"It's all been handled," Armont was saying. Vance had finally decided to venture out of Bates’ office and see how things were going. The Bates Motel had taken some heavy gunfire around the entrance, but it was still usable, with the ARM team milling around and readying to depart. Down below, the sea had never looked bluer. "Nobody knows anything. Our favorite state of affairs."
Vance was still trying to take it all in. "How's Spiros doing?"
“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.