Page 18 of Double Shot
“How about we pick up my rental car, and we carry on this conversation on the road?” I said. Everyone agreed. It didn’t take long before we were packed into a Mercedes AMG sedan and blowing down the French A9 toward Nimes. We would cut over to the A7, then southeast to Aix-en-Provence, where we were staying. The rural estate of Mont Saint Chauvignon was not far from there. It was all very pastoral and beautiful.
“I should tell you that your gun guy here works for Escadrille,” Grant said. “If you show up, he’ll either try to nerf you, or will totally alert the baddies you’re here.”
“So, no guns?” Sadie asked.
“I got a guy,” he said. “Plus he owes me.”
“Is he local?” I asked. Grant leaned forward and threw a new address into the sat nav that took us to Marseille, in what looked to be an ethnic enclave.
“Is that close enough?”
* * *
After half an hourof strolling through the open-air market of Noallies, we found the place Grant was taking us. I was hesitant since we had to walk almost a mile from where the car was left parked because the streets were narrow and heavily congested with pedestrians. In some places, the vendors and bistros spilled out of their confines and people were being seated in the street. There was even a number of men with food carts set up in the middle of the road. It was nothing like Indigo City, or New York, or even Paris. The people here were not the typical Frenchmen I had expected.
Africa was close and I could see the faces of people who were black, but not in the way that I knew them. Grant told us in passing that Marseille was the tolerant and immigrant friendly port of France, and that these were the people of the Maghreb, North Africa. I felt decidedly out of my comfort zone – the scent of spices was strong, I barely understood what was being said around me, and it was all very strange.
Roan wouldn’t like it here. I was starting to get a vibe from the place that reminded me of Kandahar, orMazar-i-Sherif, the babble of voices, how close everyone got to each other. It keenly reminded me of how much space Americans enjoy, and how distant our normal culture was. Sadie seemed to be a rock in the surf, the wave of noise and smells rolling over her, and she carried on a constant conversation with Grant.
“I’ve been here a dozen times, Barcelona, Ibiza, a bunch of other places,” he said as he directed us to an outdoor café that had exploded from its original boundaries and filled the front section of what had been handicapped parking. There were no cars, so no one cared. We seated ourselves. Grant ordered something for us, speaking in a clipped version of whatever French-tinged language they were speaking.
I don’t think I could have felt any more like an awkward tourist even if I was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, camera around my neck, and a fanny pack.
The food was strange, but the waiter was surprisingly nice, especially after it seemed, he recognized Grant. We had some sort of weird hot-spiced tea beverage, and similar vaguely familiar food. There was flatbread, hummus, and the familiar taste of cumin in the spice mix, and some heat.
“Who are you, man?” I asked as we waited for our contact. “And why are we here, specifically?”
“My day job is deejaying. DJ Raditz, I thought that was kinda obvs,” he said. “And we’re here because this is where we’re going to meet my guy who has the stuff we need.”
“In a street café, in the street,” I said.
“Relax, just a little,” Sadie said, putting a hand on my arm. “You’re really putting off a tense vibe.”
“Dude, I’m a deejay. I travel all over the East coast of the US, and lots of southern Europe. I do music festivals, play dubstep and EDM I generate on my computers, and they pay me lots of money to do it. In my spare time, I play video games and do computer shit. My guy’s brother, that’s our waiter. He’s gone to tell him we’re here. I think he’s a cook here.”
“Your guy is a cook.”
“During the day, he likes to cook, and the shit is good. You should give it a chance,” Grant said.
“Oh my God, this is fucking delicious,” Sadie said, tearing into what looked like a ball of bread that was stuffed with heavily spiced meat and sauce. “I think Roan would like this.”
“Maybe,” I relented. I deliberately checked my body language, relaxing my shoulders and letting my hands go loose. I was on edge and didn’t like it.
“There you go, my dude,” Grant said. We ate, me sparingly, and Sadie sampled almost anything she could get her hands on. The waiter noticed her enthusiasm and how quickly the American woman had embraced their food culture, and brought her all sorts of small bites from the kitchen. Then the cook, a thick-armed, barrel-chested man, came out. He was carrying a platter of what looked like sliced bread. He placed the tray in the middle of the table. He shook Grant’s hand, his left hand placed against his own chest. Grant mirrored the greeting, matching his left hand against his chest.
“Kyle, this is Adnan, head chef here, and he formerly worked in the imports and acquisition business.” He turned and spoke in what I finally realized was Arabic, and introduced both of us to the man. He seemed the most pleased to meet Sadie and expressed a great deal of enthusiasm for meeting the lovely American woman who had been so excited to try his food. It was a mess to follow because Adnan didn’t speak English or French, so Grant was running translation between us. It seemed that the delay was because he wanted to share his favorite dessert with Sadie – some cookie thing that looked like bread and was spiced with anise, oranges, and honey. She tasted it and urged me to try some. I did, and I liked it.
He was less impressed with me, and apparently there was something of a trust issue to be worked out. He had fought before. He had the cautious and wary eyes of a man who had seen combat, and then the café made sense. He fought, he smuggled weapons, and then he turned enough profit to go legit and get out of the business.
“Yeah, I told him that you were ex-military, and were freelance,” Grant said. “He wants to know where you served and what branch.”
“Why does that matter?” I asked.
“Because if he doesn’t like your answer, we leave,” he said.
“Honestly, mostly Afghanistan. Some Iraq, that’s it. And army.” Grant shared this with Adnan in Arabic.
“He asks, no Air Force, no North Africa? No Saudi Arabia?” I looked at the man and shook my head no.
