"They took him out on one of the Hueys," Armont said. "Hugo went, too."
"Are they going to be all right?"
"Hugo's okay. He even knocked back a couple of Guinnesses before he
left, saying they would help ease the stabbing pain. Can you believe?
As for Dimitri, the Deltas had a medic along, and he gave him a better
than fifty-fifty shot. Said nothing vital seemed beyond repair."
"Thank goodness for that at least."
"Poor guy, he felt personally responsible for the whole mess. I think
that was why he sort of lost his better judgment there for a second
when we rushed Command and got careless."
"It can happen," Vance said. Looking back, he decided he had lost sight
of better judgment several times over the past few hours.
The rest of the ARM team was checking out the gear and tying crates,
all the while working on their second case of beer. Departure was
imminent.
"Well," Vance added finally, "it was a nightmare, start to finish. What
more can you say."
"Well, not entirely," Armont observed, a hint of satisfaction creeping
into his voice. "Bates is going to let us use the Agusta to fly back to
Paris. And when we get there, one of the terrorists who got blown up is
going to suddenly reappear. Jean-Paul Moreau."
"Know him well," Vance said, remembering the beating and his sense of
hopelessness at the time. "Better not let me see the bastard. He might
not make it back to Paris in one piece."
"Well, Michael, that would be very ill-advised. He's worth a small
fortune. If the Greeks were to get hold of him, he could piss on the
court system here and keep it mucked up for years, so we're taking him
straight back to Paris." He paused to glance around. "Nichols is giving
us an Apache escort as far as international airspace will permit. But
you don't know anything about any of this. Keep your nose clean."
"Nichols?" The name didn't mean anything, but then his mind was still
mostly in neutral.
"Major General Eric Nichols. No reason you should know him. Runs the
Deltas. Good man, by the way. First rate. I've had my eye on him for a
number of years. Could be he'll end up being our first Yank. Well, our
second besides you."
"So this was really a recruiting drive." Vance laughed. Suddenly he was
feeling almost giddy again, this time from the release of all the
stress.
"You take them where you can get them." Armont nodded, then looked
around and whistled. "Okay, everybody, bring down the Agusta and start
loading the gear. We're gone." He turned back to Vance. "How about you?
Coming?"
"No," he said, almost not even catching the question. "Think maybe I'll
stick around. Make sure Bill is okay. You know, unfinished business."
"Right." Armont laughed. "I think I saw your 'unfinished business,'
Michael. Don't you think she might be a little young for you. You're
starting to get like me now, middle-aged."
"Well, working for ARM doesn't help, but then you do have a gift for
pointing out the obvious." The way he felt, starting over looked
tougher all the time.
"On the other hand, why not. As a romantic Frenchman, I can only wish
you _bonne chance_." He patted him on the back. "What more can I say."
"Thanks." Vance had to smile. Armont was gallant to the end, and a man
who prided himself on knowing what things mattered in life. "At my age,
you need all the luck you can get."
"_Merde_. In this life you make your own luck." With which
pronouncement he shook hands, then yelled for Hans to bring over the
list of gear for one last inventory.