“Ah yes, I should have recognized Mr. Eldridge. Your table is ready, please follow me.” Either because the Americans were wider than the headwaiter or maybe because he knew how to weave through the tables, Sam and Michael took a full twenty seconds to catch up. The maître d’ seemed impatient when they finally reached the table.
“I’ll fetch a waiter, gentlemen. Please relax and enjoy our hospitality.” He bowed and smiled, but his words sounded clipped and angry. Turning with a flourish, he snapped his fingers and left the table. There was a strong smell of curry in the air, which stung their eyes.
“Did you make the reservation? I’m starving and the longer we sit here, the worse my stomach rumbles. What are you hungry for, Sam?”
“No, I didn’t make any reservations, but maybe the hotel did when I called down. You’re right about the smell in here making me hungry, but there’s enough spice in the air that even plain macaroni would taste like curry, I bet.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed his watering eyes.
A waiter appeared beside their table carrying a tray with two glasses of water and menus tucked under one arm. His graying hair accented by the clean white shirt, black vest, and pants. He set a glass of water in front of each man.
“Welcome, my name is Andre,” he said, his voice powerful and even, at odds with his aged appearance. The tray disappeared from his hands, and he gave them a menu each. “Please take a moment to read our fine list of food. Is there anything I might bring you to drink?” There was no smile, and his words were a monotone.
“I’ll have a beer,” Sam said as he squinted at the menu and dabbed at the tears in his eyes.
“I’ll have a beer, too,” Michael added.
When Andre left to fetch the drinks, Sam dropped the menu.
“Can you understand any of these dishes? What the hell is couscous?”
Michael was forced to cover his mouth or spit the sip of water on Sam. Once he’d recovered, he laughed.
“It’s a lot like rice, but different. That’s all I know, so don’t ask me any more questions. I’m sure they’ve had people in here before asking for steaks or burgers, maybe Andre will be able to recommend something.” He shook his head while squinting at his own menu.
“Nice cold beer for gentlemen.” Andre set the sweating bottles on the table and then took two glasses off the tray. “Have you decided on the food?” The enthusiasm in his words had elevated slightly compared to a moment ago.
“I’d like a steak, but I don’t know what it’s called on the menu.” Sam appeared to be crying as the tears streamed down his cheeks.
Andre paid no attention to his predicament. “We say boeuf, and how would you like your meat cooked, sir?”
“Rare, but I don’t want any of whatever spice is floating around in this room.” He dabbed at his face.
“Very well, sir. And for you, sir?” There was a slight bow and no change of expression.
“I’d like to try some chicken. Can you recommend a dish?”
“If the kind sir will allow me to make the decision, I will bring you a very nice food which you will enjoy.” A tiny twitch at the corners of his mouth was the only indication that Andre smiled. He gathered the menus and left the table.
“Funny duck,” Sam bobbed his head toward the back of the room.
“He seems okay, but you’d think he could smile once in a while. Maybe they’re just that way with foreigners.” Michael glanced around the room.
There seemed to be only men in the restaurant, locals mostly. He guessed that from their clothes, wool coats, and pants. There was one other foreigner in the restaurant; a man seated at a corner table across from them dressed in a light-blue collared shirt open at the neck. His gray hair seemed to glow in the smoky yellow light of the restaurant. Metal-rimmed glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose gave him an air of being engrossed in the book before him. Some of the tables had emptied, and men were leaving in twos and threes.
Michael shrugged. He wasn’t here to make friends.
“Explain to me again how you figured out what time the computer will contact my phone?”
Sam dabbed at his eyes. “We left at five this morning, California time, which is two o’clock in the afternoon here. The trip took us about eleven hours. There’s a nine-hour difference between here and California, which means that seven at night there is four in the morning here, but I forgot the travel time. I screwed up earlier.”
“No problem as long as I get back to the room to receive the call.”
“Doesn’t the spice or smoke in the room bother your eyes?” Sam sounded as if he had a cold.
“No, not yet anyway, but why don’t you go outside for a minute. I’m sure they’ll take another five minutes or so to make our food.”
Sam didn’t hesitate and made his way toward the exit. The tall man by the door watched him leave. Andre instantly appeared beside the table.
“Is something wrong with your friend, sir?” Genuine concern etched his face. His hands clasped in front of his chest, then clenched and unclenched in distress.
“His eyes are bothering him. I don’t think he can take the smoke in the air.”
“Many apologies, sir. I will try to make more comfortable for you.” He disappeared again before Michael could say anything further. This time, he watched the waiter weave through the tables and speak to the maître d’. Hand gestures from both men and pointing in the direction of Michael’s table suggested they were discussing a way to add more ventilation. They could be trying to figure out how to get rid of them, too.
Sam came back to the table as Andre raced toward the kitchen area of the restaurant. There were only a few customers left in the room. The maître d’ was glaring at Michael. Sam sat across the table, and his red eyes were at least dry.
“Did the fresh air help?” He was starting to get a weird feeling about this place. A few patrons were moving toward the exit.
“Yeah, but it still stinks in here. What’s with the guy at the door? My French is a little rusty, but I caught a few words when I came in. He and the waiter were chatting about turning on the furnace or something. I couldn’t make out everything, but don’t they realize there’s enough heat in here already?”
Michael smiled, knowing they had been talking about the ventilation. As if on command, the rattle of fans overhead became loud enough to drown out the voices in the room. Smoke, thick and acrid, hanging near the ceiling began to move and swirl. Soon, the cloud became wispy and individual smokers could be picked out of the crowd as their cigarette smoke drifted upward.
“They were talking about turning on the ventilation, Sam. I told Andre that we’d appreciate if they could reduce the smoke. The locals don’t seem to mind, which is why the maître d’ and the rest of the patrons seem upset. Oh well, just another pair of rich Americans being pushy, but their system seems to work,” Michael nodded at the clearing air. “You should feel better now, and hopefully their food is good, too.”
Andre appeared juggling two enormous plates, one on each hand, as he weaved from the kitchen to their table. He set them down, produced a set of utensils for each man, and stepped back.
“How you say...dig in boys.” There was a genuine smile on his face.
The steak on Sam’s plate was still sizzling alongside a pile of couscous, peppers, and slices of what could have been fruit. Michael’s plate was heaped with rice, diced chicken chunks, and covered with a tomato sauce. The aroma was magnificent.
He stabbed his fork into the pile of rice, spearing a chunk of chicken drenched in the rich red sauce. Blowing gently to cool the food before biting, he noticed Andre still standing beside the table wringing his hands, a worried expression on his face.
Michael pushed the food into his mouth. Instantly, flavors of multiple spices leaped onto his taste buds. Sweet, sour, spicy, hot, and general deliciousness assaulted his palate. He’d never had anything so wonderful. A huge smile spread across his face as he looked up at Andre.
&n
bsp; “This is the best chicken I’ve ever had. Thank you for your choice and tell the chef he’s the best in the world.” The little man’s face beamed with pride and relief. Michael glanced over at the tall man by the door and saw a smile on his face.
“Yeah,” Sam tried to speak around a mouthful of steak. “This is the greatest steak I’ve ever had outside of Houston. Thanks, Andre, and my thanks to the chef, but when you get a chance, could you bring some more beer, please?”
They didn’t speak again until their plates were empty. Sam dropped his utensils on the plate and belched with satisfaction. Michael sipped the last of his beer while staring at the only other customer in the place.
“Why would you come to a foreign country and sit in a restaurant reading a book?” Michael asked without taking his eyes off the gray-haired man.
“The book I can understand, reading is fine, but if you’re going someplace like this, the average person would certainly take in the sights. He seems bored. I wonder how long he’s been here. Maybe he’s just not a good traveler.”
“I don’t know, he’s probably bored. I’m getting bored, too. Let’s get out of here and see what there is to see in the dark.” They dropped the equivalent of twenty American dollars on the table as a tip for Andre and Michael handed the maître d’ another forty for the food.
“No, Monsieur, this is too much.” A genuinely pained expression pulled on the thin man’s face.
“We appreciate the service and the great taste. Take out the cost of the food and the beer, and share the rest with the chef. Thank you, we really enjoyed ourselves.”
The night sky seemed close enough to touch, yet endless, as they stepped out of the warm restaurant onto the street. People of all shapes and sizes moved in a dance in both directions along the sidewalk, not unlike bees in a hive. Michael and Sam strode into the flow heading toward their hotel. Michael had trouble understanding how that many people could still be awake, never mind walking the streets.
The crowd thinned, allowing the two men to move along the walkway at their own pace. They strolled down the next street in the direction of the harbor; both men enjoyed watching boats on the water, although there wouldn’t be much to see at this time of night.
A major cross-street stopped their progress at the corner. They had to wait for a break in the traffic before they could dash safely across to enter the main wharf on the other side. Michael glanced at his watch.
“We’ve got about an hour before I have to be back in the room. Let’s see what’s down here and then head back. Or you can stay, and I’ll join you later.” He took a breath and gave voice to a question from the restaurant. “Where the hell are all these people coming from? Is there some kind of celebration going on we should know about?”
“Naw, I think it’s just too hot for them to sleep so they meander the streets, but I’ll check when we get back to the hotel. I can’t let you wander around alone. We can always come back later or check out the boats tomorrow,” he chuckled. The thought of sitting alone on the dock didn’t appeal to Michael either, but he didn’t say anything to Sam.
Wandering up the hill toward the hotel, both men were marveled at the culture around them. Michael admired the architecture. Every building was a different color—bright yellows, greens, reds, and blues thrown together in a mosaic of hues and tones.
“Did you notice anything strange in the restaurant?” Sam asked. Michael frowned.
“Yeah, but I just thought they were suspicious because we’re Americans. You know how pushy we can be in foreign countries. Nobody seemed to care about the other foreigner, but when we sat down the locals started to leave.”
“Maybe we should have been reading a book, but the locals leaving didn’t bother me. I remembered some of my high-school French. The maître d’ was telling Andre to deal with them and do as he was ordered.” Michael heard the anger in Sam’s voice.
“You’re making more of this than the situation deserves. I’d asked Andre to do something about the ventilation because of all smoke in the air. Right after that, the little man went running into the back, and the air conditioning or whatever started working. The man at the front was just telling Andre to deal with the problem.”
“It sounded more than–” His words were cut off by a man’s voice behind them.
“Gentlemen, might I have a word with you?”
Startled by the sound of English words coming from the dark, Michael turned to see who owned the voice. The man reading in the restaurant was standing there, along with a short, swarthy male companion.
“What can we do for you?” Sam asked with a hint of suspicion and anger in his voice.
“Sorry to disturb you, but my name is Richard Walker, and this is Inspector Habbib from the Monaco State police.” Richard had a haughty British accent to match his arrogant posture.
Michael glanced at Sam. The shocked expression seemed to match the way he felt.
“I’m not sure how we can help you, but we’re at your service.” Michael tried to appear calm, but being accosted by police in a foreign country can be upsetting.
“I work for British Intelligence; MI6 if you like. We have a few questions that we’d like to ask you. Please come with us, our car is just here at the end of the street.” He held one hand out gesturing for them to precede, the other firmly holding and guiding Michael forward.
“Is this going to take long? I must be back in our room in less than an hour for an important phone call.” Michael could feel panic rising in his stomach.
“Please be assured, gentlemen, we’ll make every effort to keep this interview as brief as possible.” Walker’s voice was smooth and even. Habbib ran ahead to open the rear door of a marked police vehicle.
Sam, Michael, and Walker squeezed into the back seat, Habbib jumped into the front passenger side, and the driver sped forward. Michael imagined, from his crushed position in the middle of the two men, that the driver was using three hands: one for the horn, one to steer, and one on the gear lever. People on the streets dove out of the way of the fast-moving police vehicle. The car swerved and jerked around corners at speeds which threatened to cause a rollover.
The rough trip lasted five minutes according to Michael’s watch but seemed more like an hour. He glanced at the front of the car after stepping out of the back seat, searching for blood or other signs of impact. The hood and fenders were pristine.
Habbib led them into a Gothic-style building and up a short flight of stairs. A cavernous room ahead was filled with desks and people in uniforms, some sitting, and some moving around. Lights with bustling fans hung from high ceilings. A counter blocked access to the room. Michael guessed this was the duty room. An area for the regular officers to do their paperwork, but there seemed to be a lot of action for this time of night. To the left and right stretched long hallways with doors along both sides. The detective turned right and stopped at an open doorway in the middle of the hall. He raised his arm to indicate the men should enter.
“May I get you gentlemen anything...a glass of water?” Habbib asked from the doorway when the other three were seated. All declined, and he took a chair at the left end of the table. Walker sat opposite him while Sam and Michael were on the long sides to his left and right respectively. The walls and floor were bare concrete.
“So what is this all about?” Michael demanded. “We didn’t do anything wrong, did we?”
“On the contrary, Mr. Eldridge.” Walker smiled for the first time. “This is about your work for NASA. There seems to be a group of…” his voice trailed off, and he sat back in the chair to consider what he would say next, his hands fidgeting with a pen. “There seems to be a group of criminals, shall we say, interested in your latest program for the Mars probe.” His smile seemed fake to Michael, maybe because of the sternness in his eyes.
“My program? But that couldn’t possibly do them any good, unless...” He looked across the table at Sam. Both men instantly knew what the other was thinking.
�
��Unless what, Mr. Eldridge?” Habbib wanted to know, his thick accent made the words hard to understand clearly.
Michael hesitated. I’m obligated to respect the secrecy of my agreement with NASA. I don’t know if I should tell them about the work I’m doing on the side. They’ll think I’m crazy at the very least. If I tell them and they believe me, what then? He took a deep breath while staring at Sam, hoping the man would understand and agree with whatever he said next.
“I won’t bore you with the details, but essentially, the program I designed for NASA allows the probe to communicate with Earth on an instantaneous basis. A radio signal from Mars takes up to twenty minutes to reach us. They didn’t want to risk any problems because of that delay, so I created a program which effectively bends time.” He stared hard at Walker, waiting for a reaction. None came, so he demanded, “Now, Mr. Walker, tell me exactly what this has to do with the British government.”
Walker smiled again, dropped the pen, and clasped his hands on the table. “I’m here on behalf of Her Majesty and the United States government. There are no American agents in this part of the world, so I was dispatched to help you. I saw you earlier in the restaurant. Some of the men in there at the time were…are Soviet agents. That’s all I knew then; my orders were to keep you safe. Inspector Habbib is a detective, but he’s also a member of the Royal Secret Service here.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “This program of yours can warp time. Does that mean you could also travel through time?” A gleam in his eyes suggested he knew more than he was willing to acknowledge.
That conclusion is too much of a leap for anyone to make without some sort of physics background. If he’s for real, then my own government is leaking secrets, or the British government is jumping to correct conclusions. Either way, how am I supposed to trust anyone now? I’m going to play dumb and see where this goes.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure somebody could try. There are just too many variables involved in time travel to make the effort worthwhile, Mr. Walker. Even criminals would understand the effects of altering time in the past on the people in the present, wouldn’t they?” Michael could understand the lure of a criminal wanting a way to rob in the past and escape to the future. He’d never considered any uses for the program beyond his own.
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