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Author's note: A question has come up that I want to answer. Yes there will be more than one movie. Additionally Sorry for making Chegwidden a nazi, I just couldn't think of anyone else to fill the role.

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Inspector Webb looked over the reports on his desk. Six new arrests had been made last night, among them the man who was arrested at the Seahawk. As Harm had predicted, the man been killed in an "accident" on the way to the local constabulary. The exit visas had mysteriously disappeared. And they would never be found, until it was too late.

Webb patted his breast pocket. No, the visas would never be found. After all, no one, not even Major Chegwidden, special emissary to the Third Reich, had the authority to search a chief inspector of the Free French Police.

As if on cue, the door to Webb's office swung open and Major Chegwidden stalked in.

"Any word on Brumby," he asked.

Webb neither saluted nor got up from his desk, he simply looked at his watch.

"I have tasked my men with bringing him in. He will receive the standard…warning that we give all people of his type."

This did nothing to change Chegwidden's harsh demeanor, "Can these men be trusted?"

Webb looked up from his desk, and smiled a fake smile. "I trust them as much as I trust you, Herr Chegwidden."

Chegwidden grunted.

Footsteps could be heard, coming from down the hallway. Mic Brumby came in through the door, followed by two policemen.

"I don't suppose you'd mind telling me why I've been dragged here?" Brumby asked, indignation present with every word he spoke.

Chegwidden stretched to his full height and glared at Brumby. "Herr Brumby, you are an escaped prisoner of the Reich. You were lucky enough to make it to Casablanca. It is my job to make sure that you stay in Casablanca. As you know it is only possible to leave if one has an exit visa, which must be personally signed by Inspector Webb here." Chegwidden turned to Webb. "Is it possible that this man will receive an exit visa."

Webb shook his head.

Brumby smiled smugly and shrugged, "Perhaps I'll like it in Casablanca."

Chegwidden chuckled, "Don't unpack just yet. You may be here in Casablanca indefinitely, or you could be on a plane to Lisbon tomorrow. On one condition."

Brumby sneered, "Which is?"

"You know the names of every resistance leader in every occupied territory. Oslo, Paris, Prague…"

"Rome, Berlin," Brumby added, still sneering.

"If you were to give us those names, you would find yourself with an exit visa by tomorrow."

Brumby laughed, "You held me in Dachau for several months. If I didn't tell you then, I'm not telling you now." He turned, "So unless there's anything else."

He then left without waiting for an answer.

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Harm had woken up with a hangover to end all hangovers. After he had applied one of his famous cures, which didn't work, he decided to clear his head by taking a walk through the market.

The market was alive with the sights and smells of trade. Little else could be heard over the shouts of peddlers selling their wares. Harm looked around at the various stalls, but didn't buy anything. He never did.

He had just managed to escape an Arab trying to sell him, what he claimed to be a thousand year old hand-woven Persian rug-though Harm didn't even have to look at it to know that it was probably a machine-woven rug, most likely made last week-when Harm caught sight of her.

Harm could see Mac, a few feet away, haggling with a vendor over the price of some fabric. Now that he was sober and his headache had begun to fade, he decided to try again. He came up behind her while she continued to haggle.

He leaned in, "You're being cheated." He whispered in her ear.

Mac, for her credit, did not turn around. She quickly agreed on a price, collected her goods and started to walk away. Harm gave chase.

"I'd like to apologize for last night," he called after her, "I wasn't exactly in any condition to be receiving visitors."

"It doesn't matter." Mac threw over he shoulder, all the while still walking.

Harm sped up to meet her pace until they were walking shoulder to shoulder.

"Why did you come back?" Harm wanted to know, "To tell me why you didn't meet the train?"

"Yes." Mac let out with a sigh.

"Well, you can tell me now. Now that I'm reasonably sober." Harm coaxed.

Mac shook her head, letting out a dry chuckle, "No I don't think so."

Harm looked at her in askance, "Why not? I got stuck with the train ticket. I think I have a right to know."

Mac sighed, "You're not the man I knew in Hong Kong. The Harm I knew in Hong Kong would never have looked at me with such hatred in his eyes. I'm leaving Casablanca soon anyway. If we leave it at this, then we'll remember Casablanca and not last night."

With that she sped up again.

"Why?" Harm called after her, "Was because you didn't think you could take it? Being on the run all the time?"

Mac turned sharply with sad hollow look in her eyes. "No," she shook her head sadly, "Harm…Mic is my husband. I am and always have been married." With one last sad look she turned and walked away.

Harm let out the breath he did know he had been holding, "Well I'll be damned." He muttered to himself.