He handed him his business card. A small clear data card that Taylor had no doubt contained more information than he ever cared to investigate.
"If you want to see change, want to see some return to normality, contact me. I believe we have a lot in common."
The man turned and left, leaving Taylor with a hundred and one questions. It was a good strategy because it had worked. He wasn't at all sure what part Armand had to play in it all, but he knew it would not be the last he would see of him.
Chapter 5
"And breaking news, a battle has broken out in the conference hall at the Parc des Princes stadium in Paris, the location at which Gladiatorial games took place last week. There are mixed reports that alien sympathisers were involved in what could be a terrorist act, while others say alien Mechs were in a clash that left a number of dead and wounded. More to follow."
That was what Taylor had to wake to after an afternoon kip in his suite. The comms unit on the wall was flashing and had been for several minutes, but Jafar had made no attempt to answer it. Finally, Taylor got to his feet and accepted the call, finding General White's secretary at the other end.
"Please hold for the General," she stated.
He appeared a split second later and had obviously been waiting impatiently for a response.
"What the hell is going on there, Mitch?"
"Weaver went off the rails. Released one of Demiran's Destroyers... or whatever they're called in the press conference. It went crazy. Killed him, and did its best to kill me. Got a few civilians and cops on the way."
"Christ," he said, dipping his head into his hands.
"This was supposed to be a PR stunt, and it's a fucking disaster."
He went silent as his mind mulled over the situation and tried to find some answers.
"You sure that's the way it happened? There's talk of terrorism. It'd be a lot easier to explain than our man going psychotic and getting civilians killed."
"That's how it happened, Sir."
"And you, how did you survive?"
"Barely."
"This could put us in a world of hurt. We're gonna have to shift emphasis over to Weaver. He caused this shit, so he can take the blame for it, not like the stupid idiot is around to clean up the mess. Distance yourself from this, Colonel. There's trouble coming with this POW situation. At least we have comparatively few over here."
"So that's it? Dig our heads in the sand. Pretend none of this happened and ignore it all, Sir?"
"Bet your ass that's what you're gonna do. You’re gonna stay there a few days until this situation calms down and then quietly slip out of there. Come back home, have that leave you deserve, and move on."
Sounds like a plan, he thought.
“We’re gonna chalk this one up to a failed concept and get past it. Less we hear about it now, the better. Report to me when you get Stateside.”
The transmission cut off, and Taylor could not help but feel he’d been ripped off. He’d risked his life and put everything he had into Weaver’s concept, and he’d not got as much as a compliment on his work or a thanks for his efforts.
“Nice to know my life can be gambled on a clever idea, isn’t it?” he asked Jafar.
The alien grunted and seemed to be indifferent.
“Yeah, that’s right. You like fighting, and death means nothing to you. Great.”
There was no response.
“Is there no way to get a rise out of you? Nothing I can do that will ever piss you off enough to get angry?”
“Why would you?”
“Curiosity, maybe.”
The sarcasm was lost on him, and the room was left in silence.
“This is a fucking disaster, all that work and effort, and for what? We’re stuck over here having risked our lives for nothing. Bring back the wars, I say. I’ll take them any day over this misery.”
He knew Jafar would agree, anyway. He always agreed fighting was favourable over all else.
“I’ve had enough of this. There’s not even a thing to drink in here. Let’s find a bar.”
“And the General’s orders?”
“The last orders I got from the General almost got us killed. He’s cutting all ties with this. As long as we get back home in the next few weeks, he’ll be happy. All the years we fought over this country, and yet it seems we don’t have a friend left in it.”
Taylor stripped off his armour and was glad to be free of it. His BDUs still displayed the dried blood around the collar from his fight before, but he didn’t care anymore. They strode out of the suite to find no one before their door. Not a guard to protect them, nor keep them in place.
“From celebrity to forgotten in five minutes. Can’t say I’m complaining,” he stated.
Ten minutes later they were walking into a nearby bar, in what felt like a repeat of the events that had led to the brawl and subsequent night in police cells so recently. Exactly as before, many of the patrons turned to stare at them, Jafar in particular. Taylor sighed at how boring this scenario was becoming.
“Yes, he is an alien. I am Colonel Mitch Taylor and this is Jafar, one of my most loyal colleagues. If you have a problem with any of this, then make it known now! Otherwise, should you say nothing and then cowardly make an attempt against…”
He drew his pistol and held it up for all to see.
“I’ll shoot the first bastard who lays a hand on either one of us and not hesitate to shoot a few more. We did not fight over this country to put up with any bullshit. Now, can we sit down and enjoy a few beers?”
“Of course, Monsieur Taylor!” yelled the man behind the bar.
“Makes a change,” he muttered to Jafar.
Grunts of approval echoed around the room, and several beckoned for them to come forward. It was the warmest welcome Taylor had ever gotten when Jafar was by his side.
“It’s an honour to have you here, my friend,” said the barman, “and this friend of yours we hear so much about. I don’t know why you fight for us, but I thank you.”
He passed two beers over the counter and didn’t ask for any payment. Taylor was speechless.
“My brother said he met you once during the war. You would not remember him, but he certainly remembers you.”
“Where did he serve?”
“All over, a trainee doctor he was then, volunteered as a field medic.”
“And now?”
“Army doctor, he made it a career!”
Taylor had been waiting to hear the bad news that he had been killed in the fighting there, as so many stories he heard around the World. He was already starting to like the place.
“Paris is a lot easier to like when you aren’t having to fight over it,” he replied.
The Frenchman nodded in agreement. In the background a TV projection was running, and a nearby patron called over in French. He was obviously asking for the volume to be raised. Taylor looked and saw he was once again on air.
It was his speech from the conference hall moments before the battle with the Destroyer. The bar fell quiet as they watched it, realising it was the man sitting before them. Taylor’s name had become widely known worldwide, but few would recognise his face.
The video came to an end with the screams in the room, and the signal cutting off and returning back to the news anchor speaking in French, of which Taylor understood nothing.
“What are they saying?” Taylor asked.
The barman looked uncomfortable, continued watching, and tried to translate as it went on.
“They are saying you are creating…divides, amongst different groups. Some are calling you a hero and humanitarian, and others, a coward and alien sympathiser…”