The cafe was filled to capacity with the usual mix of students, expatriates and foreign tourists. A wondrous cacophony of voices in a collection of different languages filled the space of the cafe. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and rising steam from the espresso machines firing full blast at the bar. Long rows of tables contained all the usual refinements: overflowing ashtrays, half-full wine bottles, books, sketchpads, mugs and glasses.

Sitting at one of the smaller tables in the corner was a young woman seemingly engrossed in a novel, but actually with an eye checking the entrance to the cafe. She had the looks and manners of a native born Parisian, with long brown hair, dark intelligent eyes, and dressed in the standard mix of couture and comfort.

She stole a longer look at the front door while acknowledging the waiter who stopped at her table. He asked the young woman if she wanted another latte, and she replied with perfect French, but dressed in an Irish brogue. The waiter left, and she went back to her book.

Soon after the waiter dropped off her latte, a curious man entered the cafe. He was wearing the strangest outfit; it looked like it belonged on a western movie sheriff. All that was missing was the tin star pinned to the lapel. The hair was brown, wavy and shoulder-length. He marched to the counter like he was the owner and ordered a cup tea in English.

It was his British accent that made her take notice. Without drawing attention to herself, she followed the Brit with her eyes as he took his tea to one of the tables and immediately jumped into the conversation, chatting in French like it was his native language. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a book of matches, read the message written on the inside flap, and put the matches away.

The target had arrived, all right.

She left her table and casually walked to the women's rest room. It was the size of a closet. She closed the door behind her and locked it. She reached into the back of her pants and pulled out a .9mm Glock. She removed the magazine and checked to make sure she had a full load. After snapping the magazine back in place, she placed the gun back in her pants and exited the rest room after flushing the toilet.

The Brit was still conversing at the table, a passionate dialogue about art. He ranted about Leonardo and the Mona Lisa and other works of Da Vinci, like he'd been his friend or something. Since she had him under watch, she could take her time. Soon enough, she would find the right location and take him out. Fifty thousand dollars was fifty thousand dollars.

It was an hour later when the Brit got up and said goodbye to his new friends and left the cafe. Leaving the book and enough francs to cover the bill, she got up slowly and followed him out of the cafe, giving him a few seconds head start.

His taste in clothes made him an easy one to spot, sticking out among the throngs walking the boulevards and side streets. What made following him such a chore was his constantly changing pace and direction. He'd be up to sprinting speed for a block or so, then stop on a dime, wheel down an alley at a snail's crawl, then step into high gear in a new direction, without rhyme or reason. The Brit would also stop and chat with people at random: old couples, children, students, gendarmes. Many times, she found herself jumping into stores, or ducking behind cars. It got so frustrating, she almost took a shot at him on a crowded street just to get the job over with.

Finally, the Brit made his way to the Arc de Triumph and stopped in front of the huge memorial. He looked like a country rube while he stared up at it, his mouth hanging open. She was forced to wait some distance away, for around the memorial there was no cover. She watched him fish a small wax bag out of his pocket and eat whatever was in the bag.

He stood next to the Arc for nearly a half-hour before taking off at a scorching pace. She had to run to close the gap, nearly missing his sudden right turn into another alley.

By the time she made it back to the alley, he was down at the far end, standing in front of a blue box. After checking to make sure no one was about, she reached into her pants and pulled out the gun. With gun in hand she ran down the alley, visions of a payoff in her mind. She extended her gun hand, anticipating the weight of the Glock against the back of his head. She got within three feet of the eccentric Brit, ready to blow his head off, when she felt a blow to her wrist. The gun went flying to her right, landing on top of a sewer grate. She stopped in her tracks, unsure whether to flee or not. He stared right through her, a stern look on his face.

"Every time I visit Paris, someone holds a gun to my head. I hate guns. They never solve any problems, just create new ones," the Brit said. For some odd reason he smiled, a strange response to nearly being killed.

Then his hand shot forward, and her world turned black.

***

"Well, welcome back, my dear."

She opened her eyes and found herself in a giant room. The room had wood panels and a ceiling made of glass with shifting images. She was lying on a couch that reminded her of ones she'd seen in psychiatrist's offices. In the centre of the room, there was a odd shaped table with buttons, levers and switches sticking on all of its sides. A column made of plastic rose out of the centre of the table and connected with a similar one extending from the ceiling. Next to the odd table was a vintage television hanging from the ceiling by an extendable metal frame. Scattered around the room were a selection of odd items: a chair and ottoman, a classic Victrola complete with sound horn, a series of wooden file cabinets, chests, and a hatstand with a long multicoloured scarf hanging from it.

The Brit was standing by the table with the switches, a computer or control panel of some sort.

"Where am I?" she asked.

"The TARDIS," he replied.

"What in hell is a TARDIS?"

"It stands for Time and Relative Dimensions in Space. It's a vehicle to travel through time."

She sat up on the couch, placed her feet on the floor. Her head cleared. "You're a loony, you know that," she said harshly.

"Well, it won't be the first time I've been called that." He walked away from the console, and over to a cart.

"How do you like your tea?" the Brit asked cheerfully.

"I'd prefer a pint right now," she replied. She considered it odd that the man she'd been hired to kill was offering her tea.

"Sorry, I'm fresh out of Guinness for the moment."

At least he has taste, she thought.

"By the way, I'm the Doctor. And you are?"

"Diedre."

"Trying to find a new life after the troubles, right?"

Diedre gave the Brit a hard stare.

"I can assume that you have worked either for the Provos or the Ulsterites, until the cease fire. And now with a treaty in place, you no longer have a righteous calling for your needless violence, so you turn to the free market. That sound about right?"

"Smug bastard," Diedre said under her breath.

The Brit walked up to her, a cup of tea in his hand. Despite the arrogance in his voice, she thought him roguishly handsome. Unsure what to do, she acted like a professional.

The Brit gave her a million dollar smile.

"I think it's time we had a little chat," he said growing serious.

"I was paid to do a job, nothing more," Diedre said defensively.

"No offence, but that isn't too helpful."

Diedre silently stared at the Brit, her eyes burning holes in him. Smug bastard has me pegged, she thought.

"Diedre, if you are expecting me to lower myself to the depths of petty violence to get you to talk to me, you're quite wrong." He took a sip of his tea. "I have a huge capacity for forgiveness. Besides, violence solves nothing."

She looked into his eyes. They were mischievous to her, but honest all the same. She would have already been dead if he had been upset about being a target. Time to open up a little.

"I got the contract through a third party. That's how it usually works."

"I see." The Brit took another sip of his tea. "You sure you wouldn't like some - no you prefer Latte." He put the cup down on the floor. "I think I have a Latte machine in here somewhere," the Brit said walking over to the file cabinets.

"So, we're in your ship?" Unsure really where she was, to be truthful. Better play along for the time being.

"Yes."

Diedre thought for a second. "Not that silly blue box?"

"Of course," the Brit replied, his head buried in a file cabinet drawer. "Aha! There it is." She watched the Brit pull out a small espresso maker out of the drawer. From a second, he pulled out a bag of coffee and a grinder. "Here, catch!" he announced, tossing the beans to Diedre. She caught it and placed it on the floor next to her. The Brit placed the grinder and maker on the teacart and wheeled it over to the couch.

"While we're waiting," the Brit said, grinding the beans, "why don't you tell me how you were contacted?"

"I have a secure e-mail account. I was given the contract through one of my usual connections." She didn't know why she was telling the Brit all this, but in her mind, it somehow felt right. "I was told to seek out an oddly dressed, eccentric Brit and kill him. It didn't give a physical description. The only clue was that he'd been spotted at the cafe several times.

"I sat at that cafe for three days waiting for you to show up. Once the job was completed, I was to send proof via a photo and collect my money."

"How did you know I was the one you were hired to assassinate?" the Brit asked. The tone was curious.

"I was told in the message that you'd stand out in a crowd," Diedre replied. She pointed at his outfit. "Dressed like that, it wasn't hard. You also gave yourself away by ordering tea in English."

The Brit frowned. "I must be slipping in my old age."

"You were a pain in the ass to follow, you know that," Diedre said, half-annoyed and half-impressed.

"I have been around a bit." The Brit steamed some milk, then put together Diedre's Latte. "You were a bit conspicuous."

He handed Diedre the mug. She took a sip. It was quite good.

"So, the question becomes whether or not you'll help me try to find the person who wants me dead, Diedre."

"Nothing personal, but what if I refuse?"

"It's your decision to make. If you don't want to help me, you just say so, and I'll let you go." He poured himself a second cup of tea. "Though I did make Latte for you," the Brit added, a smile on his face.

Diedre stood up. She looked over the Brit one more time. Maybe he wasn't such a bastard after all.

"Can you play dead?" she asked.

***

"Thankfully, the ground isn't too cold," the Doctor said, sprawled on the ground face first.

"Quiet!" Diedre snapped. She placed the newspaper next to his head and took a polaroid picture of the Brit as he lay there, fake blood in his hair and puddled around his body.

"Good, I got my pic."

"Sure you don't want another for posterity?" the Doctor said.

"I've already taken your best side," Diedre retorted.

The Doctor jumped up. Smiling, he headed back to the TARDIS.

"Well, you have your picture. Now you can help me."

"How?" Diedre asked, checking the picture before placing it in an envelope.

"Let's find your employer, shall we?"

"I have to find a post box," Diedre said, heading down the alley.

***

Back in the TARDIS, the Doctor went to the control panel and pressed a few buttons. A keyboard popped out of the control panel. Diedre stood next to him, watching his every move.

"Okay, type in your e-mail address and password," the Doctor said. He placed a hand over his eyes. " I promise not to peek."

Diedre gave him a playful punch on the arm, then typed in the information he wanted. He's growing on me, she thought.

With the wave of a finger, the Doctor had Diedre move aside so he could go to work. His hand moved at a blur, pressing keys with unbelievable quickness. Diedre followed the Doctor's gaze to the television, where a series of traces were being performed on each of the e-mail addresses in her account.

"I thought I deleted them," Diedre said.

"You did. I just undeleted them."

"F%^$&* computers!" Diedre slapped the console.

"Language!" the Doctor snapped, "Don't be such a Luddite." The Doctor resumed his warp speed typing. "Which address?"

Diedre pointed to one on the screen.

The Doctor nodded, then resumed his warp speed typing. The screen showed a trace was in progress.

"Aha!" the Doctor announced. "We have a location."

"Belfast," Diedre said quietly.

The Doctor turned to Diedre, who was gazing at her boots. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"Not-so-pleasant memories? It's okay, Diedre."

Diedre broke away from the Doctor. She walked over to the couch and sat down. The Doctor walked over slowly, a wary eye on the woman who only a short time ago was willing to blow his head off.

"Diedre -"

"You wouldn't understand," Diedre said through clenched teeth.

"Try me."

"It's where everything started for me." Her voice was cold and remote. "Either pick up a gun and fight, or get shot yourself." Diedre looked the Doctor in the eye. "I got involved with some very ruthless people. Did a lot of work no one wanted to touch. Then I thought I met someone like me, a Yank. Turned out he had a different agenda. So I got out of the political work and declared myself an independent contractor.

"It all began in Belfast, at sixteen." Diedre turned her gaze to the floor. "Thirteen years of death, most of it in the name of freedom, supposedly. It was bollocks, actually. That's why I went independent. It's strictly business this way.

"What disturbs me is that I've gotten too damn good at my work. It's F$%$@* automatic pilot most of the time. Take the contract, find the target, put a bullet in their head, collect the money and move on. Me, by myself. No one else to bollocks it up."

Diedre looked back into the Doctor's passive face. "Why the hell am I telling you all of this?"

"I can't answer that." The Doctor stood up and walked back to the console. "I've never been in any situation like yours. Though it sounds like your looking for any excuse to get out of the life you're living now." He scratched his chin.

"Maybe I can do something." The Doctor began manipulating the console controls. A wheezing, grinding sound filled the air. Diedre looked over at the Doctor, a confused look on her face.

"Don't worry, we're on our way," the Doctor said proudly.

"In a blue box?"

The Doctor smiled. "Yes. I'll take it from here. You've helped me enough, Diedre."

Diedre finally allowed herself a smile. "For a time travelling Brit, you don't seem to be worth killing."

"Unfortunately, even I have my enemies," the Doctor replied ruefully.

***

Diedre stood on the shore of the small island staring out at the beautiful blue waters of the Pacific. She had stopped keeping track of time long ago. The Brit told her she could use the small cottage for as long as she wanted. The furnishings were simple and beautiful, the cupboard well-stocked with enough food to last for a long time to come.

The Brit said he'd pop in from time to time, to see how she was doing. That was fine with her. She couldn't begrudge him anything, considering how they met and what he'd done for her. Diedre hoped that the Brit sorted out his problem with the person who hired her initially. He wasn't worthy of a contract, not that she'd ever moralised a job before. In an odd way, The Brit reminded her of the Yank. They both touched something inside of her, a feeling of trust and safety. She always felt horrible for not finding the Yank and making things right between them. He'd let her go in Paris at a time when she could have shared the same fate as her boss.

And now, the Brit had brought her here: a place to heal, another chance to walk away from the life she chose.

This time she would.