Reflections Across a Grave
By
D. C. Black

Doyle picked up the tissue wrapped flowers and looked at them. They had once been red, and soft and damp with the beauty of new-cut roses. But that had been weeks ago, when life itself had seemed new and beautiful. Now the blossoms hung limp from their stems, dried and black with age. He didn't know why he'd kept them. He didn't know why he was here. He should be home, warm in bed, with Frankie -- she'd been willing enough. Instead, he sat behind the wheel of his car and shivered, on the edge of a graveyard with a dead bouquet.

He almost threw the roses back to the seat and started the engine, but he couldn't. That one more act of violence would be too much. Not for the flowers, particularly, but for Bodie.

He looked out the side window and found his partner's grey shape in the fog, even that image made strange by the creeping droplets on the glass. Doyle remembered again the rifle hitting his chest with the force of all the anger Bodie had left behind it. Without a word he had walked away, and left Doyle standing at the foot of the stairs, holding the gun, lashing out himself. He'd been angry too, at Willis, at the Special Branch agent that had fired the shot that had exploded in Marikka's back, at himself for not believing the murder until he touched her throat and found no pulse. At Cowley for not predicting it. But mostly at Bodie, for holding him accountable and wanting what he could never have. //Marikka.//

He threw his head back against the seat and clamped his eyes and his jaw tight against the injustice of it. Hadn't Bodie had enough? Hadn't Ray himself without feeling everything twice? //Damn Bodie!// If the man would only talk to him!

He opened his eyes and got out of the car before he could change his mind again. He'd left often enough, the cemetery, Bodie's flat, the pub where Bodie had taken to drinking himself unconscious - alone - every night. He'd been afraid of what Bodie might say to him. Or do. Or not do. He'd be perfectly happy if Bodie slugged him and broke his jaw if that would break the total silence as well. Doyle took a very deep breath of the cutting air and felt it shake going in. He was still afraid, because that silence might never break.

Bracing himself as if he were walking unarmed into a den of cop-killers, he pulled his woolen coat tighter against the cold and took the first step. Bodie may never speak to him again, but it wouldn't be because Ray wasn't there to hear.

He wasn't alone anymore. Bodie sensed it long before he saw Doyle's trudging shape materialize from the fog. He considered leaving, but that was becoming too easy. Leave Doyle to care for Marikka. Leave him to watch her die. Leave him to clean up all the loose ends according to whatever story Willis had dreamed up. He had left everything about the affair to Doyle except this. He had claimed Marikka's body himself, and found no one to challenge him. She had served her purpose and, to prevent a popular sympathy for the traitor, Special Branch and her loving husband had abandoned her to an unmarked grave in a potter's field -- a final insult that Bodie had refused to allow them. He had buried her quietly, without service, but had ordered the marble stone engraved to mark her passing through this life. She would have liked it, would have appreciated the irony...

But he was no longer alone. Doyle had climbed the hill and with the same slow pace strode to the grave. He stopped across the muddy mound from him and said nothing. He waited, and Bodie never looked at him.

Doyle read the inscription on the carved granite again, and suddenly found it hard to swallow. He looked away, blinking the mist from his eyes and resisting the urge to turn up his collar against the chill dawn fog. He didn't want to move, to rustle the dew-stained tissue around the flowers and give Bodie an excuse to leave. He would stand here motionless, while the cold seeped into his trainers and cut at his face and hands, until hell itself froze over if he had to. He just wished there was something to look at.

Something beside the fresh turned grave and Bodie.

But the cemetery sided with his partner and clung to its colorless blanket, giving him only shadows and shapes to mark other dead and invite his own to mind. There'd been enough of them in his life. Just last month Tinkerbell -- Doyle caught the nickname and stopped himself. The man's name was Hamidan, Anwar Hamidan, and he had died in a shadow play, part of an operation to protect nothing from no one for people who didn't exist. The memory still left a bitter taste in Ray's mouth, no matter that they did flush several infamous terrorists from the woodwork. It wasn't worth it. Not the way they'd been forced to play it. Not at the price of Anwar's life.

And Paul Haydon hadn't been worth Syd's life; nor Baker, Terkoff, Culver and Wences together worth Ann Seaford's; nor Paul Coogan worth the threat to CI5. Nearly a year ago, that one had been, but it still cut deeply. Ray still couldn't be sure he hadn't killed the man, still couldn't shake the tiny voice that called him a murderer whenever he thought of it. He glanced at Bodie, still staring at the headstone as if Doyle didn't exist. He had been the only thing that had kept Ray from giving into that voice, quitting and taking the prison term for manslaughter. He remembered Bodie coming to his flat, arguing him out of his mood and reminding him of responsibilities. Doyle had held that afternoon very close ever since. Bodie's last, quiet question had almost seemed a promise, an affirmation at least, that there was nothing they wouldn't face together.

Doyle looked away into the fog. He should have known better.

Twenty-two minutes. Bodie had counted twenty-two minutes since Doyle had stopped beside the plot, and the man had never moved a muscle. Just his eyes, searching for something to occupy his mind while he played Bodie's little game. There wasn't anything to look at. Bodie could have told him that. He'd spent enough time standing on this hillside in the cold, and in the fog. Even in the sunlight there was nothing here but death. And Ray had never been very comfortable with death.

Bodie closed his eyes for a moment, wishing Doyle away from this place -- on a job, with a bird, anywhere but standing across Marikka's grave from him.

But the game had gone on too long. He was sure now that Ray would stay until Bodie said something, re-opened the lines of communication -- even if they both died of old age standing there. He drew a deep, resigned breath and decided to save them both the trouble.

"So," he said flatly, without looking at the man. "What are you doing here?"

To his credit, Bodie noted, Doyle still didn't move. Not right away, at least, and then he only shrugged. "Pay my respects."

Bodie couldn't contain the derisive laugh. "Respects? What in bloody hell do you know about it anyway?"

Doyle was silent for a long while before he answered. "More than you think, mate. Marikka told me everything."

For the first time, Bodie eyes snapped up to his partner, and Doyle's gaze was there to meet him.

"Bodie," she said, and repeated the name again slowly. "Bodie. That's all? Just Bodie?"

Bodie took a second from nuzzling her neck to look up at her and answer.

"Yep."

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the pillow, inviting his kisses and driving him half-mad with rekindled desire. He buried his face in her hair and pulled her against him. Her arm slid around his back, silken encouragement, and he swore he would never get enough of her. Marikka. Marikka was a beautiful name, for a beautiful, raven goddess.

"Well, I knew your name wasn't really Mueller," she continued softly, moving against him like a living flame. "Your German is terrible."

He bit her ear, just short of gently, and she screamed, rolling away from him and taking the blankets with her. The loft was icy cold, courtesy of her brother's protest against paying the State for heat. He made a grab for her and missed, falling across the still warm bed, laughing. Marikka laughed too, a sound he would kill to hear, and decided to show mercy. She glided back to him and sat curled on the mattress, tugging a length of blanket free to toss over him. He rolled over under it and looked up at her, smiling at the wonder of ever having found her. "Do you love me?" he whispered.

"Of course I do, Liebling! Now is a strange time to ask, after confessing you're a British agent!"

"A British citizen. I'm an independent agent."

She laughed again, trying hard to look serious. "Oh, yes, bitte," she apologized, and leaned down to kiss him. He held her there, near him, and the smile vanished from his lips. There would be no turning back, once he said the words, but her eyes, so near his own, trusted him, and he could do no less.

"Marikka, I'm leaving tonight, and I want you to come with me."

He felt her tense against his arm and pull back. He released her and allowed her to sit up. She stared across the room at nothing for a long moment. "Leave Berlin?" Her voice was small.

"You always said you wanted to see the world."

"As an actress, not a mercenary! Why? Why can't you stay here? With me?" Her eyes challenged him.

"Because," he said slowly, meeting her perfect brown gaze, "I have a job to do, someone to deliver to the West."

Her mouth opened and her eyes widened, realizing what he had just said to her. "Von Myerling!"

He just waited, watching her, and said nothing. She didn't need his confirmation.

"Oh, my God. Bodie. Oh, Bodie, why did you have to tell me?"

"I want you to come with me." He sat up, dislodged the blanket, and took her shoulders. She stared at him, her gaze held for once by the force of his will. "I want," he said slowly, "to marry you."

She melted between his hands, swayed against him and clung to him. Her skin was warm against his, but her tears burned like acid where they rolled down his chest. "I am an agent of my government, too, my dear, dear Bodie," she whispered. "What can we do now?"

Doyle held Bodie's gaze, refusing to lose that contact, however unintentionally it had been made. "Everything?" Bodie asked.

Ray nodded. "I suspect she left out most of the steamy details, but yes, everything."

Bodie frowned and looked away, out over the mist-shrouded yard, and Doyle wanted to kick himself for his flippancy. Any other time, any other place, Bodie would have expected it of him, but here ... now ... Doyle had no idea what Bodie expected of him, and that in itself was frightening. If he could even make an educated guess ...

But this was Bodie he was thinking of. Not Cowley or Syd or any of a hundred other people he knew as well as his own hand. Bodie could still surprise him, would surprise him on occasion just to remind Ray he still could. But Bodie had never tried that when it counted. He was always right where Ray expected him to be, doing exactly what they both knew it took to stay alive and get the job done. But this time there was no job to be done. There was no mutual goal to bind them together with action. There was only Doyle himself, and what he needed. But trusting a man with your life didn't always mean trusting him with anything else.

"Is that what she was doing at your flat? Declaring her innocence?" Bodie stared away, across the cemetery, as if Doyle's answer would come from out of the fog.

Maybe it should, Ray thought. Maybe he should walk away right now and wait for Bodie to come to him. But the dried flowers rustled in his hand, reminding him of why he'd driven out here at dawn and decided to stay and freeze rather than leave. If they didn't settle it now, they never would.

"No," Doyle said, rather more sharply than he'd intended. "She was declaring your innocence. If you'd ever come in to hear the tapes, you'd've known that."

Bodie's jaw worked, and he shifted his weight -- the only signs of his anger and his battle for control. But again, he preferred to stare into the fog rather than look at Doyle.

"Damn you," Doyle bit out at last, his own patience snapping suddenly, weeks overdue. "She loved you! How can you doubt she was innocent?"

Bodie whirled on him, and for an instant Doyle thought he was dead. But Bodie's fists stayed clenched at his sides, and only his words stabbed out across the grave.

"Because she wasn't innocent last time, now, was she?"'

It was cold and dark, and they had chosen the night of the new moon for just that reason. But the weather had handed them one better. A blizzard was threatening, twisting the sky with black clouds so that even the stars gave no light. It would have been a perfect night to cross the Wall.

If not for Marikka.

Bodie paced the even deeper shadows at the mouth of the alley where he had told her to meet him. He knew already that she wasn't coming. He never should have left her alone to think about it. He never should have asked her in the first place. A half dozen men could die tonight and every one of them would be on his head, because he had been stupid enough to fall in love.

A patter of heels on the sidewalk caught his attention and he drew back against the brick building, hidden from the street lamps by its shadow. The running steps slowed as they neared the alley, and for a moment, Bodie's heart leapt. He saw the silhouette melt into the dark alley and knew it for Marikka.

"Bodie."

The whisper came barely audibly, and Bodie moved from his dark corner to take her into his arms. She hugged his neck, her mouth finding his silently, desperately, and he knew she had only come to warn him. He drew back. "How long?" he asked.

"What?"

"How long!" His voice was a mere whisper, but it carried all the violence in his heart across to her.

"One hour." She swallowed with difficulty. "I told them midnight, so you'd better go."

"Just like that?"

"It must be!" Her eyes pleaded with him, begged him just this once to do as she said, trust her without question. For the sake of what they might have had. She might have the Secret Police waiting for them now, and at midnight they would be safe, but Bodie's fury writhed and died beneath the pain in his chest. He pulled her to him one last time, heard her whisper close to his ear. "I do love you, Bodie."

Then she pulled out of his arms and was gone.

"You bastard," Doyle hissed, as he looked away to think through the implications. His eyes flashed back to him almost at once, a deadly anger turning them cold and sharp, and not allowing Bodie to look away. "You were going to kill her yourself!"

Bodie met his glare levelly, remembering the shots biting cement off the walls of the precinct house, of Cowley's innocent "What are you talking about?" over the RT. He remembered driving for the one place he might yet have left to go, and finding Marikka there, cozy with Doyle over a cup of tea. She had set him up again, he had been sure of it, just as sure as he had been all those years ago in Berlin when three of his rescue team had died in the ambush waiting at the Wall. Their employers hadn't really cared; they had delivered Von Myerling to them. But Bodie cared, because he had loved her, still loved her, and because she had betrayed him once again.

It was only fitting that he carry out sentence himself.

"She was a traitor," Bodie bit back, from deep in his throat, warning Doyle not to charge any deeper into forbidden territories. But Doyle had said and heard too much already to leave him in peace. Ray ignored the threat and refused to back down.

"You stupid bastard," he repeated. "If you'd think for once instead of blasting up the countryside, maybe, maybe you would have saved everybody a lot of grief!" Doyle was about to add something more, but abruptly shut his mouth. He threw up his hand instead, and finished almost quietly. "Willis set us all up."

"According to her."

"According," Ray dropped the words like mines, "to me.'

The wind went out of Bodie suddenly, leaving Ray off balance and with nowhere to vent his rage, as if he fought a spectre that changed shape at will. He wondered if he would ever truly understand Bodie, batter down all those walls to see the real man. He almost missed it when Bodie spoke again.

"I went by your place first."

"I was there. I didn't see you." He still heard the undercurrent of anger in his words, but it felt past effectiveness, like the tide going out.

Bodie looked down, dark lashes denying Ray whatever clues were in his eyes, and his voice was flat. "I saw you. Having tea, you were."

"Trying to convince her I was on your side, I was. Wanted to scratch me eyes out when I questioned her about you." He could still hear her voice in his nightmares, where the entire day played over and over to the same bloody ending. //"...Against my husband, the whole secret police and the KGB! ... Bodie! We were both set up! ... They tricked me into it!"// And the shot that sprayed blood from her back. Always that, and sometimes Doyle himself pulled the trigger. "I should have seen it coming," he said again quietly, to himself. She had never even screamed.

He hadn't realized Bodie had heard him until he spoke. "You couldn't have seen it coming. Cowley maybe, but you still believe in honor. Get you killed one of these days."

Doyle looked up at him, and found Bodie half-smiling at him. It would have been a glad sight, if Ray hadn't seen him smile just as sincerely at men he was about to torture. Ray shook his head once, and surrendered gracelessly. "I'm wasting my time," he snarled and turned and walked away.

Bodie's voice followed him down the hill, carried strangely close by the thick mist. "Ray."

Against his better judgment, Doyle stopped and stood for a moment with his hands on his hips and his head back, interrogating the heavens on why he ever bothered listening to Bodie at all. But he turned around and walked back up to Marikka's grave.

Bodie watched him approach, his face expressionless, but his eyes moving -- what in Bodie passed for indecision. Doyle decided to give him a count of twenty before going back down the hill and driving off, and felt inordinately generous at that. But before he had reached five, Bodie continued, staring down at the new grave as if he were seeing for the first time. Maybe, Ray considered as he watched him, he was.

"Ray ... did she say anything?"

"You could still come in and listen to the tapes."

"I don't mean on the tapes."

Doyle forced himself not to flinch from the impatience in Bodie's voice.

He knew exactly what Bodie meant, but suddenly he was not at all sure Bodie should hear it. Not standing in a cemetery, two weeks and fifteen years too late. "Yeah," he said anyway. "She asked me to give you a message, in case..."

Doyle trailed off and Bodie's eyes found his. "In case," the ex-mercenary finished for him, "I wouldn't let her talk. I considered that," he added.

Doyle watched him for a long moment, wondering where the past two weeks had gone. Or perhaps an eternity had passed while they had stood there, duelling for her honor, and the Bodie he had found this morning was just the last part of his nightmare. His voice was gentle when he finally answered. "She thought you might."

"And?"

"And she said she was wrong. Her line should have been 'Unsere Liebe uber alles.' She thought even with your bad German you'd understand."

Bodie smiled, but didn't include Ray in whatever memory Marikka had left for him. Doyle decided again to leave, quietly this time, but a rustle of tissue reminded him of the roses he had carried all along. He thought he must have looked ridiculous, arguing with Bodie with a bunch of dead flowers in his hand, but at least now he knew why he had kept them. He held them out to his partner.

"Bodie."

The man looked up from his memories and his eyes caught on the bouquet. There was no doubt, when he raised his eyes to Ray's, that he recognized the flowers. And the sentiment, much as Bodie would have done without both.

"I thought you might still want these."

Bodie hesitated, then reached across the grave to the green-wrapped flowers. But instead of taking them, his hand closed on Doyle's wrist. Their gazes held for a long moment, before Bodie decided to break the silence.

"Next time, I'll still go to your flat first."

Doyle almost laughed. He would grow old with a collection of these moments when Bodie almost brought himself to say what he meant and let Ray inside the walls. He settled for an indulgent smile. "There better not be a next time!"

"Right." Bodie grinned, and his hand left Doyle's wrist and took the flowers. With a shade of embarrassment, he gestured with the blood-dark roses. "You're right about this as well."

"Yeah, well, that aside, I really only came to warn you Cowley wants your hide for a carpet." He dropped into his imitation of Cowley's burr. "'No man of mine can shirk his duty for half a month and think he'll get away with it!"' Bodie laughed, predictably, and Doyle wondered again just when things had gotten back to normal. In his own accent, he added, "See you in the morning, sunshine," and left him alone.

Bodie watched him go, his eyes following as Ray strolled down the hillside to his car without a backward glance. The car coughed once from the cold and humidity before the engine caught, and Doyle drove it out of sight. Then Bodie looked at the flowers he had bought a lifetime ago and given to a kittenish old lady outside the hotel. They were dried and blackened and drooped on brownish stems, but when he lifted them to his face, the scent of sweet roses still clung to them.

After a moment, he knelt down and gave them to Marikka.

THE END