion que j'ai prévue pour le demain?" Do you remember the meeting I scheduled for tomorrow?

"Naturellement, monsieur."

"Je prendrai la réunion sur le patio. Et je ne veux pas être dérangé." I will take the meeting on the patio. And I do not want to be disturbed.

"Oui, monsieur, vos instructions étaient clair. Nous devons apporter au monsieur sa nourriture et seul laisser les deux de vous." Yes, sir, your instructions were clear. We are to bring the gentleman his food and leave the two of you alone.

"Je ne mangerai pas." I will not be eating.

"Je noterai lui, monsieur." I will make a note of it, sir.

"Et Sinclair?"

"Oui, monsieur?"

"Si Mademoiselle Pennington arrive..." If Mademoiselle Pennington should arrive...

"J'assurerai elle est rendue confortable jusqu'à ce que la réunion soit terminée, monsieur." I will see to it that she is made comfortable until the meeting is finished, sir.

Enrique thought so, but who knew, with Henri? That man kept his cards well-hidden. Nothing to do but go, and talk, and see where things lay.

He just wished this could have been taken care of without having to travel. Enrique did not like travel. Agents traveled; Enrique stayed in one place and made decisions like a civilized human being.

A well-dressed man in his late forties bowed to him as he entered, and asked, "Monsieur Torres?"

Enrique blinked. He had never, in the eight years he had been Henri's controller, mentioned his last name. It just wasn't a done thing.

Henri was making a statement. And Enrique understood. Perfectly.

He was led out onto the patio, which was empty but for the man sitting at a table near the railing, looking out across the sea. The man was Nondescript. Enrique had seen photographs, video feeds, and other such images of Henri, but he had not understood the nature of Henri's appearance before. In a photograph, on a screen, Henri was the focus. But here, sitting at a table, even on this otherwise empty patio, Henri was a part of the background. He was there, but he was furniture.

The man turned his head as Enrique approached, the dull grey of his wire-rimmed glasses hardly reflecting the sunlight at all. His eyes took Enrique in with a single glance. It didn't matter that Henri had never, in their eight years of association, set eyes on the Enrique before; now he had, and that was that.

The middle-aged man that had met him at the door departed without taking his order. Enrique opened his mouth to speak.

The man with the wire-rimmed glasses cut him off. "You are late."

"Yeah," Enrique replied, a bit put off. "I'm not a frequent flyer, you know? Got delayed a bit."

"I took the liberty of having the kitchen prepare your lunch in advance," the man across the table said, without acknowledging Enrique's words. And as he spoke, the door opened behind him, and a plate was set on the table before him. He looked up to thank the server, but the waitress, a slip of a girl with short dark hair, was already closing the door behind her. He glanced down at the plate, and paused.

It was a club sandwich.

"Mademoiselle Pennington?"

The polite, portly manager she'd seen smile at her each time she'd come in was in front of her, and to push past him was not to be thought of. His expression was far too kindly and earnest, and despite her eagerness to see Henri and the lateness of her arrival she stopped automatically and smiled back. "Why, hello, Monsieur...um..."

"Sinclair, Mademoiselle. Msr. Claremont will be here very soon." He guided her to a table, and she followed, relieved, confused and disappointed at once, and glanced at the patio through the windows. Henri was there, seated at his usual place, but his eyes were not on the sea. There was a man sitting with him, his back to her, and they appered to be talking.

I wonder who that is.

So he was relieved when Henri spared him the trouble. "You have something you want to talk about and you aren't going to leave until you do. I have an appointment which is fast approaching. So please, speak your mind."

Enrique had finished his sandwich almost half an hour before. Now he found himself wanting something to chew. Any excuse to stall another moment. But he said, "We have a problem."

"It is the way of things," Henri replied. "I solve so many of your problems, and yet you do not run out. What are you doing wrong?"

"Oh, trust me, Henri, this is the fuck-up to end all fuck-ups."

Henri frowned at the proganity. "What has happened?"

"A couple months ago we confirmed that the international freelancer who calls herself 'Noir' is a Scorpion student."

Henri actually chuckled softly at the news. He sipped his tea.

"This isn't a joke, Henri. She stole the plans to a new defense corvette that was greenlighted regardless and sold them to the Wolves. She's killed six flag officers, including a two-star general. We've sent Legion agents after her. They all died. All of them."

Henri was shaking his head. "Now I see. You do not run out because you make your own. You raise them and train them yourselves."

"Yeah. Yeah, this is our fault. Nobody's denying that. Trust me, blame's been assigned. The Scorpion instructor is doing time on Io. But shipping him off doesn't fix this. She has to be brought down. These kids they train up there are gamers. They play everything like it's VR and they're the hero of some damn movie. We need a real professional on this, Henri. I know you can handle this."

"Obviously not all Scorpions are without merit, if you are having so much trouble with this... one."

The pause in Henri's sentence coincided with a minute double-take he did when glancing into the cafe. Enrique turned in his seat, looking back over his shoulder. A woman had arrived, and was talking to the manager, the man who had addressed Enrique by his last name. He sorted things as he returned to facing Henri. There had been mention of an appointment today. Had Henri found himself a woman here? The thought was mildly pleasant to Enrique. Though he and Henri never, ever discussed personal matters, Enrique had amassed enough loose facts to come to his own conclusions. Henri never purposefully charmed, wooed, or seduced anyone on-op, ever. No voice but Henri's own had ever answered the telephone anywhere Henri had stayed around the world, on-op or off. And Henri could always, always pick up and leave wherever he was within fifteen minutes when duty called. And knowing Henri -- and despite his lack of knowledge of Henri's personal matters, he felt that he truly did -- there was no way that any mate, extended or temporary, could fit into those facts. Henri was just too polite to ditch someone like that.

Enrique decided to take his leave. "Think about it," he said, rising to his feet. "Please. Just give it some thought. We need you."

Henri rose as well. "I will."

Enrique wondered if he should shake Henri's hand. Henri wasn't coming around the table, however, so he decided against it. He nodded, a gesture of acceptance of Henri's vow and of parting, and left the patio, weaving his way through the arrangement of tables. Naturally, his path took him past the woman's table, and as he passed he nodded and smiled to her. He nodded and smiled to the manager as well, though the manager's response was a bit forced.

Marie emerged from the café's interior, smiling warmly to Heather. They ordered lunch, and talked of small things until their food arrived. Henri's meal consisted of a hearty beef stew -- a specialty of Aldona's -- with bread, fruit, and a small serving of cheese. He drank only water.

They had been talking of the tour they would take that afternoon. Henri had mentioned a few of the sights Marseilles had to offer, and asked if Heather had any specific destinations in mind. She had expressed an interest in seeing some of the city's interesting architecture, particularly its older structures.

"We should see the Arc de Triomphe in St-Charles District. It is enduring some light restoration at present, but it is still a beautiful sight. And the Garden of Ruins in Old Port is the finest walk to be had in the city. And of course, you must see the Palais Longchamp before the sun sets. Its entrance is a fountain complex which was built to commemorate the construction of the canal from the Durance river. It also houses the Fine Arts and Natural History Museums."

Henri felt that he was talking to fill some silence, though he wasn't sure why. Heather did not seem ill at ease, indeed seemed even to be interested. But the feeling made Henri uncomfortable, as talking was not his accustomed method of dealing with silence, whether there was any to be had or not.

He had made his decision, he knew. Rather, there was no decision to be made. Henri was what he was, and impose his will upon that would make him something different, something which he had no desire to be. A weapon makes no decisions, but needs not consider guilt.

"Marseilles has a great deal to offer," he concluded with a quiet enthusiasm that made her grin at him. How many people had that much pride in the city they occupied? Henri had been born a few centuries too late.

"Too much to see in a day. We must budget our time," he said, and then paused slightly before continuing. "How long will you be staying?"

His tone was perfect, politely interested without offering any kind of opinion one way or the other about how he felt, but Heather didn't feel slighted. On the contrary, she got the impression that Henri - unbelievable at it might seem - wanted her to stay, but didn't want to impose by saying so. That impression made her answer carefully.

But not so fortunate as I, he allowed himself. Two weeks. Not that Henri could presume that Heather would spend all her time with him. She liked him, liked his company; Henri was not a fool, and of that he had no doubt. But he found himself hoping that he could hold her interest as long as possible. Two weeks sounded like a pleasantly long time.