CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Bad Guys Multiply, But One Might Turn...
...and with that essay on Deep Flanking open, he got nowhere in a big hurry.
A man entered the pub, looked around, and spotted Ambros. The fellow tipped his cap—a baseball cap with some amorphous left-ish symbolism where a team logo might ordinarily be—and nodded knowingly at Ambros.
Ambros’ hackles rose immediately, and his instincts started yelling at him: ‘Cop! Cop!’
The man nodded at him again. He groaned internally: ‘Another interruption...? Well, I am in a public place.’
He reminded himself that he’d got a lot done already, in the times between interactions: ‘New Pismo says...twenty pages, approximately 8000 words. Really? Excellent!’
He looked away, but kept the man in sight peripherally. He could see the man buying a pair of whiskies, and beginning to weave among the tables in his direction. He looked over his shoulder, confirming that his bug-out route remained clear.
He heard the sound of two shot glasses hitting the table; he looked back and found the man standing in front of him, left hand on the back of the facing chair. Ambros sent a mental command to his laptop: ‘Record this encounter’. It beeped quietly, acknowledging the command.
“Ambros Rothakis? Hector Miller,” the fellow said, holding out his hand: “Friends call me ‘Heck’.”
“Mr Miller,” said Ambros, pointedly, shaking the proffered hand.
“May I sit down? I bought you a Jameson’s...” Miller pushed the shot across the table towards Ambros.
Ambros shrugged: “I’ll accept that. Sit down. Do you have some business with me?” He did not touch the glass.
“I thought you might be interested in a project I’m developing...”