“Some of the counterfeit coins. A souvenir of your time here.” She placed the pouch in his hand, then pulled him into a hug. When she stepped back, her eyes were glistening. “Thank you. For everything.”
* * *
—
His arrival back in the States was the exact opposite of his departure from Greece. No one was waiting for him when he walked out of the airport, or when he finally walked into his apartment. There were, however, over a dozen messages on his answering machine. Two from his old supervisor at DARPA, and the rest from his boss at the supermarket, wanting to know when he was coming back. It was the final message, only yesterday, that got to him. Someone from the supermarket chain’s human resources department saying that, since they hadn’t heard back, they were terminating his employment.
He erased them all, took a long, hot shower, then went to bed.
All the while, trying not to think about Remi.
No way was that going to happen. It was as if the stars had lined up, putting them both in the right place at the right time at the Lighthouse Cafe. And then those same stars seemed to conspire against them. If she hadn’t taken her ill-fated trip to Greece, would things have turned out different for them? They would never know.
As much as he wished otherwise, he wasn’t fine with the way things had turned out, Remi going her way, him going his. He kept trying to convince himself otherwise as he finally drifted off to sleep.
Sam was jarred awake to the sound of his cell phone buzzing on his nightstand. He picked it up, saw the R through sleep-hazed eyes, then quickly answered. “Good morning.”
“You have no idea what time it is, do you?”
“Rube . . . ?”
“Who were you expecting?”
He glanced over, saw the late-afternoon sun angling into his bedroom window. “Sorry. Jet-lagged. What’s up?”
“Apparently, you’ve impressed a lot of bigwigs over at Interpol.”
“Trust me. That was the last thing on my mind.”
“Regardless, word gets around. They want you back at DARPA.”
“I know. They left a couple of messages on my machine.” A truck rumbled past on the busy street outside, shaking the windows of his apartment. Back less than a day, and he already missed the peace and quiet of Fourni. “So, why are you calling? Is DARPA that desperate they’re paying you to recruit for them?”
“After all the news came in from Interpol, one of my bosses thinks you should come work for us.”
“The CIA?” Sam laughed. “I may be unemployed, but I’m not desperate.”
“I told him you’d say something like that. He asked me to call anyway.”
“Pass on my thanks. But I’m declining all job offers at the moment.”
“Don’t be so quick to discount the offer from DARPA. You never know. Maybe you can negotiate your own lab time.”
“There’s a thought.” Sam felt a slight vibration in his phone from an incoming text. He pulled it away from his ear, seeing Blake’s message on the screen. “I’ll get back to you. Blake’s texting that I need to call, A-SAP.” The moment Rube disconnected, Sam returned Blake’s call.
“What’re the chances you can get to my club, say, in the next two hours or so?”
“Why?”
“I just got done playing nine holes with three of the guys I was hoping might want to invest in your laser thing. If you can make it here by the time we finish the next nine, I think they’d be willing to listen to your pitch.”
“I’d have to go by your office and pick up the portfolios first.”
“Whatever it takes. Just do it fast. This may be your last chance.”
Sam flung the covers aside as he got out of bed. “I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE