FIC: Evening (1/7 | The 13th Warrior AU)

[mlyn.livejournal.com]

After more than six months and 37,500 words, here is the new Herger/Ahmed slash fic I've been working on. I'll be posting 4k-7k-word chunks about every three days until I'm done. \0/

Evening
Chapter 1/7
Chapter rated PG-13—R (language and themes)
Notes: In late March 2008, I was telling a fellow fan that it might be fun to write cliché-fic for The 13th Warrior fandom. I decided it would have to be a present-day AU, and work off the ancient romance-novel trope of a marriage of convenience, and worked up a sketchy idea for a ridiculous plot. Then, while I was traveling in Norway in June 2008, I started writing it. The result is far less silly than I originally envisioned, but still a present-day AU with a romance novel plot device. I’m not going to apologize. *G*

Endless love for nos4a2no9, whose stellar beta work and die-hard cheerleading made this fic much more than it had been by my hand alone.

*****

Herger Torgudson finished his mini bottle of wine and reclined his seat. This was the only way to travel—less than ninety minutes from Copenhagen to Oslo, but they still served free booze. It was mediocre wine, but at least it was alcoholic.

He glanced across the aisle at the stranger. Most people on planes were strangers, but this was a notable case: a handsome Arab wearing a badly rumpled cheap suit and carrying one overstuffed shoulder bag. He was styled as a Westerner, with close-cropped curly hair and no beard. He was staring at one of the drop-down video screens, not having anything else to distract him. Herger could see that his eyes were large, and deep brown. The late afternoon sun glinted in them.

The Arab looked over at him then, catching Herger watching. His face was serious, with deep lines around his mouth and between his brows. Herger tried to smile to break the tension, but the Arab did not return the expression. He looked down and rubbed a hand over his legs, evidently self-conscious about his appearance. Herger was well practiced in reading body language.

"Snakker du Norsk?" Herger asked.

The Arab's eyes widened as if startled, and he opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Not Norsk. "Do you speak English?" Herger asked.

The look of shock disappeared, and was replaced by cautiousness. The Arab answered, "Yes." That was all.

"You look like you've been on a long journey."

The Arab rubbed his leg again. Definitely self-conscious. "Yes," he repeated.

"I've just come from Munich. Business trip," Herger offered.

The Arab nodded absently, not much interested. Herger switched tactics. He wasn't trying to be a pest, just friendly. The guy looked like he could use someone to take his mind off his situation, at least for as long as the flight lasted.

"What about you? Business or pleasure?"

"Neither."

Finally—a different word from the vocabulary.

"My name's Herger." He didn't offer a hand; that wasn't airplane etiquette. Keep it brief and polite.

"Ahmed," the Arab said after a pause.

Herger nodded once, and he lifted a hand and scratched his beard, trying to look casual. A softness had come into the Arab's face when they'd exchanged names, and the seriousness had turned briefly into beauty. Not just beauty—sex appeal. The guy had the potential for being gorgeous.

Herger thought about what Ahmed saw when looking at him. He'd see a man in his early forties, dressed in a business suit, tie a little loosened, with rumpled blond hair and a close-trimmed blond beard. Blue eyes and a friendly smile. But did he see anything else?

"Is this your first trip to Oslo?"

"No," Ahmed answered. The answer surprised Herger. "I was here for a Nobel Peace Price ceremony, thirteen years ago."

More surprises. "Was it for you?" Herger asked with a grin. Ahmed shook his head, and Herger thought he almost got a smile. His lips were full and curvy.

"You live in Oslo?" Ahmed asked. He said the name of the city the way English-speakers did, but Herger didn't correct him. Ahmed's voice was wonderful, deep and flowing smoothly in that one sentence. The sounds were like a low-flowing river, rhythmic and easy. It was a nice contrast to Norsk, with all its variations in pitch and sounds, like birds twittering. Herger wanted to hear more, but Ahmed had asked a question.

"Ja, yes. But I was born in the countryside, near Oppdal." He wanted to go on and asked about Ahmed's birthplace, but just then the pilot came on the PA to announce their destination. Ahmed straightened in his seat as if being called into court.

Sensing defeat, Herger raised his seat back and buckled in for landing.



They said nothing to each other as they shuffled off the plane. Ahmed disappeared while Herger chatted with a business contact he encountered just outside the gate. By the time the conversation had ended and his friend had gone on to catch his own flight, the entire plane had emptied.

Herger picked up his briefcase and strolled toward the exit. He was contemplating a glass of much better wine at home when a familiar accent broke his concentration.

"No, writer! Writer!" Ahmed's voice was shifting from frustration to anger. Herger paused, then changed direction and walked quickly over to the customs desk, where Ahmed and an agent were facing off.

"Unnskyld," Herger said to the agent, who looked like she had her finger on the button for security. "I know this man. Can I help?"

"How do you know him?" asked the customs agent in Norsk.

"He was my guide when I traveled in Iraq, in 2000. Ahmed. He's a writer, as he said." Herger put his hands in his trouser pockets and assumed an easy slouch, waiting.

"And who are you?" the agent asked him, only slightly less suspicious.

"Herger Torgudson, Bryggedrift AS. I'm Deputy Director of the organization that operates Aker Brygge."

The custom agent blinked once, and that was the only hint of her surprise. Good poker face, Herger thought.

"He must put your information on the visa form if you vouch for him. Then you sign."

"Ja." Herger looked at Ahmed, who was not able to hide his surprise at what was going on. "She says if I am to vouch for you, I must help fill out your visa form. May I?" In smooth movements he simultaneously pulled a pen from his breast pocket and slid the form over. He quickly filled out the pertinent information.

Ahmed murmured, "That is a Mont Blanc."

"Ja," Herger said back as he signed in a flourish. "Okay?" he asked the agent, sliding the form under the window.

The agent looked it over, taking her time. Herger worked to not show his impatience. He slowly twisted his pen closed and slipped it back into his jacket pocket, then put his hands back in his trouser pockets.

"This will suffice," the agent said finally, slipping into flawless English with a faint British accent.

"Ha er god dag," Herger said with a smile. He and Ahmed collected their documents, and then Herger cupped Ahmed's elbow and steered him toward the exit.

In the main terminal, Ahmed pulled his arm away and turned to Herger. "Thank you for your help. Now—"

"Oh no," Herger interrupted. "I put my name on that form. You owe me a story," he reminded Ahmed, and then, before he second-guessed himself, added, "How about dinner at my apartment?"

He nervously tightened his grip on his briefcase. Ahmed was staring at him with a gaze that missed nothing and transmitted a great deal of confusion. And it had been a long time since Herger had asked anyone out. For that matter, it had been a while since he'd eaten dinner with someone who wasn't a client, employee, or in his small circle of friends. He'd forgotten how nerve-wracking it was to ask to share time with a stranger, knowing nearly nothing about them, other than that you liked how they looked.

Ahmed didn't look any less confused. "Who are you?" he said finally.

Herger picked back up the casual façade he'd been showing. "Let's say that my card gets me a lot of places. I'll explain in the car. Do we have a deal?"

Ahmed looked around the terminal, and back towards the customs desk. Then he looked at Herger.

"Okay."



Herger led the way to a black Mercedes waiting among taxis at the curb. Ahmed's eyes bugged further but Herger refrained from comment, and breezily greeted his driver Harild. Without needing any instruction, Harild directed them toward home.

By the time they reached downtown Oslo from Gardermoen Lufthavn, they'd each had enough time to finish a bottle of chilled mineral water and for Herger to answer some new emails on his Blackberry. Harild directed the car through throngs of commuters, shoppers, and young mothers pushing prams, and Herger put his phone away.

"As for who I am," he said to Ahmed, as if they had just been having this conversation moments before, "I am director of an organization that operates the companies that make up Aker Brygge, the pier that is now a shopping district."

"I remember it," Ahmed said. Herger had not told him this for effect, but nevertheless Ahmed sat in the corner of the car, hands clasped tightly between his knees, back stiff. He knew without needing to be told that Herger handled millions of kroner, and the presence of wealth clearly intimidated him. "You own it?"

"No, the company is a conglomerate of owners. We are basically a board of directors. I, and my boss, manage the board so that everything on the property works smoothly, and we are paid by the dues of the members. We don't hold power over the individuals, though."

Sometimes he wished he did. He could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket, likely an email from the manager of the Peppe's Pizza in one of the ground-level food courts. The man did not understand a chain of management. If Herger could have his way, Peppe's Pizza would be eliminated from Oslo entirely.

He directed his thoughts away from work by a concentrated effort. Ahmed had gone back to looking out the window.

Now they were through downtown and past the twin brick towers of Oslo City Hall. They started down the pier, tires rumbling on the cobblestones.

Harild took them to the entrance of one of several tall buildings in the district. The first three levels were dedicated to shopping, another two dozen to offices, and the last few were for apartments. Herger led Ahmed through a quiet side entrance and pushed the elevator button for a floor that just said "PH."

Once there, Herger led them to the end of the foyer and tapped a code into a keypad to unlock his door. As they stepped into the apartment, the setting sun shone through the windows and bathed the room with warm light. The effect was dazzling, because there were also reflections of the sunlight off the Oslofjord, and the view had become a giant mirror. Herger hit a switch on the wall and screens descended, cutting the glare.

"Nice trick," Ahmed said. Herger chuckled.

"I'm going to open a bottle of wine. Will you drink with me?" Herger set down his briefcase and went into the kitchen, shedding his jacket and slinging it over a barstool positioned at the counter.

Ahmed followed slowly, and Herger watched the other man for a moment as he examined the kitchen. The white leather barstools and red-and-orange area rugs had been carefully chosen by his interior decorator to match the sleek cabinetry and slate tile floors, and Herger suspected that the design scheme, chosen to reflect the best in modern interior décor, served only to further intimidate Ahmed. Herger suddenly wished that his apartment was a little less meticulously arranged.

There was no response from Ahmed.

"Perhaps a shower first," Herger suggested gently. "I can lend you some things and send those out to be cleaned. You're a 30 waist, yes?"

"Yes," Ahmed said quietly. Now he was staring back at the windows, and the seating area between them. "Yes to all of it."

"Come with me."



Herger wasn't sure why he took Ahmed into the master bedroom and not the guest suite, except that maybe by showing Ahmed the private area where he slept, he would seem more approachable; safe.

But Ahmed's eyes were glazing over. It wasn't as safe as Herger had thought: the master bedroom wrapped around one edge of the building, so there were more expansive views of the Oslofjord. Ahmed even paused and watched a sail boat pull up to its slip.

Herger quickly led him into the bathroom and put a fluffy towel in his arms, told him that he would leave him some clothes, and left him alone. Herger didn't see him again for another hour.

Finally Ahmed reentered the kitchen wearing the slacks and short-sleeved shirt Herger had left out. Herger wondered if he was also wearing the boxers. He smiled and said, "You can keep those trousers. I don't like brown, but you look good in them."

Ahmed looked good in all of it. His skin was an even, rich color, like polished wood, and the white shirt practically shone in contrast. The slightly snug sleeves showed off his arms, and Ahmed had tucked in the shirt, showing off a surprisingly curvy ass. He still wore his own sandals, but they looked as though they'd had the dust knocked off of them. Even his face looked younger with the benefit of a shave. But the clothes and clean face also showed how thin he was; not starving, but wanting for a good meal or twelve.

"Thank you," Ahmed said, managing a strained smile. "I had no idea how much I needed that."

"I could tell." Herger turned off the heat on the stove and gestured with a spatula to a glass of white wine on the bar. "That's for you, and cod with asparagus and potatoes, as soon as I get plates." He was curious to see if Ahmed would pick up the wine. He did.

They took their dinner out on the balcony. The wind had picked up some, but the low summer sun and remaining warmth of the day made it comfortable enough to eat out-of-doors.

Herger had expected Ahmed to be silent throughout the meal, but the food and shower seemed to have revived him. They had only just sat down when he asked Herger, "Who is in the photo with you, the one beside the bed?"

Herger chuckled, surprised and a little embarrassed. He had entirely forgotten about the photo. "He is my ex-boyfriend."

A silence followed, while Ahmed swallowed a mouthful of food and looked down at his plate.

Herger swirled his wine, hoping he appeared untroubled. "I guess I should put the photo away before anybody gets the wrong idea, eh?"

Ahmed looked up. "There is nothing wrong with being homosexual," he said sternly.

Herger felt a thrill. Clearly Ahmed was not ambivalent on the topic. "I meant that someone might think I am not single," he said lightly, checking a smile.

"You are." It was a question, but Ahmed seemed too unsure of himself to say it that way. Herger nodded, searching Ahmed's face for a hint of reaction. Sure enough, Ahmed's shoulders relaxed a fraction. It filled Herger's chest with a warm glow, pleasure mixed with anticipation.

"We've been broken up for…" He paused to count. "Eighteen months. I had forgotten about that photo."

They talked about trivial things for the rest of the meal: the quality of the weather, the freshness of asparagus. Herger was not a great cook but generally made edible meals. Ahmed cleaned his plate.

Finally they took their dishes back inside, and Herger made coffee and served strawberry cake, explaining how the long, cool Norwegian growing season produced the best strawberries in the world. He watched with satisfaction as Ahmed savored every bite, letting it rest in his mouth before swallowing, slowly cutting with the side of his fork.

Herger imagined Ahmed's tongue, pressing the fruit against his teeth, crushing the flesh and releasing its flavors. His own mouth watered.

Ahmed put his fork down on his empty plate. "You want to know my story?"

"Yes." Herger poured fresh coffee for them both, trying to think of a way to broach the topic he most wanted to discuss. "I would like to be certain that it does not offend you to be staying in the house of a homosexual. I am not certain about the laws in Iraq—"

Ahmed nodded and Herger stopped, not knowing what he was going to say, anyway.

"Under Saddam Hussein, homosexuality was not outright illegal, but a man could be arrested on a variety of related charges, usually related to indecency." Ahmed shifted on his chair. "Until 2001. Then a law was enacted making sodomy punishable by imprisonment, and further convictions punishable by death."

Herger caught his breath. He wanted to ask, but he wasn't sure what to say. He was afraid of being rude, or offending Ahmed.

"I had excelled in writing in school, and when I graduated, began working for a regional newspaper outside Baghdad. In my spare time I worked on other material, short fiction to sell, and essays, which I would sell when I had a name for myself." Ahmed paused and eyed Herger critically. "Essays about being homosexual in a Muslim country."

Herger nodded, his heart rate quickening as he breathed more easily.

"I worked like this for a few years, until recently. I sold some novels and was in negotiations for one to be introduced to the American markets. And then someone found out about my essays. I received threatening letters, and my colleagues avoided me. Finally my editor told me that either I would leave, or he would begin contacting authorities."

Herger hissed and murmured, "Oye, oye oye." Ahmed nodded.

"I left behind my younger sister and mother. I've been to England and the Netherlands, but it is still not safe. Finally I used the last of my savings and took the next flight to somewhere that would not turn me away."

"For being gay?" Herger said in surprise.

Ahmed nodded again. "In England, they tried to send a gay boy back to Afghanistan for not having papers. He had to fight with the courts, because he knew he would be killed in his home country. I did not want the same trouble."

"I cannot say it will be any better here. Immigration is a controversial topic in Norway." Herger pushed aside his untouched coffee and leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

"I have to try to stay. I have no more money. I will work if I can. I'm thirty-five; I have plenty of experience for a journalist." Ahmed met his gaze. He did not look desperate or pathetic; he looked resolute, which Herger admired. Herger nodded.

"I don't have work for a writer now—"

"Oh no, I am not begging—"

"Please." Herger put a hand out on the table. "I want to help. Otherwise I would not have vouched for your visa, you see?"

"Yes, but—"

"I will put out inquiries with some people I know. Very casual, just to see what's out there. In the interim, you may stay here as my guest." Herger got up and collected their dessert dishes.

Ahmed sighed and nodded. In the waning evening light, shadows had formed under his eyes. He looked so drained, Herger wondered if he'd done the right thing.



Herger prepared the extra bedroom and left Ahmed alone there before going back to his own room.

As he entered, the sight of a bundle of clothes on his bed caught his eye. Of course—Ahmed's clothes, which he had promised to have laundered.

He picked them up—pants, a jacket, and a shirt—and saw underneath the boxers he had left out for Ahmed to borrow. Ahmed hadn't taken them. He understood immediately: Ahmed's pride had kept him from borrowing such a personal item and leaving his own undergarment to be cleaned. Herger smiled and put the fresh pair back in his dresser, and the other clothes he left by the door to take out in the morning.

Upon entering the bathroom, Herger learned another fact about his guest: Ahmed was fastidious. He'd wiped down the glass shower stall and the floor and counters, so there wasn't a drop of water anywhere. No signs of dirt or stray hairs, either. The room smelled faintly of Herger's shampoo and shower gel. There was a damp towel in the hamper, and Herger's razor had been moved. But other than these slight changes, Herger would hardly have known someone had been in here.

None of it was unusual for the situation, but Herger was surprised at how these things affected him. He had images in his mind, of Ahmed standing here in just a towel, shaving with Herger's razor. Had he used Herger's deodorant? Herger checked, but couldn't tell if the stick had touched someone else's skin.

He was not surprised at being faintly aroused by these things, but was surprised at the empathy he felt. The poor man had nothing; what had a stranger's shampoo meant to him?

Herger shook himself. He had three meetings before noon tomorrow—he needed to sleep. He washed his face and brushed his teeth quickly, fell into bed with a groan of weariness, and was immediately unconscious.



"Hallo, Magnus? Hei, Herger Torgudson. Hvordan går det?" Herger swiveled his desk chair toward the window in his office, one floor below the penthouse, and listened to the editor of Aftenposten, Magnus Svinø, return his greeting. They exchanged pleasantries while Herger watched the passenger ferry run to Bygdøy. Eventually there was a pause on the other end of the line, and Herger asked, "How satisfied are you with your writers?"

He thought about Ahmed while half-listening to Magnus answer. He'd left a note for Ahmed some hours earlier, with some money and the access code to the penthouse. The cash wouldn't get Ahmed far but it might entertain him for a few hours. The kitchen was also well-stocked and Herger had the full range of channels on Norwegian and European television, so Ahmed could have even stayed in.

"Why do you ask?" Magnus asked finally, after a long discourse on the various heartaches caused by his newsroom.

"Ah, no great reason. A writer friend is new in town, and he is curious about the local business. I told him I thought it was doing well."

"Ja, but you know how the young ones are. No ambition, even if they have some skill. What kind of experience does your friend have?"

Herger got up to pace, taking the call with him in his Bluetooth headset. "Reporting, daily newspapers. Also short fiction. He's been working for at least ten years."

"Can he send in some samples? And his c.v.?"

"Ja…Magnus, you should know he's from the Middle East." Herger toyed with a paperclip on his desk.

"So?"

"So that you're not surprised when he comes in, that's all." Herger tossed the clip aside and folded his arms, leaning back against his desk. The sun was high and the lunch crowds were thinning on the pier below, but within an hour or so, the shopping would pick up again.

"Just as long as his stuff is translated, you know I don't care. Have him call and make an appointment with Marit."

"Tusen takk."

"It's nothing. But let's have another game at the club soon, ja? I'm getting fat."

"So am I." Herger grinned at Magnus' laughter. "Later."

Herger pulled the earpiece off as Magnus disconnected, and he rubbed a hand over his face, then laughed again. He could hardly believe that was so easy.



He meant to check in on Ahmed after the call to Magnus, but when he looked at his watch after completing a few tasks, it read half before five p.m. He sighed and saved his work, logged off the computer, and started collecting his things.

"Ronild, call me you find out anything about the Norli contract." Herger juggled his briefcase and cell phone as he strolled through the outer office. His executive assistant nodded. "I'll be in tomorrow, but I'll sign and fax it back tonight if it comes through." Ahmed would just have to understand, he thought guiltily. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is Saturday," Ronild said nonchalantly.

"Oye. Okay. Monday." Herger shook his head and pushed open the stairwell door. "Enjoy your weekend."

Once on the stairs going back up to the penthouse, he started to call for Harild, then remembered there was too poor reception in the steel-enclosed stairwell to connect a call. Shoving his phone between his teeth as he reached the top floor and opened the heavy door, he punched in his code and entered the hallway.

Ahmed was exiting the elevator at that moment. He carried two large H&M bags stuffed with merchandise.

"Hei!" Herger dropped his phone back into his free hand. "Sorry. I meant to find you earlier, but I got caught up. But you've been out shopping, eh?"

Ahmed nodded and walked into the apartment as Herger let them in. "Thank you for the money. I will repay you."

"Nei, don't say that." Herger poured two glasses of water from a filtered tap and handed one to Ahmed. "Besides, you needed underwear." He winked and drank, and let himself envision Ahmed in a little pair of white briefs, crooking his finger.

Ahmed looked a little embarrassed, but smiled, charming Herger. He looked absolutely boyish when he smiled, and the faint blush had darkened his skin nicely. Herger revised the fantasy to include a grin to go with the little white briefs.

Herger realized he was starting to stare and looked at his watch before either of them became uncomfortable. "I'm going to the gym. You're welcome to join me if you like. I have some extra things you can borrow for that, too."

"All right."

Herger called Harild and let them know he wanted to leave in ten minutes. As he and Ahmed then walked down the hall toward his room, he took a longer look at Ahmed. He looked rested and relaxed; not happy exactly, but at least not about to fall over from exhaustion. Ahmed looked back at him curiously, so Herger gave him a grin pushed open his bedroom door.

He put together two sets of workout clothes and packed a bag, then they went to meet Harild in the parking garage. He drove them across town to a more high-end gym than anything they would have found within walking distance of the pier. As soon as they entered the locker room and saw a dozen half-naked Norwegian men walking about wearing only towels around their waists, Herger hoped he hadn't made a mistake. Did Iraqis feel the same about nudity as Europeans did? He hadn't ever gone into a sauna or such thing on his trip to the Middle East, so he had no reference point.

But Ahmed seemed at ease, and they took a pair of lockers to stash their things, then changed side-by-side. Herger snuck a glance while they were swapping out pants for shorts, but Ahmed moved too quickly for Herger to see more than a blur of dark hair. He pulled a t-shirt over his head, resigned.

From there, they went out to the treadmills.

For the first twenty minutes they didn't say anything to each other, although he could see Ahmed glancing at him and figuring out the treadmill controls. Eventually Herger slowed his pace and took a drink of water, then looked over at Ahmed.

"I talked to a friend at the local paper today."

"Yes?" Ahmed was a little out of breath. He ran smoothly; clearly he was used to exercise, if not on a treadmill.

"Ja. He is interested in seeing some work from you. You have some pieces translated?"

"No, but I can do that quickly. Herger—"

"Good. You can use my computer at the apartment."

Ahmed slowed the track on his machine and began to walk. "Herger. I hope you did not ask him to give me a job."

Herger shot Ahmed another glance, irritated. "I told you I wouldn't do it that way. I asked him how he was doing, he asked why I was curious, and I said I had a writer friend in town. He was the one who suggested you come in with a c.v. and some samples."

Herger punched his finger against the stop button on his treadmill and hopped off while the track was still running. He wiped his face and throat with a towel, looking at Ahmed as Ahmed came to a stop.

"I don't like to be second-guessed. You should know that about me."

"And I pay my own way, when I can." Ahmed picked up his own towel.

Herger tilted his head. "I respect that." He picked up his water. "But I also ask that you take me at my word. I'm going over to the weights."

Ahmed joined him while Herger was on his fifth set of tricep lifts; long enough that Herger's irritation had faded somewhat. He waited until Herger had returned the dumbbells to the rack, then said: "I apologize." He was looking down, fiddling with a dumbbell, but speaking loud enough for Herger to hear. "It was rude of me."

"I accept your apology, and let's put it behind us." Herger moved over to a mat to begin doing lunges. "We can just get to know each other, eh? You've seen my temper, now. Hot and short, like the rest of me."

Ahmed mustered a smile. Herger made a face and grunted, deliberately blowing out a breath like an escape valve on a steam engine, and smiled when Ahmed laughed.



Over the weekend, Ahmed worked on the computer in between outings with Herger. They started with a late dinner Friday evening, followed by coffee and a dessert. On Saturday Herger started showing him the city, touring down the pier and through the public art at City Hall, then up to the massive yellow royal palace on the hill, with the equestrian statue overlooking the downtown area. By noon Ahmed begged out of further tourist pursuits, saying he needed to work on the computer for a while, so they returned to the apartment and Herger put together a spread of meats, cheese, tomatoes and cucumbers with thick-crusted bread for their lunch. He added in little chilled shot glasses of akervit and a couple glasses of beer, although he wasn't certain if Ahmed would like akervit; not everyone who tried the grain liquor distilled with caraway seeds liked it.

Ahmed emerged from the office and sat down at the bar with a smile, looking over the lunch spread.

"You drink alcohol, yes?" Herger gestured at the glasses.

Ahmed nodded. "I don't follow the dietary laws. I ceased believing in Islam a great while ago." He picked up the shot glass, and Herger did the same.

"Skål," Herger said, lifting his glass. He drained the shot quickly, then picked up his beer. Ahmed repeated the cheer, carefully imitating the "skawl" sound, and drank as well. He cleared his throat and set down the glass.

"Someday you might tell me how you became atheist?" Herger picked up a slice of bread and began to load toppings onto it.

"If you want to be so bored…as you wish." Ahmed smiled and began to fix his own plate.

After lunch Herger left him to work and took a nap out on the balcony until a rainstorm moved in. He went in to the living room and stretched out on the couch, turning on the TV and flipping through channels.

Normally he would be in his office on a Saturday afternoon, but with Ahmed here, he didn't want to leave or get caught up in work. But he hardly knew what to do with himself. Bored with the TV, he got up and paced over to the windows, looking out onto the piers and fjord.

As the crowds milled around the public art outside of City Hall, his thoughts wandered to Ahmed. There was no guarantee that Magnus would give him a job. Despite what Magnus had said on the phone, Herger knew him to be somewhat close-minded about foreigners, as many Norwegians were. The general feeling was that Norway was for Norwegians. The borders had relaxed in recent years but outsiders were still looked upon as just that—outsiders. Ahmed might get a job and make friends, but he would never completely fit in. Herger knew that many immigrants eventually left Norway, tired of the feeling of isolation and other-ness.

But Herger had done a lot of international traveling, meeting others in the same field of business, comparing best practices and offering ideas for more effective property management. He was accustomed to meeting others and exchanging ideas. In the last six months he'd been to Germany twice, France, Belgium, Denmark three times, and England. Iraq, when he'd gone eight years ago, had been a working vacation, and he'd enjoyed learning about the other culture. The Iraqis were ruthless businessmen, and he'd liked their assertiveness. But not every Norwegian might feel the same way. He hoped he'd been a better ambassador than most.

"Herger?"

Herger blinked and refocused, looking over his shoulder. Ahmed was standing in the doorway, an uncertain, worried look on his face. For a moment Herger panicked, thinking that something had gone horribly wrong, or Ahmed had received some bad news, and they'd both be arrested.

"I can't figure out your printer," Ahmed finished.

Herger grinned. "All right." He rose to help him.