The man with the wire-rimmed glasses lifted his head. "Oui."

The waiter handed him a slip of paper, neatly folded in half.

"Mercí."

He set the slip of paper down beside his glass, without unfolding it. The waiter left. The mane with the wire-rimmed glasses sipped from his glass, and returned to looking out across the ocean. A faint breeze drifted up from the sea, making the slip of paper flutter on the table, but it did not move far. Henri ignored it. Perhaps it would blow away.

The sun had set ten minutes before, leaving a thin pink glow on the horizon, fading quickly to purple and then to a soft blue. A sail could be seen a few miles from shore, a small white triangle against the black water. Gulls sailed overhead, calling to one another. The sound was similar to the chatter of the restaurant's other patrons -- omnipresent, mildly annoying, and utterly meaningless.

The man with the wire-rimmed glasses decided that tomorrow he would buy this restaurant. Then he could have the patio to himself.

A gust of wind carried the slip of paper into the air.

Without turning his head, the man shot out a hand and plucked it from the air.

Perhaps he would read it. It might not be what he thought. He unfolded the slip of paper.

Then again. Perhaps it was exactly what he thought.

The man re-folded the slip of paper, dropping it in his glass. He watched it soak up the liquid for a short while, then returned to look at the sea.

Then, with a sigh, he pushed his seat back and stood. It was just as well; the other patrons were bothering him with their endless mindless prattle.

The man with the wire-rimmed glasses, now back in his hotel room, shrugged off his coat and hung it up in the closet beside three more, each identical to the first. "Oui," he said into the phone.

"We've been looking for you. We haven't heard from you since Lisbon. You never checked in for debriefing."

"He is dead."

"Who is?"

"The target. Silverman."

"We know."

"So now I am debriefed."

"You okay, Henri? Something bothering you?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Well, I wanted to make sure everything was alright, for one."

"I am fine."

"Good to hear."

"And for two?"

"We have something for you."

"..."

"We know Lisbon didn't go well, Henri."

"The information you gave me wasn't accurate."

"We know."

"If it happens again I walk."

"Henri, people make mistakes. You did great. That guy was paranoid as hell. He kept faulty data in his secure system just to throw off anyone who hacked him."

"If it happens again," the man said, his voice deliberate, "I walk."

"Alright, Henri, alright. It won't happen again."

"What do you want me to do."

"This is an easy one. Just cleaning, no bodyguards, no complications. Facts have arisen -- through unofficial channels -- that link several ex-SOTF soldiers to, shall we say, parties in opposition to our interests. We have a fix on one of them: David Cole. He's on a flight from London as we speak, heading home to Los Angeles. We don't know how long he'll stay, though; the others have all gone under. So we have you on the next flight."

"You don't have anybody local?"

"You know how thin we're stretched. We have three agents in the states that aren't on assignment already, but they aren't what you'd call ‘seasoned'. They're moles, not mechanics. And even by himself, Cole won't be a pushover. He was special ops, after all."

"Any intelligence gathering? Interrogation?"

"Don't worry about it, we know you don't like that kind of thing. You do your thing, and we'll take care of rooting his buddies out."

"When does my plane leave?"

"One hour."

"Merde."

"Your ID has been updated and the dossier has been sent to your account. Honestly, you won't need even half the trip to look this over. Your hardware will be in a metal briefcase with the name Andre Morel on it at the baggage claim carousel for your flight. Don't stress, Henri, this will be a vacation. Do this guy and go hang out on the beach for a couple days. Heh, hell, I'll even let debriefing slide. Take care."

"Adieu."

Her table was really quite a good table. It was near the back wall, which was mostly a big picture window that looked out onto what would have been a very pretty patio, had the weather been nice. The umbrellas had been tightly closed, but the wind outside still accosted them for the crime of standing upright. Beyond the patio was a sharp dropoff, and beyond the dropoff there was a turbulent dark grey ocean under a stormy sky. The waves were crashing into each other and the visible beach furiously, and she was so caught up in the display that she almost didn't notice the arrival of her tea.

A man wearing wire-rimmed glasses sat at a very small table near the window looking out onto the patio and the sea. The table was out of synch with the pattern of the room, clearly moved from the empty space two meters away to be closer to the glass. His tea sat on the table steaming.

Sinclair Rousseau, the Café Pharaon's manager, approached the table at the man's beckon, leaning down. "Monsieur?"

The man's eyes were on the damp, slightly flustered-looking woman sitting a few tables away. "Le mademoiselle est froid et humide. Informez-la que son thé est libre, et a Marie donnent en arrière l'argent de la mademoiselle. Je recompense de volonté elle."

"Oui, Monsieur." Sinclair bowed slightly and disappeared into the kitchen after Marie.

Jor was often present in her thoughts when things were quiet. The sting was gone, but the ache would last forever. She was learning to sip of her memories in little pieces, taking just what she could withstand and then letting the rest fade away from her. Jor had told her about the ocean in Hawaii; the sea that met her eyes when she opened them again was nothing like what he'd described. He said the ocean there was green and blue; she'd often imagined great masses of water the color of his eyes. The sea here was angry and dark and powerful, and it reminded her of...Jor.

There was a clearing of throat, and Heather turned her head. The waitress was back, with a kindly smile on her face; Heather's bundle of money was in her hand, somewhat more organized but too damp to be anyone else's. She set it down on Heather's table and said a quiet Mercí, followed by a string of lovely syllables she was too confused to make out. After some hesitant conversation, she determined that the owner of the bar did not wish the waitress, Marie, to take the money, and so she was giving it back.

Heather smiled a little sadly, but nodded. It had made her feel perversely good to give her money away, but she wouldn't press the issue; Marie had brought her wonderful tea. She didn't want her to get into trouble.

The little waitress left, and she sighed and pressed the cup absently against her cheek, the warm porcelain comforting on her cold skin, and went back to watching the ocean.

She stayed for almost three hours and watched the storm blow itself. Her tea never had the chance to get cold; Marie always brought a new pot to replace the old before it started to chill. She noticed two things during her stay. The first was that the room was warm and pleasant, and remained that way no matter how many patrons it was sporting, and the second was that the clientele seemed mostly to come for a quick drink or a meal and then leave, probably on their way back to work. No one else bothered her, and she never felt pressured to abandon her table, but Marie would take no more money for the refills on her tea, and she finally gave up offering.

When the clouds finally parted, she sat a few minutes longer and was watching the sea calm itself down when part of her scenery moved.

A nondescript man stood up from his table and donned a comfortable, sensible raincoat. If he noticed her watching him, he didn't give any sign, and as he left she tried to figure out what it was about him that caught her attention. He'd been sitting there for some time; she hadn't seen him come in, but she hadn't been paying much attention. The question tugged and pulled at her brain until she could think of nothing else, and she frowned at his empty table for another ten minutes before she figured it out.

The rest of the tables in the room were placed at comfortable distances from one another, but not so far apart that they wasted space. This table was slightly farther away from its companions, but still placed carefully enough to give its occupant a good view of the ocean. She dallied another half hour as the dinner crowd began to come in, but despite the growing number of customers, the table remained empty.

Sinclair, who was taking a few moments to oversee the preparation of the early dinner patrons' meals, smiled softly. "Non. Mais elle était froide, les pauvres chers. M. Clairmont est un homme aimable." No. But she was cold, the poor dear. M. Clairmont is a kind man.

"Aimable en effet. Elle est aimable également. Ils devraient être aimables entre eux encore plus." Marie said, grinning wickedly. Kind indeed. She is kind also. They should be kind to each other some more.

"Marie..."

"Sinclair, soit raisonnable. Vous l'avez vu la regarder." Sinclair, be reasonable. You saw him look at her.

"Oui. La même voie il regarde l'eveyone autrement." Yes. The same way he looks at everyone else.

Marie grinned again in an almost predatory fashion. "Mais quand l'avez-vous vu regarder n'importe qui autrement du tout?" But when have you seen him look at anyone else at all?

"M. Clairmont a été aimable avec nous. Il aime le Café Pharaon. Il est... lui est heureux, de sa façon. Ne le dérangez pas, Marie." M. Clairmont has been kind to us. He loves the Café Pharaon. He is... he is happy, in his manner. Do not upset him, Marie.

"Je pas. Ne me faites-vous pas confiance, Sinclair?" she asked sweetly. I will not. Don't you trust me, Sinclair?

"Je vous fais confiance pour être vous." I trust you to be you.

"Alors vous n'avez rien à craindre, mon cher M. Rousseau," Marie said as she kissed him on the cheek and left the kitchen carrying plates. Then you have nothing to fear, my dear M. Rousseau.

The Café Pharaon was not the closest open establishment to her modest boarding house, but dinner last night had convinced her that lack of distance did not a palatable meal make. She had purchased a small umbrella and she was willing to make the extra effort to see Marie and her teapots again.

The café was almost entirely empty when she arrived, but the people before her waited to be seated, and therefore so did she, but after seating the older couple the waitress took one look at Heather and disappeared into the kitchen.

Surprised and a little confused, Heather shifted from one foot to another and was beginning to think they wanted her to leave when Marie appeared from the kitchen with a welcoming smile on her face and something that sounded equally welcoming in French. Heather picked out the "this way" gesture and followed Marie docilely to the back of the room. She had been hoping for the table she'd gotten yesterday - it had been a bonding experience - but instead Marie sat her someplace else and then flew away to fetch her tea before she could request it. Not wanting to be a bother, she shrugged and made herself comfortable, and when Marie returned with her tea and some fruit she cradled the cup in both hands and stared out the window, waiting for the sea to wake up.

They entered together, and the man paused when he saw the woman seated at his table. He looked at Sinclair. Sinclair smiled. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen, Marie grinned wolfishly.

Without a word to either, the man with the wire-rimmed glasses apporached the table.

Heather looked up, a little startled, and saw that her visitor looked familiar. He wore round wire-rimmed glasses and a sensible raincoat, and as she glanced around the room she figured out which table Marie had seated her at. It was the same table this man had occupied yesterday, and it appeared he wanted it back. Horribly embarrassed, she was just reaching for her bag when he spoke in clear accented English.

"Is this seat taken?"

She blinked up at him and shook her head apologetically, but on second glance he didn't seem upset, and she watched him sit down with mixed relief and bashfulness. Marie arrived with fresh tea and a knowing smile, and though there was no change of expression on her tablemate's face, she gathered that he had not asked that she be seated there, Marie had known he wouldn't be averse to it. Instead of bringing the man his own teapot, she brought him only the handleless porcelain cup, saying something in French to him that Heather didn't understand, but from the slight flicker on his face, she didn't really need to.

The waitress finally withdrew to gloat out of sight, and Heather stared into her tea cup like she was trying to tell the future. When she finally looked up she saw he was equally steadfast in his observation of the view outside, and she relaxed a little and took a few guilty moments to study him. He was well-groomed and looked older than her. His eyes were the color of tea. She ran out of brazenness and followed his gaze to the dark ocean outside.

The first weak daylight was beginning to creep across the floor from the street, but the sea was remained black for a long time after the room had brightened. When the sun finally began to stain the water, it wasn't blue or green, or the angry grey she'd seen yesterday. It was brown. There were still stormclouds visible far out from the shore, and the sea didn't ever quite reach blue; it attained a cobalt and got about the unending business of conquering itself.

Say something. Anything. He seems like a nice guy, well dressed. He doesn't even look embarrassed. Just say something.

She rested her cheek against the hands she had wrapped around her cup and took a deep breath. "It's very pretty," she said at last.

The man shot Marie a minutely sour look, and took off his glasses to wipe the water from the lenses. Marie took her leave. His companion was studying her tea intently, and he wondered if she would rather be elsewhere. Perhaps he should simply have chosen another table.

The waves rolled in, though he could not see them lap at the shore this far from the patio's edge. The drizzle outside was light, and he thought that perhaps this afternoon he'd get a chance to eat outside. He almost missed the gulls' chatter. He'd have preferred it to the din of the cafe's clientele.

"It's very pretty," the woman said.

Marie returned with the man's breakfast, a plate holding two poached eggs, three sausage links, a croissant with a small square of butter, and a fruit cup. Marie then turned and spoke quickly, so that Heather would not be able to follow, so that he would have to translate.

She smirked. "Naturellement, monsieur."

Offers of inappropriately personal questions didn't happen every day. When they did pop up, they were usually made by men who were drunk or bored or thought she looked like an easy catch. Fortunately, Heather had learned how to blend early on in this trip and avoided the possibility, but she wasn't sure she wished to avoid such a possibility from M. Clairmont. He was well-dressed, polite, generous and quiet. And he had nice eyes. They weren't green, but they were warm, and she had felt quite at ease until his inquiry.

"I'm on vacation," she replied with a slightly amused smile, "and I've always wanted to see French teapots." She looked down into her tea briefly, but it counseled her against mentioning the IF. "My job has a lot of detail work in it," she said at last. "It's nice to relax." She looked up. "I was looking for my boarding house yesterday and got caught in the storm," she explained ruefully. "It isn't far from here. And the tea is very nice."

She studied him slightly less covertly. He was very smooth-shaven. He looked...he looked neat, and she found herself wishing her clothing were slightly less wrinkled.

"Mars orbit, yes? It is responsible for repairing and refitting the fleet?"

She gave an astonished chuckle. "Yes, that's right. Not many people know that - or at least," she amended, "they don't think it's worth knowing. We do most of the refitting there - we have the best engineers - but even the requests for ships elsewhere usually come through our office at some point. That's where I come in, patching up new ships with pieces from older ones. Hence my illustrious title." She was having trouble believing his apparent fascination, but he was radiating honesty, and despite the feeling that he was just humoring her, she couldn't pass up the opportunity to drone.

For over an hour they talked about ships and their component pieces, how much such things cost and how they fit together. She told him about wrestling back and forth with the salvage yards and stretching a tiny budget to meet the demands of young captains who were eager to go out and destroy brand new equipment instead of hand-me-downs, and explained to him why so many of the older models were still in commission and why so few of the newer ones were up to par. Finally, she subjected him to a lengthy description of her ship, an imaginary conglomeration of parts that, when properly assembled and upgraded, would become the perfect cruiser, with hearty nods to defense and speed requirements.

He smiled, and she suddenly became aware of how much of this man's time she had wasted.

"Heather."

She stopped, met his gaze.

"I am told that tomorrow we should see the sun," he said. "I was planning on spending a few hours at sea, weather permitting. If your itinerary allows, would you accompany me?"

God, yes. England, Spain, Brazil, it's all good, as long as you keep talking. She bit her bottom lip and tried to look indecisive, but her smile was too eager. "Yes," she said a bit shyly. "I'd like that, M. Clairmont."

She saw a hint of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "Henri, please," he requested with a small incline of his head.

His name sounded just like he looked - neat, refined, distinguished, but approachable - and she liked it immensely. "Henri," she agreed even more shyly, trying the slight French twist to the pronunciation with more success than she'd hoped, and then decided it was time to leave before she did something clumsy or foolish and ruined it. The manager and Marie were watching when she turned around, but they both immediately found other things to look at, and she shrugged it off as she stepped out into the grey afternoon to walk back to her room at the boarding house.

Sinclair appeared at his side. "Est-ce que je dois prendre des agencements pour que le Dantés soit-il prêt, monsieur?" he asked, dourly. Shall I make arrangements for the Dantés to be ready, sir?

"Oui," the man replied. And then, "Je projetais naviguer déjà." I was planning to sail already.

"Naturellement, monsieur." Of course, sir.

"Je simplement n'avais pas trouvé l'heure de prendre des agencements." I simply had not found time to make arrangements.

"Naturellement, monsieur. Quand souhaiterez-vous partir?" Of course, sir. At what time will you wish to depart?

The man's brow furrowed slightly. No such plans had been made. "Le bateau devrait être prêt à midi." The boat should be ready at noon.

"Oui, monsieur."

"Sinclair?" The man's eyes didn't leave the door. "Est-ce que cela est bien allé?" Did that go well?

Sinclair smiled wanly. "Oui, monsieur."

A long moment passed before the man turned his gaze toward the Café Pharaon's manager. "Mercí, Sinclair."

I really should have asked him what to wear. I don't even know when I'm supposed to meet him. What if he's there right now? She fidgeted in consternation and yanked a blouse out of the mix and studied it. No, he said daylight. The sun isn't even up yet.

Despite this reassurance, she began to feel more and more rushed, and at last she closed her eyes and snatched a top at random, ending up with a dark yellow short-sleeved blouse. Heather did not question destiny. Instead, after she was satisfied with her wardrobe, she went to the mirror and began to tug at her hair.

I haven't bothered this much with my appearance since...I can't remember when. She stopped brushing her hair for a moment and looked at herself, trying to put things into perspective.

I'm plain. There's nothing wrong with being plain. Maybe I could do something to my hair. But isn't it windy on sailboats? It would probably just get messed up. Maybe I could braid it. She tried a French braid first, just because, but she wasn't quite coordinated enough, and bits kept falling down. She tried a simple braid back then, but it kept looking somewhat sloppy in the front. After some considerable time and experimentation, she made two braids, one on either side of her head that began just behind her ears and lay on her shoulders, and she was able to get it secure enough to look smooth. It made her look younger, and Heather smiled at her reflection; she hadn't felt young in months.

She remembered why, and her smile faded.

Where are you, Jordan? Are you alone? Are you happy? I don't think you could be happy alone. I guess I should wish for your wife to forgive you, if I want to wish for your happiness. I wish I could do that. I wish I could want you to be happy enough to wish you were with someone else. It would make me feel less like a cheat. It would make me feel cleaner. But while I'm wishing...I wish you could have been happy with me.

Heather put her head down on her vanity table and cried.

~~~

It was nearly 09:30 when she finally approached the little Café Pharaon, refusing to abandon her room until she was satisfied she no longer looked upset. She settled for quiet and thoughtful, and entered the restaurant with a small anticipatory smile until she saw that Henri's table was empty.

I should have come earlier. Keen disappointment wrote itself on her face, and she was just trying to decide whether to go or stay in the hope that he might return when Marie touched her shoulder.

"Mademoiselle," she said in a gentle, amused tone, and nodded toward the patio behind the main room. Despite the well-filled café, only a single man sat there, watching the ocean. She could only see his back, but his hair was too well-kept to belong to anyone but M. Clairmont.

"Merci!" she said cheerfully to Marie, who grinned back and went about her work as Heather practically skipped out to the patio, her mood entirely restored by the near-disaster. She took extra care to be very quiet as she stepped into the open air, hoping to surprise him.

He brushed aside her apology and offered her a seat, and after a moment of slightly blushing awkwardness she accepted it, and he took the chair next to hers. She stole a glance at his clothing to see how hers compared; he wore a suit very similar to the one he'd worn yesterday of a slightly lighter grey color, and next to her slightly wrinkled ensemble he looked quite orderly. She felt slightly ashamed, but staved it off by promising herself that she'd iron everything she owned later on tonight.

"I shall see to it that the Dantes is ready to set sail within the hour, and we can ask for a picnic lunch to be prepared for us. Have you breakfasted?"

Heather gave him a calculating look. "Ok," she agreed, "but only if I can return the favor tomorrow."

He nodded. "As you wish. Garçon," he said, turning in his seat toward the open glass door. He did not call out. He did not even raise his voice. But above the brunch din, he was heard, and a young waiter named Pierre emerged.

"Monsieur, mademoiselle," Pierre said, bowing to each.

"Do you have strawberries? And toast? And...an egg and a slice of bacon. And tea." Her voice grew more decisive, and she was quite proud of bacon; she'd already had a good bit of practice at ordering tea. Henri translated into French, and when he stopped talking and the waiter departed she worked on getting him to talk some more.

"For the best, really," she murmured, her previous reflective mood tempering her cheer. "May I ask you what is probably an inappropriately personal question?"

Henri grinned. "It would be only fair."

Pierre returned with Heather's breakfast, and both she and Henri thanked him, and then he went away. Henri decided that he was going to match that boy's tip earnings today.

Yesterday, he had sensed something in Heather, a mourning that was still fresh. The only personal subject they had yet discussed was her work, and while she clearly loved her job, there seemed no taint attached to it that could suggest a connection. This reference to love caused Henri's memory to flare, and he became concerned.

His lips parted the tiniest fraction to speak, but he checked himself. He could not comfort her. It was not his place. She had not confided in him, and until she did, if at all, he had no right to presume to name her sorrows. They were not his business, not until she permitted them to be.

And Henri found himself wanting them to be.

But he could not say nothing. His conscience demanded something of him.

"Mademoiselle."

Her eyes tore themselves away from the ocean, to his face.

Henri was still watching her, but her self-consciousness never swelled to the level of embarrassment. He wasn't teasing her or making light of her situation. He didn't even know her situation. He was making small talk, and she'd allowed herself to take it far too seriously. He couldn't have missed her reaction, but his response contained nothing amused or cruel in it, and she began to think that even if he'd known what she was talking about, he would never have mocked her about it.

The tea called her attention to itself and encouraged her to say what was on her mind.

That's what I thought. But he didn't love me, and I'm never going to see him again.

Her tea decided she'd had enough of sharing her feelings and suggested she drink some of it, and she did. When the cup came down from her face she was composed again, and sighed quietly. Jor was gone, and as Susan had pointed out more than once, it was time to move on.

She gave Henri a reassuring smile. I'm ok, really, said the smile. Please don't think I'm a basketcase. His answering smile was slow in arriving and looked a little undernourished, and she cast about for a change of subject.

The previous subject kept edging into his mind, and Henri wondered how Heather had lost her love. Had he died? Had he gone away? Or had she? Perhaps this Earthside journey was her escape. Or perhaps she was merely running away from the memories.

Henri had to force himself to sweep these thoughts away. None of this was his business. Instead, he spoke of the Dantés: beam height, draft, dry weight and water ballast, and hull speed. The technical specifications interested Heather, and she asked questions about the more detailed points, such as spars and rigging, electrical systems, fuel capacity and consumption, fresh water capacity, sail area, and the like. Some questions even Henri could not answer, not having built the craft himself. But the tension eased by degrees as the minutes passed, and after half an hour Sinclair informed Henri that the Dantés was ready to set sail. Heather had long since finished and paid for breakfast, and so the two rose and left the cafe, Heather smiling at Marie as they passed through. When they reached the street, Henri offered Heather his arm. "The docks are not far, merely a half-mile walk."

Heather looked mildly amused, but she slipped her arm through his, and smiled as they walked. Henri spoke of the buildings they passed until they reached the seaside, at which point conversation turned back toward their voyage. The clouds were light and wispy, much weaker than Henri had expected. There was even a decent breeze pushing south-southwest.

The boat was moored among others of its kind. It was white with teal trim, and bore the name Edmond Dantés in silver letters. Renault, a young man employed by the dockmaster, stood beside the boat, hands folded behind his back as if standing at attention. Henri wondered if Sinclair had requested that.

"Bon jour, Monsieur Clairmont," Renault said, bowing almost horizontally.

Heather had only been on one ocean vessel before, and that had been to cross the English channel. The storm had made the trip far too rough to be weathered on the deck, and the only part of the trip that had stuck in her mind was a vague feeling of nausea and tedium. Today, the sun was high and brilliant and the sea was smooth, and the swaying of the boat was far more tolerable. It took her a few minutes to get used to it, but once she'd mastered holding onto the railing at all times and watching Henri instead of the floor, she felt much better.

He handled the boat quite well, she thought.

When it appeared that talking to him wouldn't be an interruption, she asked small questions about the operation of the boat, inquiring about each task as he did it. When it appeared he didn't mind her timid interrogation, she was heartened and tried another subject.

"When I was a boy, I wanted to be an explorer." He grinned and looked ten years younger. "I was devastated to learn there was no more sea to explore. That was why I enlisted, actually. I hoped to explore."

"Well," she said slowly, "they aren't badly off. They took out loans so I could go, and then I made the payments when I graduated. They ran a bed and breakfast in Newbury while I was growing up. It did well for a while, but business began to fall off when I was about ten." She looked past the horizon. "They hung on to it, though - I think they wanted to have something to take care of after I went away - but it's a lot of work for a couple of people to keep something like that going. They sold it about a year ago when they stopped breaking even." She grinned and shielded her eyes to look up at the sky. "Now they have a bunch of cats and a parakeet, and the parakeet has my room."

His tie and jacket had disappeared before her eyes had adjusted with to the outside ambience, but his collar was still buttoned all the way to his throat. His shoes were impeccably shined, his trousers and shirt wrinkle-free and perfectly arranged, and his hair neatly combed. No one should have been able to look at him once they'd stepped outside, and he was on a boat with a decent wind after exerting himself and there wasn't a detail out of place. If there were any mother's boys over twenty five, Henri was certainly one.