He'd gotten into what he liked to call 'passive literary pursuits' initially because he actually enjoyed cataloguing books. Now he ran a bookshop because he enjoyed reading the books, and talking to people who also enjoyed reading them. At his age he'd found that it was more important to have a few friends with whom he shared a common interest, than to be able to pride himself on another library's worth indexed in the correct order. In fact there were quite a few books lying around, he reminded himself, which still hadn't been added to his latest catalogues; and thinking about it, he realised that those hadn't been updated for nearly two years now.

Donald Salzer looked up from the rather hefty tome on eighteenth century Spanish politics that he was reading, removed the glasses from his nose and rubbed his eyes. He'd been cloistered in the little niche where he indulged his favourite passion, at the back of the Shakespeare and Company bookshop which he managed, for rather too long today. It had been slow so far, only one customer, and he was beginning to feel the need now to resurface for some fresh air.

Glancing down at his watch, he smiled in acknowledgement of the fact that it was nearly closing time, and soon he would be able to take himself off for his daily constitutional along the East river bank. He got up slowly in deference to his ageing limbs with the intention of making himself a cup of coffee, when he heard the doorbell tinkling. Picking up his glasses from the desk where he had left them, he went through to the main area of the shop to greet his customer.

The young man, already well into the Latin poetry section, looked to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties; barely collar length dark hair, and with the spare features which summoned memories of many former colleagues from college days . When he stood up from where he'd been examining a volume on the bottom shelf, Salzer could also see that he was tall, slim and, what was for these days, conservatively dressed. The absorbed interest he was investing in the book he had in his hands spoke of a genuine reason for his being there; this was not just a passer-by who had come in out of the rain for five minutes, a suspicion borne out when, looking up on hearing Salzer's approach, the young man closed the book and came forward to speak to him, the expression of quiet enthusiasm on his face, confirming that here was yet someone else for whom literature was more than a convenient way of filling up bookshelves.

Before Salzer could speak the young man extended his hand and introduced himself.

"My name's Adam Pierson," he offered pleasantly, the warm and unexpectedly fairly deep tone of his voice making Salzer think of an evening around the fire with friends in the Winter dark. "Your branch in Vienna mentioned that you had some books on seventeenth Century art."

Taking Pierson's hand and shaking it, noting in passing a firm yet gentle grip, Salzer couldn't help but realise that the voice was not the most surprising thing about his new customer; the pale brown eyes held a light and such a wealth of experience, that the bookshop owner found himself utterly caught by them; here was a man who had been around the block more than a few times, and yet seemed strangely untouched by any bitterness.

The eyes were open; open in a way that Salzer had come across only once in his life before. An old professor of Archaeology at Cambridge who had taken Don under his wing and had spent many a long hour sharing tales of some of his experiences out in the middle Eastern countries he had visited on some of his digs. Salzer had had cause more than a few times to be grateful to the old man, not so much for any help that he had given him in his college work, but for the things he had taught him about life; how to value people as well as things, how to differentiate between an answer and the truth, how to give. The kinds of things that most people only learned later in life when it was often too late -- if they learned them at all -- Don Salzer was lucky enough to learn from this man when there was still plenty of time to put them to good use.

This Adam Pierson was also just such a man; perhaps he had been lucky too, although somehow, and incredibly, Salzer didn't think so. No matter how he had come by such understanding, however, musing on this initial impression of the man would have to wait. He was a customer, probably hunting for something specific, and Salzer was there to provide help in just such a direction.

"Art of the seventeenth Century, yes;" replied Salzer to Pierson's enquiry. "I would presume that you are looking for material from the period, rather than a simple historical reference book; or else why would you be here?"

"If you have any, yes."

It was Pierson's look of total innocence which first triggered some sort of alarm bell in Salzer's mind; he himself had more than the average person's experience of dealing with people from all walks of life, and he felt that there was something underlying that almost bland expression which did not match up to what he had seen previously in the other man's eyes.

It couldn't be, could it? Salzer knew the face of every Immortal on file and this man's was not one of them. There could be two reasons for that; either he wasn't an Immortal at all, but someone who was incredibly spiritually advanced, or, he was the one Immortal that no-one alive now had ever seen ...

Acting on his hunch, Salzer asked Pierson to wait for a few minutes whilst he fetched something from the storeroom, which he might find of interest, and then went through to the back of the bookshop; there he operated a concealed switch, and a section of the wall to his right moved slightly. Opening the gap further, Salzer slipped through, purposely leaving the false wall open a crack. Descending a flight of steps into the building's cellar, he found his heart pounding as he considered the possibility of having finally found someone he had been unable to even confirm the existence of, until this point.

Making a beeline towards a chest resting in one corner of the rather large underground room, he felt unsure, at that moment, as to whether he was doing the right thing or not. It was possible that his customer was a thief of the more ordinary kind, and that he might be robbed of more than the particular volume he was thinking of. Opening the chest lid softly, as if afraid to disturb what was hidden there, he let his gaze drift down to rest on a single large hide-bound tome, kept free from dust and damp by a lined oilskin cloth in which it was wrapped. Gingerly lifting the book free from its covering, Salzer hefted the book in his hand, wondering how much it would eventually cost him. More than money perhaps; his life even, if his hunch was correct.

Focusing on his hastily conceived plan a few moments longer, Salzer licked his lips nervously, attempting to think of ways to cover himself should the worst result from his actions occur.

What was the point, however? Que sera sera, he told himself sharply, and snapped his attention back to what he was doing.

When he finally emerged back into the main area of the shop, Salzer was somewhat relieved to find Pierson waiting patiently near the door, looking despondently out at the driving rain.

"Not quite what they led us to expect in the weather forecast, is it?" he remarked, sounding a little tired, though whether it was because of the rain or due to the burning of too much midnight oil in the name of research, Salzer couldn't tell.

"Indeed; I never bother with the forecast these days," Salzer responded automatically, the ability to chat pleasantly with others coming naturally to him. "It's almost invariably wrong to some degree." Placing the book he had with him down on the main desk, he turned to find Pierson regarding him with quizzical interest. Opening the book, he withdrew some loose pages, carefully folded, which he had placed between the leaves before returning from the cellar.

"Here are some sketches which have yet to be identified, " Salzer told him, handing the loose pages across. "Perhaps you would like to peruse those while I search out some of the few manuscripts on the subject that I have from that period."

"Er ... yes, thank you," Pierson replied, already preoccupied, seemingly, in the drawings which Salzer had given him.

Walking through into the other wing of bookshelves, Salzer collected a couple of relevant manuscripts and then hid himself behind a shelving unit from where he could see the open area of the bookshop clearly. Observing his customer in secret now, Salzer did not have long to wait before the half hoped-for, half-dreaded, action took place.

Glancing quickly around him, and obviously satisfied that Salzer was nowhere in the immediate vicinity, Pierson put the drawings down on the desk and then gazed in silence at the book which had contained them. Salzer had to stifle a gasp as the man picked up the book in both hands and began to leaf carefully through it with what some might have considered to be reverence. Don Salzer knew it was not. Just seeing the way Pierson scanned the pages with a quiet eagerness, was enough to confirm his guess. When, with immense relief in his face, Pierson closed the book and held it to his chest as if he were clasping a prodigal son returned, any last niggling doubts in Salzer's mind, vanished. This man WAS an Immortal.

More than that, he reminded himself; he was THE Immortal. The first, as far as had ever been ascertained, to find himself different to the rest of humanity; unable to die, unless it be that he should have his head removed from his shoulders.

Salzer was shocked to find himself thinking 'God forbid', at the thought of that particular consequence. Not shocked that he should think it of course, but he realised with that one instinctive response that he would have to break an oath, betray all he had stood for for the past thirty years. It was also something he would have to keep from his wife, Christine, and that would be very hard for him. Nevertheless, his conscience would never rest if he gave away this man's secret, so carefully guarded for who knew how many hundreds of years, to his colleagues in the Watcher organisation.

He returned noisily from the stacks to give 'Adam Pierson' time to return the book to the desk; as he did so Salzer could already see, in his mind's eye, the events of the next twelve hours or so unfolding, and had to clamp down on a secretive little smile, lest he give away any hint of his intentions. Approaching his customer, he handed over the manuscripts and asked if the sketches had been any help.

"Well, they are quite interesting, yeah, but they're not quite what I'm looking for at the moment." The tone was even, suited exactly to the words, and Salzer could not help but admire the self control being exhibited; in the other's place, he was sure he could not have covered up his feelings so well.

Looking through the rolled parchment leaves given to him, the Immortal nodded slowly, conveying approval of Salzer's choice. "These are a bit more like it," he continued, smiling ruefully, perhaps hoping to give the impression that he was finding the research something of a hard slog. Content to go along with the charade, Salzer smiled sympathetically, remembering the long hours he had spent ransacking every bookshop in Europe for material for his own thesis.

"I am glad," he replied, taking a look at his inventory lists to ascertain the prices. "There isn't a lot of material from the period left now; I'm afraid they're rather expensive."

"Good job I haven't wasted my allowance on luxuries like food, then isn't it?"

The good-humoured chuckle took the sting out of the words, and Salzer was glad at that moment for the decision that he had made. He wrapped the manuscripts carefully, took the required fee, and wished the other good luck in his research as he left the bookshop, turning up the collar of his long, though seemingly inadequate overcoat. Salzer blew out his cheeks and allowed himself the luxury of a triumphant smile; he had gotten away with his little deception. Now all he had to do was wait until dark; he had no doubts in his mind now that tonight, he would be working late at the shop, in the hope of 'entertaining' an uninvited guest.

Uninvited? Oh, come on, old man, he smiled to himself, his conscience already pricking him again. Hardly uninvited; if that man was a cat I couldn't have done much more bar putting a flap in the door and laying down a trail of cat food ...

Salzer had forgotten how cold it could be in the cellar in the small hours of the morning. The last time he had been there at this late hour was seven years ago, when he had mistakenly believed that, due to there being more space available in the cellar, he would be more comfortable doing some last minute cataloguing down there. He had finally finished just after two in the morning and had found himself unable to get up, because his joints were literally frozen. He had very slowly and painfully managed to get himself up to ground level, but from there had had to get a taxi home, an embarrassing experience that he had vowed never to repeat.

This time he had had the foresight to take a blanket and a flask of coffee with him, but he could still feel the cold seeping into his limbs and he had to keep stretching to prevent cramp from setting in. He was doing his best to wriggle some life back into his toes when he heard the false wall above him, creak slightly. Being careful to make no noise, Salzer huddled more closely into the shadow afforded him by the niche he was hiding in. There was no light down there but what streamed through from above as the opening widened, that and a flickering torchlight held by the figure tiptoeing down the stone steps.

His heart in his mouth, Salzer held his breath, watching as the figure -- tall, slim and undoubtedly his customer from earlier in the day -- crept over to the bookshelves near the far wall and began searching through the books for the one he was looking for. Salzer waited a few minutes as the other's search progressed, but when he seemed no nearer to finding what he sought, the older man took his courage in his hands, determined, for the sake of the numbness which was creeping along his extremities as much as anything else, to end this charade here and now.

Quietly, he stepped out from his hiding place, holding on tightly to the torch in his own hand, ready to activate it when his guest turned around.

"The book you are seeking; it's in the chest in the corner on your right."

The man most people only knew as Adam Pierson, spun on his heel, a sword of indiscriminate origin in his hand. Salzer already had the beam of his torch focused on his face so as to blind him momentarily; not that he wished the Immortal any harm, quite the opposite in fact, but merely to give himself time to establish his peaceful intentions.

"I mean you no harm," he said quickly, "and I have no intention of giving your secret away to anyone else; I know a good man when I come across one, even if he is an Immortal."

His visitor, hand shielding his eyes from the light, stepped forward, his sword hand slowly lowering until the blade touched the stone floor. He shook his head slightly, a bemused expression on his face.

"Look ... I'm sorry I broke in here," he began, the innocence Salzer had been suspicious of before plain in his face even though he was squinting against the light of the torch; "but what do you mean ... Immortal?"

He really does sound most puzzled, thought Salzer to himself, able to appreciate that such a good act must have been highly necessary for the Immortal to have escaped detection for so long.

"It's quite a long story," Salzer replied, beginning to hope that the night's events could end peacefully, perhaps even in a friendly way. Lowering the torch slightly, allowing the other to see who it was confronting him, Salzer summoned up a nervous, though nevertheless friendly smile, and gestured towards the chest. "Look, why don't you retrieve your lost property and then we can retire to somewhere warmer where I can explain all this."

The other man didn't move for a moment; when he did, Salzer was dismayed to note that it was to get a better grip on his sword once more. Taking a step back, Salzer glanced around nervously to the base of the steps leading back up into the bookshop, ready for flight if necessary.

"You know who I am?" his 'guest' asked sharply, for the first time betraying his real feelings of nervousness and fear.

Needing to retain some control of the highly charged situation, and in an effort to diffuse it, Salzer sighed heavily. "Alright," he said calmly, wearily, "trust is needed here, and I am going to be the first to offer it." He stepped nearer and switched off his own torch, returning it to his coat pocket. "You may search me if you wish, but I assure you I have no weapon."

Once he had done so, the other man stepped back, his expression still guarded. "You didn't answer my question, old man, " he reminded Salzer, plainly not about to allow any other action until his host gave him some sort of reply.

He calls me 'old man' reflected Salzer, almost tempted to laugh at the irony of that. "The book you have come here for is one of many, I think. One of the journals of an Immortal, who, to the best of my knowledge, is the oldest of his kind still alive."

Salzer was surprised by a look of old bitterness which passed across the Immortal's face, finally speaking truthfully of the hundreds of years of life and it's many twists of fate which he had undoubtedly experienced.

"What gave me away?" he asked finally. "And how do you know about Immortals?"

"In all your many years of life," Salzer told him, quietly cheerful, and inwardly breathing an immense sigh of relief, "have you never realised that there are those who act and those who watch?"

"You're a Watcher!?"

"Don't look so shocked," replied Salzer, beginning to usher the man over to the chest; it seemed that if he did not, there would be a good chance that the reason for the unannounced visit to the bookshop might be forgotten. "You obviously know of us; it never occurred to you that I might be a member of the organisation?"

Salzer was to be even more surprised by the reply.

"I thought I knew them all. I've never seen you before."

Staring speechless for a moment, Salzer shook his head in amazement. "Come , collect your book," he was able to say finally. "And then I think some coffee is called for; it seems we both have a lot to talk about."

The two of them were back at Salzer's house now, having crept in through the garden to keep from waking Salzer's wife, Christine, and they were comfortably ensconced in the rather large country style kitchen, nursing coffee laced with brandy to ward off the cold. Salzer was cooking himself a simple dish with mushrooms, as he had missed his supper and was feeling more than a bit hungry by this time. He looked at his watch; nearly three a.m. He chuckled to himself once more at the thought of what his other Watcher friends would say if they knew who he was entertaining.

His guest at least looked a little more relaxed now, although he hadn't said much since they'd left the bookshop. Hardly surprising really, thought Salzer as he stirred some more cream into the sauce he was working on. It's not every day that you find a secret such as this one to be revealed.

Eventually satisfied with the consistency of the sauce, Salzer lowered the light under the pan and returned to his favourite seat before the open fireplace. Picking up his coffee from the hearth where he had left it to keep warm, Salzer regarded the man sat opposite him; overcoat consigned to a peg on the hall stand, he looked almost thin now -- someone his mother would have insisted on feeding up had she still been alive. Long arms, an artists hands, lanky legs stuck out before the fire ... the final touch of all-black sweater and jeans; Salzer was forcibly reminded of a young man in the French resistance he had become friends with during the last war. Charles had been filled with the righteousness of youth and had fought in many a skirmish with the occupying forces, often covering the escape of the others in the group after some daring raid. He had done it once too often and had died for it; Salzer had always considered it a terrible waste, though he was aware that the young man himself would have wanted it to be no other way.

That was the past however; there were more important things to think about at the moment, than wartime reminiscences.

An uneasy silence began to stretch out between the two men and Salzer realised that the other man was waiting for him to open the conversation, perhaps to gain a better understanding of who it was he was having to trust.

"You ... really are who I suspected?" Salzer ventured at length, needing, despite the proof he already had, to actually hear the words.

Raising his eyes from the hypnotic flames of the fire, his guest spoke, finally. "Yes; my name is Methos and I took my first head about five thousand years ago."

Salzer bit back the shock he felt at that statement, uttered with such quiet conviction that it could be nothing else but the truth. "Five thousand years; it's incredible. I mean, my God, we're talking about Ur, Sumer, Babylon, Nebuchadnezzar ... I can't imagine living all that long ago; and to be still alive today ..."

Methos smiled; only a small smile, but the reflection expressed in his eyes only served to reinforce Salzer's belief in the Immortal's words.

"I was there ... and I have to say that the history books are mostly correct only in the politics of the age they profess to portray."

Salzer's mind was whirling, almost numb at the thought of such a lengthy existence. "Please, you must forgive me; I have to ask ... Jerusalem, two thousand years ago, Christ ... were you ...?"

Methos' smile broadened and he shook his head -- not in denial, but more as if he should have expected the question -- and gazing back into the flames once more, he sighed and then was silent for a moment. When he did speak there was a puzzled sadness on his face.

"I met him once, talked to him; he knew what I was, and spoke to me about the future of the world."

Salzer felt the quiet ambience which this man exuded to be filling the room now, and he found himself holding his breath as if he stood at the edge of some enormous revelation; he said nothing, regarding his guest with unconscious awe now, and just letting Methos continue with his story.

"I didn't believe him at the time, and I couldn't understand, when it happened, why he should give himself up to the Romans the way he did. He told me he had a mission to complete, and I suppose, thinking about it afterwards, that he fulfilled it; but I still wish he hadn't given himself up to death like that. When you know as much as he did, I think the most important thing is to survive, don't you?"

For a long moment, Salzer was unable to speak. When he eventually found his voice, instead of launching into the philosophical discussion he had hoped for, he found that he was unable to give any kind of positive reply to the question. "I ... I don't know; it suddenly occurs to me that I haven't really lived long enough to give any kind of valid judgement on the matter."

Methos leaned forward slightly and placed a hand over the old man's. "I don't think you've done too badly so far. But anyway," and here his expression became cautious again, almost withdrawn, and he sat straight in his chair once more, "you didn't bring me here to discuss religion."

Disappointed that the easiness between them seemed to have disappeared, at least for now, Salzer nevertheless realised that it would be best to keep this meeting as short as was necessary to establish their respective bona fides, as it were. A few more hours and Christine, always an early riser, would be about the house, and wanting to know where her husband had been all night, and why, and who their guest was. Salzer could see the sense of Methos departing before anyone knew he had been there.

"Yes, yes, of course you are right," Salzer agreed, downing the last of his coffee and remembering the sauce cooking on the stove, only just in time to save it from spoiling. When he returned to the cooker to finish preparing his supper, Methos followed him over, empty cup in hand.

"Er ... may I?" he asked, gesturing towards the half full coffee pot.

"By all means, yes, and pour me another, if you would be so kind."

The cups replenished, Methos perched on a bar stool on the other side of the breakfast bar, looking most unlike a man of even fifty, let alone five thousand or so.

"You want to know how I came to be in your bookshop," Methos began, but Salzer stopped him, begging to be heard first.

"After all, it is due to my deception that you are in this position," he continued, "and I think I owe you an explanation, at least."

Methos thought this over for a moment and then, with a nod of his head, agreed to let Salzer speak his piece first.

Adding a little seasoning to the sauce, Salzer began the tale as it had been passed on to him by others of his organisation.

"The journal first came into our possession when one of us, back in the early eighteen hundreds, found it in the same chest I kept it in at the bookshop, at the house of a relative. Apparently the chest had belonged to a servant who had worked for the family previously, but who had 'flown the coop' as it were, with the family silver. Once the Watcher, by the name of Daniel Drake, realised the significance of the book, he asked if he could have the chest and it's contents, as payment of a debt that was owed him."

"How did you come to have it?" Methos asked him warily, wondering perhaps, how many of the other Watchers knew of the book's existence.

"I have never been in the field," Salzer told him, "as my forte has always been research; I had recently finished one project and was in need of something new to work on. It was pure chance really, that I had the journal brought to my attention by the co-ordinator, as he was then, of our Western European headquarters, Philipe Dumas. I was fascinated by it and asked permission to do some work with it."

Methos was carefully saying nothing, but Salzer could see the wheels turning in his mind.

Turning the gas out from under the pan and fetching a plate out from a nearby cupboard, Salzer began spooning the mixture out, his mouth already watering in anticipation of the meal. "Are you sure you won't have any?" he asked Methos, who was still thoughtfully sipping his coffee.

"No, no, I ... " He trailed off, shaking his head, obviously disturbed by the information that Salzer had given him.

Walking through to the dining area, Salzer sat himself comfortably at the table and prepared to eat. Before he did so however, he had one more thing to say, in the hopes that it would go some way towards easing the mind of his guest.

"My work is really considered to be 'back-burner' stuff by everyone else who knows about it, you know," he offered hopefully. "There are many other Immortals more prominent and more active in The Game than yourself, who are paid much more attention to by us. "

"That's something, I suppose," Methos replied, still somewhat bitter that he had been found out. He sat opposite Salzer at the table, and began to draw some intricate pattern on the table with his finger tips. "Now, it seems, I must give you some explanation for my being at your bookshop."

Salzer looked up at Methos as he ate, trying as much as he was able, to convey friendliness and sympathy for the situation that the other man had found himself in. Putting his fork down for a moment, he decided that it might be best if he gave the Immortal the luxury of choice.

"You don't have to tell me anything, if you don't want to," he replied casually, before he returned his attention to the mushrooms.

"You said you owed me an explanation for deceiving me," returned Methos, a catch in his voice, the tone of which Salzer was unable to place. "I broke into your shop; I owe you at least something in return for that."

Salzer had it now; the feeling being conveyed by the other's words was one of unfamiliarity, as if he was doing something he was not used to.

Passing over the reluctance, Salzer continued in his efforts to put Methos' mind at rest by establishing his support of the other's dilemma. "You must have looked for the book for a long time," he suggested, feeling already the panic which must have been precipitated by the loss of such a damning piece of evidence.

"I tried to trace its whereabouts for months," Methos replied, his gaze inverted, undoubtedly already absorbed in the memories . "I lost it when there was a fire at the house I was living in at that time, let me see ... Seventeen Eighty-Three, I think. I was able to save all the other journals quite quickly; I had already planned for such an eventuality. But this one book was the last, not full yet, and so I kept it in the study, in a different part of the house, and I couldn't get to it in time."

"You thought it burned with everything else?" enquired Salzer, attempting to replicate the other's thought processes.

"Yes, at first;" Methos confessed, "but then when the fire was out and I checked the extent of the damage, I found that the study had hardly been touched. The journal however, had gone." Aware seemingly, of how the memory of the event was affecting him, Methos had fallen into more matter-of-fact speech, and gave away no hint now, of the knee-jerk fear reaction he had suffered at that discovery. "A few hours later, I heard that a friend of mine had also disappeared; he had been there when the fire started and had helped in putting it out; then he just seemed to have vanished into thin air."

"Taking your journal with him," Salzer realised. "How could he have found out about it?"

"There were two alternatives;" stated Methos calmly enough, although the careful stillness of his hands on the table spoke of an inner agitation, forcefully controlled. "The man was a very clever thief, who somehow came across something he hadn't expected to find, but was able to realise the value of, or he was a Watcher; either way, my cover was blown and eventually, when I had attempted to track him for as long as I dared, I had no choice but to get out of the country."

"Where did you go?" asked Salzer, the remnants of the meal in front of him forgotten as his attention was once more absorbed by Methos' narrative.

Methos leaned back in his chair and stretched; his hands finally returning to rest, clasped, at the back of his head. "Mid-Western America. I put all thoughts of getting the journal back out of my head then, as I had my hands full just trying to survive there; it was a wild, untamed place to live back then, I can tell you," he finished with a rueful little grin. "But I learned some valuable lessons, so I can't say I'm sorry I went there."

Salzer was about to enquire further into Methos' life in the old West, his desire to know the truth not told in all those cowboy movies he had watched with fascination as a younger man almost about to override his attempts to gain the Immortal's trust. If that's possible, he mused sadly. Methos had been betrayed by a friend once; surely he would not willingly put himself into the way of such a thing again.

"Thank you for telling me all this," he said, not knowing now how this night's events might end. A man who was five thousand years old; Salzer didn't kid himself that he could begin to fathom what such a one might be capable of. Methos could easily give Salzer the impression that he was willing to trust him and then, perhaps offering to bring over the rest of the coffee, he could retrieve a carver from the knife drawer and slit his host's throat. It was a possibility.

Salzer was surprised to find that he didn't care, although he wasn't sure why. He felt willing to risk everything to convince Methos that there was at least one person in the world whom he could not only confide in but also rely on.

Pushing his plate away, Salzer got up from the table and returned for the coffee pot himself. Being willing to take a risk was one thing; putting even an imagined temptation in someone else's way, was another. "We have to decide what we can both live with now, don't we?" he reminded his guest. "What can you feel comfortable with, that will also, hopefully, enable me to retain my life?"

"If I was going to kill you, old man, you'd be dead by now," Methos retorted shortly.

Salzer laughed, spreading his hands expansively. "There you go again with the 'old man'," he remarked, still chuckling to himself. "You have a wonderful sense of humour, 'Adam Pierson'." Methos stared at him; a cross between confusion and amazement on his face. "I told you I wasn't going to give you away, and I meant it. We will have to come up with some kind of working arrangement, n'est ce pas?"

"Bien, merci," Methos replied, still rather hesitant.

"Can you trust me with this until this evening?" Salzer asked, hoping that twelve hours or so would be long enough for one of them to come up with a solution to the problem.

"That would give you enough time to have me caught, hog-tied and beheaded," stated Methos, who was observing Salzer closely now, his lucent, knowledgeable eyes missing nothing.

"Yes, that's true;" Salzer agreed. "That's why I ask."

Methos, still sat at the table, heaved a heavy sigh as he thought over Salzer's proposition. Leaning his chin on one hand, his face ran through a gamut of old emotions before it cleared, indicating a decision had been made.

"Alright, 'old man', I believe you," he said wearily, although Salzer was aware that it was put on as a sort of reverse joke. "What time?"

"Oh, let us say around Eight o'clock? Come here; my wife will be around but I can tell her that I am searching for some elusive tome for you and that I have invited you here to tell you what progress I have made."

Methos stood up and with a nod to Salzer went in search of his guest's coat. When he returned, Salzer had cleared his supper things away and was finishing off the coffee.

"Let's hope we can come up with something that will be helpful to both of us," he told Salzer, offering his hand once more.

Before he let him go, Salzer had one more question to ask.

"Tell me ... 'Adam'; how DID you know your journal was at my bookshop?"

Salzer was stunned by the reply.

"I didn't. I really was looking for something on seventeenth Century art. I'm at the University at the moment, and the art research is a sideline."

Damn, thought Salzer as he watched Methos walk through the garden and leave the premises by the back gate. I could have sworn he knew; perhaps I may be dead before this day is out anyway, if my instincts have become so poor ...

By evening, the rain had cleared away and the sky was washed with a gaudy sunset by the time Methos arrived at the Salzer home. It was Christine Salzer who answered the door. She had obviously been told to expect him as she asked him in without enquiring after his business, and showed him straight into the study where her husband was sorting through a small pile of plain manila document files.

Leaving the files for a moment, Salzer came forward to greet him.

"Adam! Do come in, I have something here which will interest you." Looking past Methos to where his wife stood in the doorway, he asked her if she would be kind enough to make them some coffee.

"Already done," she replied. "I'll bring it in and then leave the two of you alone."

Once the coffee was brought and Christine had left the room again, Salzer offered Methos a well-worn, though comfortable looking leather chair on one side of a rather ornate games table, whilst he took his own similar armchair on the opposite side. He had brought the files over with him from his desk and he laid them down in front of Methos with an enigmatic smile which lit up his generous features.

"This is the extent of the research which I mentioned to you last night; well, early this morning. As you can see, it isn't much."

Methos leaned forward with interest and fingered the top file. "May I ...?"

"Of course, of course; if not you then who else?" replied Salzer, eager to know, as much as anything else, how much of his work was accurate.

"These are actual Watcher files?" Methos asked him, more than a little surprised.

"Yes; I managed to sneak them out in my briefcase," Salzer told him, almost whispering, as if he were confiding a schoolboy conspiracy.

He watched closely as Methos quickly flicked through the files, his expression becoming more and more bleak. "You've done your work well, old man; how did you come to know all this?"

Salzer was genuinely surprised. He had fully expected to be told that maybe seventy percent of his research was incorrect; now, once more he was faced by the prospect that he might not outlive the coming night.

"But ... but most of it was sheer guesswork! I could be sure of hardly anything that's in those papers."

"Then you guess well."

Salzer's blood chilled at the reply, and he felt himself to be frozen in place, perhaps as close to death as he had ever been. The look in Methos' eyes seemed to hold only fatal possibilities and Salzer's mouth was so dry that he could not swallow. "What ... what are you going to do?" he whispered, the words barely discernible even in the silence.

Rising from his chair suddenly, Methos wandered over to the latticed windows which overlooked the garden, and stood, saying nothing for the space of twenty seconds or so. Salzer did not dare to take his eyes off him, seriously fearing that should he look away for only a moment, in that moment, he could be dead.

"I don't have much choice; it looks as if I'll have to join your little boy's club, doesn't it?"

The words fell like sudden stones into a long abandoned pond and it took a few seconds before Salzer's mind was able to interpret what the Immortal had just said; his heart seemed to jump start and he breathed a long sigh of relief as he realised that he was, after all, going to be allowed to live. So real had been the threat of death that he buried his face in his hands and shut his eyes, unable to deny the overwhelming desire to escape from the reality of the experience he had just gone through.

A slim, gentle hand on his shoulder returned him to something like the more normal atmosphere of his existence, and he looked up at Methos with open gratitude. "How ... how close did I come?" he found himself saying, hanging on to what was only a tired warmth now in the other's still eyes.

"To death? Not close enough," breathed Methos, looking ruefully disgusted with himself. "I must be getting soft ..." Salzer had the urge to giggle, perhaps hysterically, but he bit down on it, wondering idly if some coffee might repair his shattered nerves somewhat. "You look like you could do with a drink, old man," Methos remarked and Salzer, grasping at the suggestion, asked if he could have some coffee.

"I'd get it myself, but I don't think my legs will carry me just at the moment, " he concluded, even his voice sounding shaky in his own ears.

"I was thinking of something rather more medicinal," Methos told him, already on his way over to the modest drinks cabinet tucked away in a corner of the room. "Brandy?" he asked, and Salzer nodded, happy, at the moment, to revel in the simple exercise of breathing, glad that he still could. He would have to think of something pretty convincing to tell Christine later, or it was a sure thing that she would be wanting to scalp his guest, no quarter given, should he ever show his face at the house again.

And he will do, thought Salzer, almost cheerfully, to himself, if he's to become part of the organisation. Oh, the blasphemy of it ... and once more, he had to stifle a chuckle, unable to help but appreciate the incredible irony of an Immortal hiding where no Watcher would ever think to look.

"The coffee's cold anyway," said Methos, handing him a brandy snifter containing a good three fingers of dark bronze liquor, and then reseating himself. He seemed to be more comfortable with the situation now, slipping down into the chair a little further than previously and swirling his own glass of brandy around with one hand. "So; what d'you think of my idea?"

Salzer burst out laughing, a short belly laugh, that reinforced the good feelings of just being alive.

"I think it's wonderful! No-one will ever guess; how could they? Daniel in the lion's den; not because he can tame the lions, but because he can make them think he's one with the rest of them. It's priceless!"

"Maybe that's how Daniel DID survive," Methos replied mysteriously.

"You could be right, my boy, you could be right." The Immortal's eyebrows shot up into his indiscriminate fringe at the 'my boy', and Salzer drew a short downward stroke in the fluff in his jacket pocket. 'Well, he mused, after nearly giving me a heart attack this evening, I think he owes me at least one.'

They sipped their drinks in silence for awhile and then Salzer got up and went over to the phone. "Since I have found a new recruit for our cause," he began, looking back at Methos, who after a moment, went over to join him, "do you feel up to meeting my boss?"

"That depends," replied Methos hesitantly. "What do I say to him?"

"That you 've just seen someone walking around who should be dead; I'm sure, after five thousand years, that you can come up with something convincing."

Methos scratched his head, a little uncertain. "It would have to be something which is going to make sure that I stay pretty close to myself, if you see what I mean."

"Oh, I'm sure I could get much more work done on Methos, if I had a younger assistant, " enthused Salzer, "someone who had access to obscure material; the kind of thing that you might dig up at, oh, say, a university?"

"You're sure you can make this work?" Suddenly, Methos seemed exactly as he appeared to be; a student in his late twenties who, having dabbled his toes cautiously in the waters of his elderly Don's footsteps, was now wondering whether he might find the pool too deep for him to cope with.

He'll convince them alright, realised Salzer as he nodded reassuringly, and he could feel the warmth of such a unique friendship already spreading out through the years in front of him. He had thought himself lucky to have known his old professor; to come to know someone like Methos in the same lifetime ... Salzer wondered what he could have done to deserve such a blessing.

With steady hands, Salzer dialled a number and holding the receiver to his ear, waited for the connection to be made. Watcher Headquarters was manned twenty-four hours a day, but it was getting on for late evening, and the chances were that most of the permanent members of staff would either be out - with their families or having a late dinner in the city somewhere - or in bed. The caretaker would be there of course, but he could be anywhere in the building, checking that all was secure, and so might take some time to answer the phone.

While he waited for a reply, Salzer put one more question to the Immortal standing beside him, hands clasped before him, and trying not to jog from foot to foot with impatience. He looks like he's waiting to see the dentist, mused Salzer wryly.

"Adam -- yes, I'd better get used to calling you that, hadn't I -- how did you come to find out about us?"

The answer supplied the final surprise of the evening.

"A Watcher saved my life once ..."

Salzer shook his head, his thoughts running in the direction of unpredictability and tangled webs; he would have liked to enquire further into the circumstances revealed by that statement, but his common sense told him that that had to be a tale for another time.

Someone finally picked up the phone the other end, and Salzer was through. "Hallo, Pierre? Is Henri Dubois in the building, do you know? ... ... He is? Good. Could you find him for me, please? I have someone here he will want to meet ..."

Outside the gates of Watcher Headquarters, Western Europe, Methos and Don Salzer sat in the latter's old Citroen and waited for the traffic, unusually heavy for that time of day, to pass, giving them a chance to pull out onto the road. They said nothing to each other, somehow abiding by some unspoken mutual agreement to hold back their thoughts until the journey was underway.

The last car finally gone by, Salzer pulled out and headed for the City. As if in the need for a backdrop to the awaited conversation, he turned on the radio and hopped channels until he came across something classical. "Ah, Vivaldi;" he remarked expansively. "I love his music, don't you, Adam?"

"It's alright," Methos replied slowly, his expression somewhat doubtful, "but I prefer something a little more modern, myself."

"Adam! You have shocked me!" Salzer was not indulging his sense of humour here. "Do you mean to tell me that after five thousand years of life, you cannot appreciate -"

"Oh, I can appreciate it; I'd rather listen to something that's a bit more up to date, that's all."

Salzer shook his head. "Incredible," he muttered, dubiously. "You must explain the fascination to me some time."

They drove on in silence for a while and then, lowering the car window and dragging in a lungful of fresh air, Methos turned to regard Salzer.

Picking up on the signal, Salzer spoke without returning the look, still concentrating on the road ahead. "Well; how do you think it went?"

"Meeting Dubois? I have no idea; you know the man better than I do," answered Methos giving the other man what someone else might have interpreted as an accusing glare. Flicking a glance in the Immortal's direction, and interpreting the expression somewhat differently, Salzer was almost tempted to smile.

"You had him eating out of your hand, don't worry," Salzer reassured him. "But you must have gained some impression, surely?"

"Well, it's not an experience I'd want to repeat in a hurry, but he seems like a good man."

"That's all? I would have thought you would have picked up some subtle nuances in his behaviour which would speak more of his character than that; I was hoping that you could help me to see him in a different light."

"You're really very interested in people, aren't you?" said Methos, making it more of a statement than a question, and subtly changing the subject.

"People come into my bookshop for more than just books, you know," Salzer told him, an agreeably enthusiastic smile lighting his face. " Yes, I enjoy debating with others their thoughts and ideas on many subjects and my work gives me an excellent opportunity to do just that; but you didn't really answer my question."

"Maybe I don't like making snap judgements," Methos almost growled back and turned to look out of the window.

Taking the hint, Salzer reined in his eagerness to try and turn the Immortal's mind inside out, reflecting that it would possibly be a hopeless task in any case. How many times in the past fifty centuries must such a man have renewed himself, rising phoenix-like from the ashes of some part of his life that he had decided was finished with? To even try to imagine the thought processes of someone that old must surely be impossible.

"I suppose you figured out who I was by a process of elimination;" Methos offered eventually, returning his gaze from the passing scenery. Salzer nodded calmly, sensing where this statement was leading. "What I want to know is how you knew I was an Immortal in the first place."

"If you want to keep that a secret, 'Adam', you had better avail yourself of a pair of sunglasses," Salzer replied, the warning in his words offset by the amusement in his voice. "I could see more in your eyes than could be possible for any mortal. So much that, if I had not been a Watcher, I would have thought you were a Saint."

"I'm no more a Saint than you are, old man," Methos retorted shortly, although he didn't look discomforted by the idea, as most people would have.

"No, no, I didn't mean it like that." Salzer paused for a moment in order to give his next words more weight. "I meant that anyone so revered usually expresses experience and knowledge which are beyond their years. I believe an old professor of mine, dead now, bless his soul, must be a likely candidate for that dubious honour in some future life."

"So what was there about me which caused you to make the distinction?" enquired Methos, appearing genuinely interested, although perhaps, thought Salzer afterwards, he was only allowing himself to take part in this game of twenty questions.

"Er ... the long overcoat?" ventured Salzer and Methos laughed, his whole face changing, becoming so friendly and seemingly familiar, that Salzer felt they should have known each other for lifetimes.

"Yes; a bit of a liability, that," Methos agreed, and to Salzer's eyes it looked as if the weight of the last few days' events was beginning to lift from the Immortal's slim shoulders.

"There will be a meeting in a few days' time when you will be introduced to some of the other permanent members of staff at Headquarters;" Salzer told him, becoming comparatively serious once more. "Will you be ready for that?"

"Yes, I think so," sighed Methos, disappointment at having to return his thoughts to what were, for him now, more mundane matters, flitting across his face. "I'm sure I can concoct something interesting for them to get their teeth into."

"I wonder if I will burn in mortal hell, for participating in this charade?" wondered Salzer, the business of having to slow down as they approached the centre of Paris somehow sending his thoughts off at a tangent.

"A man wise enough to know the difference between a Saint and an Immortal?" Methos teased him gently. "I somehow doubt it, old man."

Salzer sighed heavily. "It seems I have a new nickname ..."

"It seems I have a new job," returned Methos, his quirkily dark sense of humour refusing to let his new friend have the last pithy comment.

"Mmm. It has an ironic symmetry all its own, don't you think?" commented Salzer as they drew to a begrudging halt, dictated by the increased traffic filtering slowly into the Champs Elysee. "I think you have your work cut out for you, trying to find this Methos; so elusive, isn't he? You could be with us long enough to draw your pension, Adam," said Salzer, tongue firmly in his cheek.

"I just hope I don't lose my head over this little deception," replied Methos, more than half seriously.

"Just don't get hooked up with a boy scout like Duncan MacLeod;" warned Salzer. From what he knew of the four hundred year old Immortal, he had come to the conclusion that chivalry, in his hands, could be catching; he was constantly amazed to find that the Immortal had survived yet another risky encounter. "That one has considerably more than nine lives, if you ask me."

"I know," agreed Methos. "As a matter of fact I have a few entries in one of my journals which your Watcher Joe Dawson might be interested in."

"How did you know -"

Methos tapped the side of his nose. "You've got to let me hang on to some secrets."

The traffic centimetered its way towards the Arc de Triomphe. Salzer lowered his own side window and, laying his arm along the sill, began tapping out the rhythm of the Strauss Waltz which had just begun.

"Mmm, I suppose so;" he admitted grudgingly and wondered just how much more priceless and dangerous truth Methos would be willing to tell him about the past five thousand years. "After all, that's what the Watchers deal in - secrets."

Salzer turned to find the pale brown eyes watching him intently. What the hell, he thought; no matter how much or how little he lets go of, this man could almost be said to BE history. No-one else has lived so long nor seen so much. Such experience, having shaped and tested the man sat with him in the car, was priceless in itself. No matter that he was an Immortal, if only his other colleagues in the organisation could see him as he did, they would surely be glad to have him with them. Much better that than he be against them.

Methos' friendship he valued already; his insights into mankind and Immortal alike, he would value just as highly.

Looking back at the rows of jammed up cars in front of them, Salzer could still feel those eyes watching him. He turned to look at Methos once more, and realised that there was one more thing which should be said, so far left unuttered. With a genuine gladness in his heart and a broad smile once more gracing his own well-worn features, he supplied it.

"Welcome to the workforce, Adam Pierson."