Raymond Doyle expertly slid the white Escort to a halt and casually checked their surroundings. The dockside warehouse district was peacefully unoccupied on this early Sunday morning. Bodie, lounging in the passenger seat, stated the obvious.
“No one here.”
“He’s probably waitin’ for me inside.”
“So, let’s go.”
“Morrison told me to come alone.”
“We are alone,” the dark-haired man grinned.
“He’s my grass, Bodie. Dealt with me when I was at the Yard.”
“So? You never had a partner along when you were meetin’ pigeons at the Yard?”
“Not when I was on Drugs Squad, no.” Doyle glanced pointedly at the dashboard clock, then ran his fingers restlessly through his curls. “I’m gonna be late.” His right hand closed on the car door handle.
“He one of the twelve, then?” Bodie asked.
“Eh?” Doyle’s green eyes met Bodie’s blue ones with honest puzzlement.
“Y’know, one of the dozen people who knew where you lived when you were undercover on Drugs Squad.”
“Thought you were asleep when I said that. No. Morrison didn’t know where my digs were.”
“So, that’s that. ’M coming with you, mate.” Bodie opened his door and stepped out into the sunshine. Doyle instantly joined him from the other side of the Escort. “Bodie....”
“He won’t even know I’m there,” Bodie cajoled. “I’ll just keep in the background, alone and darkly loitering with the packing crates. Be as quiet as a mouse, I will.”
Doyle silently gave in, and the two agents strode down the cracked cement, arriving at the side entrance to the closest warehouse. Bodie quietly tested the door and cocked his right eyebrow at Doyle as the unlocked door parted.
Morrison must be here first, Bodie thought, as he bowed his partner through and then softly closed the wooden door behind them.
True to his word, Bodie stealthily slipped away from his partner as Doyle walked deeper into the warehouse. The nineteenth-century building was three storeys tall, with most of its functional area devoted to an enormous open room. Almost twenty-five feet above the vast space, a series of metal catwalks crisscrossed the area, providing access to the ceiling lighting and two large skylights. Thick layers of grime and dust reduced the amount of sunlight that filtered through the skylights, leaving the interior heavily shadow-cast. A row of one-storey cubicles ran along the back wall, adequately serving as the warehouse’s offices. Several convoluted stacks of packing crates, barrels and industrial-size boxes covered large chunks of the floor, but Doyle’s eyes, once accustomed to the gloom, picked out Morrison. His informant was propped against the side of a huge, wooden crate bordering a cleared area toward the center of the room.
As the CI5 man joined him, Morrison snapped, “You’re late.”
“Traffic,” Doyle said laconically, green eyes noting that Morrison had lost a few hairs and gained a few pounds since their last meeting. “What’ve you got for me, then, Morrie?”
“You didn’t ’ear it from me,” Morrison began, then conspiratorially lowered his voice. Doyle crowded closer to hear. “My cousin Timothy’s Irish relations….”
“Are bloody well behaving themselves,” a different, amused whisper finished from behind Doyle.
“What the --?” The agent unconsciously adopted the whispering tone as he turned around, encountering a grinning stranger with a revolver aimed at him.
“There is, however,” the tall, brown-haired man continued softly, “a plot afoot to capture a CI5 agent -- or two.” Abruptly, the man shouted, “Bodie!”
Doyle kept his face neutral. A trap. The Cow’ll have my guts for garters for walkin’ into this. Shoulda listened to Bodie.
“We have Doyle!” As if the shout was a signal, three other armed men emerged from the warehouse shadows. Doyle noted grimly that one of them cradled a shotgun. “Ten seconds, Bodie! Or you’ll need a new partner!”
“Don’t do ih -- oof!” Doyle’s fledgling warning was cut off by a vicious chop to the stomach. Recovering, he glared at his armed captors, but made no further movement. The spokesman gestured, and the heavies all stepped backward, fanning out and increasing the distance between themselves and the agent. They kept their guns trained on Doyle, but he noticed that Morrison and the three additional men cast a few nervous glances above and behind them. By moving away from the trapped CI5 man, they had increased the effective range of their weapons to cover more of the cleared space of the warehouse.
They’re afraid Bodie’s got some trick up his sleeve. All but the leader, that is. The brown-haired man whom Doyle deemed the one in charge calmly watched his captive from the fifteen feet separating them. Neither he nor Doyle was surprised when Bodie appeared at the end of the nearest aisle, open, empty hands very much in evidence.
The leader’s eyes met Bodie’s. “Over there,” he motioned with his left hand. “Not too close,” he added in an almost conversational tone, and Bodie halted about five feet away from Doyle. “Now, you will both kindly remove your guns -- very slowly and with two fingers only -- and toss them gently on the floor.” Doyle glanced sidelong at Bodie, and the leader continued, “These men have no compunction against drilling you both with bullets, Mr. Doyle. I suggest you do what I say. Now.”
Reluctantly, Doyle reached his right hand into his jacket and slowly withdrew his Browning pistol, using the specified two fingers. He pitched the gun in an arc, and it landed about two meters in front of him -- closer to the CI5 agent than the men covering him, but definitely out of reach.
“That’s better,” the lead villain said. “Now, we’ll dispose of the R/Ts, too. You’ll both toss them to Morrison, one at a time. You first, Bodie.”
The snitch moved in closer to the two agents, but carefully avoided stepping into the lines of fire of the gunmen at his back. Bodie slowly extracted his R/T and threw the government-issued communication device to Morrison, who caught it and slipped it into a jacket pocket. Doyle’s grass then waited for Doyle to surrender his own R/T, which Morrison caught, dashing the agent’s hopes that he would drop it and possibly give them a few seconds’ diversion.
The strange situation was getting to Doyle. Since his failed attempt to warn Bodie, no one but the smooth-spoken lead captor had said a word. The heavies seemed almost afraid of their leader, and Bodie had kept silent, as well.
Can’t put my finger on it, but the head man acts as if he knows Bodie. I wonder....
“Well, now that the preliminaries are over, we can get down to business. First off, I bring you greetings from the Turkel brothers.” The leader intercepted the quick, puzzled glances Doyle and Bodie exchanged. “Surely you haven’t forgotten the unfortunate incident at the station house a few months back? Charley and Henry Turkel remember you two very well, indeed.”
“Oh, the ‘Terrors-of-the-East-End’ Turkels,” Doyle spoke, figuring that if a man asks a question, he expects to receive an answer. “Yeah, we remember them, too. They’re both in quod now, safely tucked away for a good many years to come.”
“The Turkels are being detained at Her Majesty’s expense, but they still have plenty of contact with the outside world. Your friend Morrison here is a fine example. Presumably, he owes you something, Mr. Doyle, as he’s been your grass for years, but it wasn’t difficult to persuade him that he owed the Turkels more.”
“So that’s how you did it,” Bodie entered the conversation, glaring threateningly at Morrison, who had silently been absorbing the discussion.
“CI5 is a very small organization, Bodie. Once we placed Cowley, it was not difficult to pinpoint the exact agents involved. After all, many of the denizens of the prison were put there by you and your fellow agents.”
“Certainly not by you, eh? At the Turkel brothers’ beck and call these days, aren’t we?” Bodie sneered, strengthening Doyle’s impression that his partner knew the well-spoken crook.
“I’m an independent,” the man grinned, “but the Turkels’ contract was not one I wished to turn down, especially after I heard you were involved. Oh, but we’re leaving your partner in suspense -- and you don’t know the schedule either, Bodie. Smithers, what was that amusing little ditty that Turkel composed?”
The man who had his gun aimed straight at Bodie quoted immediately, “Doyle -- shotgun to the head. Bodie -- gut-shot, left for dead.”
Neither agent reacted visibly to the agenda. Bodie’s gaze raked over the armed men, and both he and Doyle noted that their captors tightened their grips on their weapons and stepped a little closer to the agents in anticipation.
They want to see us squirm, Doyle realized. Sorry, but CI5 doesn’t squirm, boys.
Someone did. Morrison spoke hesitantly to the leader. “I got ’em here for you, and I’ve met my part of the deal. Said I didn’t have to watch, so I’d like to leave now.”
“Run along, then,” the man in charge spoke contemptuously. “Leave the R/Ts in my car; we might need them later.”
“Yes, sir,” Morrison mumbled and circled behind the gunmen, heading rapidly for the warehouse’s exit.
“What d’you want the R/Ts for?” Doyle asked, hearing Bodie’s words from an earlier crisis echoing in his mind: “Keep ’em talking. Keep ’em interested.”
“They will provide an easy way to reach Mr. Cowley. The contract is for all three of you, you see.”
“Cowley would never fall for that,” Bodie stated with certainty.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the dark-haired leader said. “I bet he would come to the rescue of his prize team -- or half of it. You always did have the luck of the devil, Bodie. It’s possible you’ll even survive this. You only have Charley Turkel mad at you. ‘The man smiles too much,’ Charley told me. ‘Want to give him something to smile about. Or not.’ Doyle, here, on the other hand, has incurred Henry Turkel’s anger, and that’s not wise. Henry’s temper is widely renowned, and his prison stint has only made it worse. Word is, it’s driven him round the twist, which is why Charley was so determined to spring him in the first place. Ah, well, the best laid plans....”
Bodie suddenly dived for his gun on the ground almost 7 feet in front of him. The unexpected move caught his guards by surprise, but one of them, Smithers, retained the presence of mind to shoot. He aimed for the rapidly decreasing space between Bodie and his gun and fired. A searing, red-hot pain started in Bodie’s right hand, but he blocked it from his mind and closed on the weapon with both hands. Elbows braced, he instantly sighted the Browning on the head of the shotgun-toting hoodlum and pulled the trigger. The bullet connected with the man’s head, pitching him backward while his dead hands triggered the shotgun’s fire harmlessly into the ceiling high overhead.
Bodie was vaguely aware that the pain had increased and his hands were red and sticky on the gun. Desperately, he twisted on the ground, frantically sighting on the leader, knowing how accurate the man was with a weapon. Bodie fired and heard an instantaneous echoing shot; then, something whistled past his ear, and the head captor fell to the ground.
Bodie became aware that Doyle had followed his lead and had also regained his gun, when his beginning-to-fuzz vision spotted his partner. Doyle was similarly sprawled across the floor, taking aim and firing quickly on one of the two remaining gunmen.
As his targeted victim fell, the fourth man took off, hell-bent on reaching the safety of the warehouse door. Leaping to his feet, Doyle fired at the retreating figure, shouting, “Halt or the next one won’t miss!”
The man stopped running and froze on the spot.
“Bodie?” Doyle asked worriedly over his shoulder as he ran to the three fallen criminals. He checked the bodies and kicked all the guns out of the dead men’s reach, clearly taking no chances. He gave the shotgun an especially powerful boot, enormously pleased to see it skitter across the warehouse floor. Then he turned to their live captive, approaching him cautiously. His eyes scanned the warehouse for some way to detain their prisoner; he sighted a forklift and decided that it would do nicely. Motioning with his gun, he herded the man over to the forklift and pulled out an ever-present pair of handcuffs. He fastened one around the man’s wrist and circled the cuffs around the strut supporting the cab’s roof, then clicked the other shut on the man’s other hand. Confident that he had dealt with all of their captors, he hurriedly rejoined his partner.
Bodie was sitting on the floor, sagging against a crate, his left hand holding a blood-spattered handkerchief wrapped around his right hand.
“Bodie!” Doyle knelt by his partner. “How bad is it?” he asked, pulling out his own handkerchief and wrapping it over Bodie’s.
“Bad enough,” Bodie grunted, then winced.
Doyle jerked his head toward the offices. “I’ll get the squad and an ambulance.”
Bodie shook his head. “Phone’s cut. Best bet...R/Ts.”
“Have to find the bastard’s motor, then.” Doyle cursed himself for not signing out a radio-equipped car. “Be back as soon as I can. You’ll be all right, sunshine?”
“Not...goin’ any...where,” Bodie panted, fuzzily watching as Doyle jumped up and stalked over to the leader’s body, frisked it, scooped up a set of keys and took off for the exit at a dead run.
* * *
“Two months!” Bodie stalked past his partner and into his flat, leaving it to Doyle to close the door. “Two months,” he repeated in disgust as he paced his parlour. “That’s eight bloody weeks! Can’t stay cooped up here that long.” He flung his bandaged right hand outward and flinched at the pain even that simple, thoughtless move produced. “It’ll send me round the twist, I swear!”
“Look on the bright side,” Doyle said, studiously avoiding any mention of Bodie’s wince. He knew Bodie would not appreciate any sympathetic outpourings over his pain and suffering. Too macho, that’s your trouble, mate. Doyle considered their recent skirmish with Krivas’ men and reformed his opinion. Runnin’ with that bunch would make anyone reluctant to admit weakness or pain -- leave ’em too vulnerable. Guess it’s become second nature now for you to cover up any suffering. “At least you’re not in hospital now.”
That set Bodie off again. “Hospitals! I hate being in hospital, Doyle. You know it, and the Cow knows it. So why’d he keep me there for three whole days?”
“Doctor’s orders. Actually, the doc wanted to keep you for a week.” Before his partner could vocalize his opinion of that idea, Doyle said, “Three days was the minimum stay he’d agree to, provided you follow through with your hand therapy at home and don’t overdo it.” Doyle eased up on his tone. “It’s easy enough: do the prescribed hand exercises, take the medication when you need to, don’t mix the pills with alcohol.”
Bodie stopped his pacing. “You sound like the hospital sister. Look a bit like ’er too, too, only she had a mustache.”
“St. Rita’s finest,” Doyle nodded. “Bumped into her once in the hall, I think. Well, now you c’n have your own private nurse….” Bodie’s eyebrows rose at an alarming rate. “Not me, you berk, Michelle! ’Member what you told me when I got my leg shot and had the sticks? You were right; birds love lookin’ after injured hero types.”
Bodie considered the suggestion and found it to his liking. “Michelle does have the next few days free. No flights ’til Thursday.” He relaxed enough to sit down on the settee, but the familiar walls seemed to be closing in on him. “Can’t sit here,” he gestured widely with his good left hand, “doing nothing all day, Ray. ’M not used to it! Drive myself right up the wall, I will.”
“Gotcha!” Doyle looked smug as he, too, relaxed on the settee. “How many surveillance jobs have we been on, sitting in the car the entire eight-hour shift? Or stuck down in Records for hours on end?”
“That’s different, Ray; that’s work.”
“Yeah, I know. Never thought I’d see the day you’d be beggin’ to work in the file room, though.”
“Ray....” Bodie’s growl did not fully cover the hurt in his eyes.
“If that’s what you want,” Doyle hastily added, seeing that Bodie was not up to their usual backchat. “I’ll put in a good word for you with the Cow. Might have better luck if one of the other lads did it instead, though. ’M not exactly his flavour of the month right now.”
“Oh? What’ve you been up to these last three days?”
“Nothing,” Doyle denied, eyes resting on his partner’s damaged hand. “But the Cow thinks this whole thing is my fault.” Bodie’s eyebrows climbed upwards again. “He said if both of us had met Morrison to start with, the incident might never have happened. Seems to think no one would be foolhardy enough to go after two CI5 men at once.”
“Wouldn’t have made any difference in this case,” Bodie said decisively, giving Doyle the opening he was seeking.
“Think you’re right. And there was nothing foolish about the bloke in charge of the ambush.” Doyle now knew that the bloke in charge had been named Peters, and he was once a lieutenant in the SAS in the early ’70s. The curly-haired CI5 man had also seen the report Bodie had dictated to Betty while still in hospital, which carefully omitted mentioning the head villain by name. “Jonathan L. Peters, late of the SAS. You knew him, didn’t you, Bodie?”
His partner shifted restlessly on the settee, and then finally said coldly, “I knew him -- when he was worth knowing.”
He said nothing further, and Doyle figured that was all he’d get from the direct approach. The official record had been slightly more edifying; Peters had been dishonourably discharged from the service in 1974 after men under his command had died in Northern Ireland. It was never stated, but reading between the lines, Doyle had the impression that the SAS suspected Peters had sold out to the enemy, plotting with the IRA to ambush his own men. “I knew him -- when he was worth knowing.” Bodie certainly thinks Peters shopped his own mob. He didn’t even use Peters’ name once at the warehouse. Probably even relished shooting him, though he got the thug with the shotgun first.
Doyle regarded his still-silent partner. The past seems to be catching up with you lately, Bodie. First, Krivas and his bunch. Now, Peters. You wanted to kill Krivas; you settled for a roughhouse instead. But Peters is dead....
Not liking the direction his thoughts were taking him, Doyle switched topics. “The lads went over the warehouse Sunday, and the phone wires were cut, just like you told me. Can’t figure out how you knew it beforehand, though.”
“Leave the enemy with an open line of communication?” Bodie snorted. “That’s not the kind of mistake I would make, and he wouldn’t either. No professional would.” Bodie’s eyes darkened as he stressed the “he,” obviously referring to Peters, albeit indirectly.
Professional what, Bodie? Why do you suddenly remind me of Shotgun Tommy? He was a killer. “The difference is, Doyle, I do it -- but I don’t enjoy it.” I think you enjoyed killing Peters, though. Is that why you won’t mention him by name? A distancing trick from your SAS days? Doyle shook himself mentally. “Guess not.”
“Ray, can we talk about something else? I’ve just been sprung from three days in hospital, and I want to celebrate. Drink?”
“You know you’re not supposed to have any alcohol,” Doyle started lecturing, but Bodie cut him off.
“Didn’t say I was drinkin’; I offered you one. Scotch all right?”
“Sure. I’ll ge --”
Bodie was already on his feet. “Stay put. ’S my flat, and I’ll play host. Not completely incapacitated, y’know.” Crossing the room, Bodie emerged a minute later, holding a bottle of Scotch by the neck and an over-the-rocks glass in his left hand. He seated himself, placed the bottle on the coffee table, and then used his left hand to transfer the glass to the table as well. His left hand returned to the Scotch bottle and curled around its neck. Grasping the bottle between his palm and last three fingers, he unscrewed the cap with his thumb and index finger. Removing the cap, he poured his partner a drink.
“Cheers.” Doyle scooped up the tumbler and drank, not commenting on Bodie’s method of dispensing the alcohol.
“Thanks for carting me home, mate. And for putting up with me in hospital.” Bodie grinned slightly. “I know I wasn’t always the easiest one to get along with there.”
“Nah,” Doyle set his drink down. “You didn’t get up my nose any more than usual. Seriously, though, do you really want to work in files? Should think you’d enjoy the idea of two months of paid leisure.”
“Well, I don’t. I’m not cut out to be a thumb-twiddler.” Bodie paused. “One thing about the military, there was always plenty to keep you occupied.”
“Devil finds work for idle hands,” Doyle said, realizing only after he’d said it that it wasn’t the most tactful remark to make under the circumstances. “So you’re looking for something to do that’s easy on the arms.... I know, you can go running with me!”
Bodie looked blankly at his partner, who prattled on. “Started running to keep limber and get my leg back into shape after Terkoff shot me. If you keep your right arm fairly still -- put it in a sling, if need be -- it won’t be too taxing.”
“All right, I asked for it, so I’ll give it a whirl,” Bodie said.
“Good,” Doyle beamed. “Only thing is, I do my running in the morning before work. Usually, I run for an hour, starting at six.” Before Bodie could voice an objection, he added, “You can always go back to sleep afterwards. Think you’ll like running, once you get used to it.”
“So that’s why you’ve suddenly become a morning person,” Bodie observed. “You’re on a bloody endorphin high!”
“Don’t knock it ’til you try it,” Doyle said, then rose to his feet. “Hate to drink and dash, but I’ve got things to do before I pick up Linda. You’ll be okay on your own?”
“’Course I will!” Bodie grinned slyly. “Don’t imagine I’ll be alone for long. Plan to get hold of Michelle and spend the evening in.” He also got to his feet and escorted his partner to the door.
Once there, Doyle asked the question that had been on his mind for three days. “Bodie, at the warehouse…where’d you get the idea to dive for your gun?”
“It was the only thing I could think of,” the dark-haired man answered instantly, then shrugged. “Had to do something.”
“Like a partner who thinks on his feet,” Doyle approved as he opened the door. “Even when he does it on his belly.”
* * *
Bodie’s eyes traveled over the murky warehouse. Dressed in his usual dark pants, navy polo and black jacket, it was easy for him to blend in with the surroundings. He noticed a vast, cluttered array of packing cases of all sorts and sizes and an iron ladder in the corner giving access to the catwalks overhead. He was probably being a berk, but....
“Bodie!” The sudden shout did not come from Doyle, and it was not Morrison’s voice either. That voice. Something familiar about it. “We have Doyle!” Bloody hell! “Ten seconds, Bodie! Or you’ll need a new partner!”
Even as he considered and discarded the notion of heading for the catwalk, Bodie heard Doyle: “Don’t do ih -- oof!”
Bodie eyed the steps to the high ground. Anyone else and I’d be up there quicker than Jack Robinson. But it’s not anyone else; it’s Ray. Ten seconds! He silently stalked down a snaking aisle towards the center of the warehouse -- and Doyle. Not even enough time to contact HQ and fill them in. Ray, what’ve you landed us in?
He stopped in the shadows at the end of the aisle and used his last two seconds for a fast reconnoiter of the area. Doyle was backed close to a stack of crates with Morrison and four other armed men spread in a semicircle in front of him. Peters?! Bodie’s eyes narrowed as he took in the man he and his squad had mentally eradicated years ago in Northern Ireland. They had also drunkenly and sincerely sworn vengeance on the traitorous lieutenant if any of them ever clapped eyes on him again. Peters had disappeared long before he had been dishonourably discharged in absentia in 1974, and there the matter had rested.
Raising empty hands, Bodie took the last two steps into the open and met his former mate’s eyes, trying to mask his emotions. Peters motioned towards Doyle with his left hand, and Bodie walked over to his partner, stopping when Peters told him to.
Their dark-haired captor ordered them to relinquish their weapons. Posh Peters. Hasn’t dropped the snobbish accent and upper class manners, I see.
Bodie met Doyle’s sidelong glance and willed his partner to obey. Don’t try anything yet, Ray. He’s got us surrounded.
Peters apparently picked up on Doyle’s mood and politely reminded the curly-haired agent that he and his men meant business. “Mister” Doyle, yet. Well, Peters always had the manners of a gentleman. Shame he never had a gentleman’s honour to go with it. Bodie watched as Doyle unwillingly deposited his gun on the floor as instructed. He followed suit, and his own weapon landed about seven feet straight in front of him.
“That’s better,” Peters said, then directed them to surrender their R/Ts to Morrison. Bodie handed his radio over to the grass and watched as Doyle did likewise.
Been thoroughly briefed, lieutenant, but what’s your game?
Peters extended greetings from the Turkel brothers, and Bodie exchanged a puzzled look with Ray. The who? He mentally sorted through his enemy list and failed to place the names immediately.
Peters sparked Doyle’s memory first, and they exchanged words while Bodie listened, only joining the conversation when their head captor mentioned Morrison’s role in the setup.
“So that’s how you did it,” Bodie spoke up, glaring inimically at Morrison. Bloody grass must’ve told the Turkels everything he knew about us. How many times have I told Ray to be more circumspect with his contacts? Past friends have a way of becoming totally different in the present, as I know better’n anyone.
He glanced at Peters, whose name he had vowed would never cross his lips until he read the lieutenant’s obituary. Can see why he’s here, mixing with common criminals. Couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get me and get paid for it at the same time.
Bodie couldn’t resist needling Peters as his sworn enemy talked about how easily he had established CI5’s role in incarcerating the Turkel brothers and how the Turkels intended to get even. Peters had one of his underlings quote the Turkels’ rhyme: “Doyle -- shotgun to the head. Bodie -- gut shot, left for dead.”
So much for any hope of keepin’ Ray out of this. But there’s got to be something I can do. Bodie kept his face expressionless and took stock of the situation, running positions and strategies through his mind. He heard Morrison beg off -- gutless wonder -- and concentrated on the conversation when a familiar name came up.
“...Mr. Cowley. The contract is for all three of you, you see.”
Bloody cheeky of the Turkels to put a contract out on the Cow himself. Not that I don’t understand the temptation.
“Cowley would never fall for that,” Bodie scoffed.
“Oh, I don’t know. I bet Cowley would come to the rescue of his prize team -- or half of it,” Peters said.
You’d lose, mate. We’re all expendable. First rule of The CI5 Agent’s Handbook.
“You always did have the luck of the devil, Bodie. It’s remotely possible you’ll even survive this. You only have Charley Turkel mad at you.” Bodie listened as Peters quoted Turkel quoting Shakespeare at him, then tensed imperceptibly as he continued. “Doyle, here, on the other hand, has incurred Henry Turkel’s anger....”
Bodie flashed back to Doyle’s biting voice penetrating clearly from outside the station house, as he trained a shotgun on Henry Turkel: “I’m still waiting, and my finger’s getting tired!”
“...And that’s not wise. Henry’s temper is widely renowned, and his prison stint has only made it worse. Word is, it’s driven him round the twist, which is why Charley was so determined to spring him in the first place. Ah, well,” Peters’ voice took on the let’s-get-going tone that Bodie remembered from the SAS, “the best laid plans....”
No! Bodie dived belly-down for his gun, the only move he could come up with, hoping the element of surprise would give him enough time. He felt a stinging burst of pain in his right hand and ignored it, striving to get his gun. He picked it up two-handedly, sighted instantly on the man with the shotgun and fired. Peters! Have to take him out before --! He twisted desperately and released a shot at the ex-military man, noting that Peters had triggered his gun at almost the same moment. He observed from floor level, immensely satisfied as Peters toppled lifelessly to the ground. About time.
The thought was stilled as Bodie heard a dull thud to his left. He turned and saw Doyle spread lengthwise on the floor a couple of feet away, red blood sticking to his curls and dribbling down one side of his face, green eyes staring sightlessly at him.
“No!” Bodie cried, and the pain in his hand was overwhelmed by the weight that landed crushingly on his heart.
“No,” he whimpered and rolled over, the yielding surface remoulding itself to his new position. He opened eyes he didn’t remember closing and met pitch darkness. It wasn’t the warehouse. “Wha --?”
He struggled up on his elbows and felt the mattress shift under him. A dream? He reached for the lamp on the night table and turned it on. Bloody nightmare. He took in the familiar room and realized his right hand was playing up on him. Glancing down, he noticed the bandaged hand was clenched tight, his index finger trying to separate itself from the other ones as if he were holding a gun. Bodie gently relaxed his hand and contemplated the bottle of pain pills on the nightstand. No, if I take ’em, I’ll sleep through the alarm and miss running with Doyle. Can’t do that; need to see him in the morning. Make sure he’s okay....
Bodie willed himself back to sleep, looking forward to his early morning run with his partner.
* * *
Diane Harrowsby opened the door to CI5’s records room, smiling at the skull-and-crossbones sign taped over the official room number on the door’s frosted glass window. John Fraser had added that personal touch when he had been briefly banished to the files a month earlier. “Here’s your cuppa, Bodie,” the leggy brunette said as she entered the room.
“Thanks, love.” Bodie, seated at the long oak table three feet away from, and parallel to, the room’s wall, took the proffered tea in his left hand. His bandaged right hand rested on the tabletop with papers from a manila file folder neatly stacked in front of him. Sniffing the hot tea, he cocked an enquiring eyebrow at the file clerk.
“Two lumps of sugar, as you like it,” Diane assured him, then asked, “Anything else I can get you?” She glanced at the open folder. “Not quite finished with the Henning report, are you?”
“Almost,” Bodie said, setting his tea down. He quickly scanned the top page, then flipped it over with his left hand, adding it to a pile of facedown papers to his left.
“I’ll wait ’til you’re finished so I can take the file back to the shelves with me,” Diane said, indicating the counter that separated the table and door from the rows of bookcases and file cabinets comprising the bulk of the basement room.
“Suit yourself.” Bodie perused the next page of the file, while Diane seated herself at the opposite end of the table.
“This’ll be your fourth day down here in the pits, won’t it, Bodie? Oh, you needn’t look so surprised; we know what all you field agents think of the records room. Fraser was quite vocal in his opinion the last time he did penance down here. ‘Worse than a prison; it’s poison,’ was his opinion.”
“Very creative lad, our John,” Bodie agreed, nodding at the rectangular shadow cast on the door’s glass window. He returned his divided attention to the Henning file and to Diane, failing to notice that the sign’s shadow was replaced by a man’s silhouette and that the door was slightly ajar.
“Why are you here, Bodie?” Diane asked curiously. “It’s not even three weeks since you’ve been out of hospital, and I know your hand’s still playing up on you. My cousin Andy accidentally got his hand run over by a bicycle, and it bothered him for months. I can hardly credit Mr. Cowley would put you to work so soon, even if it is only the file room.”
“You know the Old Man’s orders,” Bodie said. “‘Ours is not to question why; ours is but to do or d --’”
“Och, Bodie.” George Cowley suddenly swung the door open and walked into the room. “Just the man I’m looking for. And Betty wants to see you about next month’s schedule, Diane.”
The file clerk rose quickly to her feet, smoothing her skirt, “Yes, sir.”
Cowley waited for the girl to leave before he spoke. “This arrangement isn’t working out, Bodie. You can finish the day here, but you’re back on the sick list as of tomorrow.”
“But, sir!” Bodie pushed his chair back from the table, but Cowley motioned him to stay seated.
“No, ‘buts,’ Bodie.”
“Sir,” Bodie persisted doggedly, “if it’s about what you overheard --”
That entrance was too well timed to be coincidence. Damn. How could I miss seeing the Cow’s shadow through the bloody door? Didn’t even notice the door was cracked open.... “I’ll set Diane straight, tell her I asked for file duty; even tell the whole squad, if you like, sir.”
“No, Bodie, that won’t be necessary.” Cowley studied his man. “I know the squad thinks the file room exists solely as punishment to discipline field agents, but they’re wrong. The files are an integral part of CI5 and have to be managed as efficiently as any other department under my supervision. Your presence here is a disruptive influence.”
“Sir, I --”
“Och, I know it’s nothing deliberate, lad. You must have noticed that paperwork -- any kind of paperwork -- involves a great deal of paper shuffling, and that is a two-handed job.” He glanced at Bodie’s bandaged right hand.
“But, sir, I’m getting the job done,” Bodie insisted. “I may be temporarily one-handed, but any time I’ve lost because of that I’ve made up in speed reading.”
“Bodie, it’s not just your work that’s being affected,” the controller pointed out. “Betty’s informed me that Miss Harrowsby’s production is down twenty-five percent from last week and Miss Lister’s, as well. I think we both know the reason for that.”
“The girls do fetch me the odd cuppa,” Bodie admitted, “and the occasional file or two…. Look, sir, now that I’m aware of the problem, I won’t pester Diane or Maggie anymore. I’ll get my own tea and keep me head buried in the files from now on.”
“No, Bodie, my mind’s made up. Starting tomorrow, you’re back on sick leave, where you belong. How I ever let you and Doyle talk me into this escapes me.” George Cowley shook his head, then scrutinized the seated agent, taking in the dark circles under blue eyes. “I remem -- I know you don’t like being sidelined,” the controller said in a softer tone, absently patting his long-ago injured leg, “but you’ve just proved that wounded field agents and file clerks are not interchangeable. And you should remember, Bodie, that they also serve who stand and wait.” Cowley walked to the door, adding over his shoulder, “Enjoy your leave. And get some sleep, lad, you look like you could use it.”
“Yes, sir,” Bodie said dutifully, uncertain of how he could accomplish either task.
* * *
Bodie heard Doyle’s yell and two rapid shots as he dashed pell-mell into the garage. He pulled up next to Doyle, who was sprawled on the center-aisle floor, clutching his left leg with both hands. Bodie instantly fired at the big Russian’s trench-coated back, sending three quick bullets towards the KGB man.
Two of the bullets connected and spun the big man around face forward. The Russian fell back onto the bonnet of the white car to his left. His young target, Sarah, the cocaine addict, crouch under the stairwell on the other side of the white car, terror struck. It barely registered with her that she remained unscathed as the shots continued.
Going down on one knee, Bodie fired at the large man again, hitting the exposed white shirt close to Doyle’s earlier shot, which had penetrated Terkoff’s left shoulder. Incredibly, the Russian still retained his grip on his gun and forced himself to continue the battle. You’re a tough bastard to kill, Bodie thought as he lined up another shot and fired.
The bullet hit its intended target, but Terkoff hardly felt it as he let his gun hand fall downwards, released a last shot and collapsed.
Bodie eyed the unmoving KGB man for a wary second, then turned his glance toward his fallen partner. “Ray?! You all right?”
The expected answer failed to materialize as Bodie numbly gazed downward. Doyle’s left leg had a bloody spot in the upper thigh, and both of his hands were smeared with blood. But that was nothing compared to the matching red stain that spread over the upper left-hand side of Doyle’s bright blue T-shirt and darkened the edge of his navy wool jacket. Terkoff, the bastard, had not died alone.
“Ray?! No! No!”
Dimly, Bodie thought he heard a female voice in the background. “Bodie? Bodie? What’s wrong?”
His shoulder was gently shaken, and he woke to find a pair of heavily fringed brown eyes staring at him. “Are you all right, Bodie?” Michelle asked concernedly from her side of the bed.
Bodie sat up, leaning back against the headboard and fiddling with the sheet. Another nightmare, a new one this time. No, a new twist on an old scene. But it’s all right, just a dream.
“Bad dream?” Michelle guessed as she flipped on the lamp on the night table and reclined against her pillow. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Come on, Bodie. It helps to talk about nightmares, get them off your chest.” Her hand skimmed lightly over his exposed shoulder and upper torso as she leaned over to whisper in his ear, “There’re so much better things to put there.”
“’M not interested,” Bodie said flatly.
“I noticed,” Michelle spoke in her normal voice. “You’re as tense as any first-time flyer I’ve ever met.” She got out of the double bed and into her robe.
“Where are you going?” Bodie was only mildly interested in the answer as he caught the time: 3:20 a.m. Got to get up to go running with Ray in two hours.
“Oh, you know us flight hostesses, Bodie,” Michelle pushed her feet into slippers. “‘Coffee, tea or me.’ You’ve turned me down, and coffee will only keep you awake, so I’m going to make you a nice hot cuppa tea. It’ll put you right to sleep.”
“Michelle,” Bodie began awkwardly, “you don’t have to do that.”
“I want to, you big lug. Now, you just try to relax, and I’ll be right back,” and she disappeared down the hallway, padding off to Bodie’s kitchen.
She returned less than ten minutes later and handed him a steaming cup of tea. “Drink up, love.” She settled on the duvet by Bodie’s feet.
Bodie sipped at the hot beverage carefully held in his left hand. “You don’t want any?” He noticed she had only brought in the one cup.
“I don’t need anything to help me along,” Michelle tried unsuccessfully to cover a yawn. “I’m sleepy enough as it is.”
Bodie took a deep sip, then found himself returning the yawn. “Know what you mean. All of a sudden, I’m --” Abruptly he broke off his sentence and glared at the teacup. “Michelle, did you put something in the tea?”
“Two lumps of sugar, as usual,” the girl answered.
“And what else?” Bodie demanded. “Sugar doesn’t normally knock me ou --” He was interrupted by another yawn and growled, “Dammit, Michelle, what’s in the tea?”
Michelle removed herself from the bed, startled at the menacing tone in his voice. “Just a couple of ground-up Sominex to help you sleep. Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’ve got circles under the circles under your eyes.”
“You drugged me?!” Bodie’s voice was a definite roar.
“Hardly that, Bodie. I gave you a couple of sleeping pills,” Michelle answered, striving to keep her voice normal. “And don’t lecture me about mixing sleeping tablets with the prescription drugs, either. We both know you haven’t used a painkiller in the last three days.”
“That’s not the point,” Bodie snapped. “You had no right to interfere --”
“With you? I thought I did -- or at least I deluded myself that I meant something. Should’ve learned by now, shouldn’t I?” She absently fingered her violet silk robe. “You don’t let anything interfere with your life, except your job. No, that’s not right; you don’t have a life outside of your job. You don’t let anything -- or anyone -- interfere with your work, period.” She considered her words. “Except your partner, but he’s part of your job, anyway.”
Bodie ignored her last comment, concentrating on the earlier portion of her indictment. “I told you from the beginning that my time wasn’t always my own. You said you could understand that, having to cope with a zany flying schedule yourself.”
“But I’m not a twenty-four hour stewardess, Bodie; I’m me. I don’t spend my off-shift time fluffing businessmen’s pillows, fetching people beverages, and telling perfect strangers to ‘have a nice day.’ I thought you were trying to impress me or just joshing when you first said you’re never off duty, but it’s no joke, is it, Bodie? Never noticed it before because I haven’t been round you long enough until these last three days.”
“And I never noticed you were a trick cyclist as well as an air hostess,” Bodie said sharply. He rose from the bed and put on a terrycloth robe.
“Where are you going?”
“To take a cold shower, so I’ll wake up. If you’d bothered to check the alarm before dosing me with sleeping pills, you’d’ve seen that I have to get up at 5:15.”
“Why? You’re not working; haven’t been for at least the last fortnight.” Michelle looked at Bodie’s determined face. “I know; you’re doing something with Doyle.”
“You sound ever so slightly jealous, love,” Bodie said. Just over halfway through his two months’ enforced leave, he was spoiling for a fight. He was more used to physical matches, but he’d use verbal sparring to keep his anger intact and to counteract the artificial urge to sleep.
“That’s it!” Michelle stalked over to the open wardrobe and snatched a skirt and flowered blouse off their hangers. She threw the clothes on the bed, removed her robe and nightgown, and started dressing.
“What are you doing?”
“I’d think that would be obvious to a trained observer like you, Bodie. I’m leaving!” Michelle zipped up her skirt and kicked off her slippers, replacing them with a pair of low heels. Then, she walked back to Bodie’s side of the bed, but he stood between her and her goal.
“Now what are you doing?” he challenged.
“Calling a cab,” Michelle answered, trying to reach the bedside phone. “A gentleman would do it for me.”
“And a lady would sleep in her own bed.”
Michelle angrily swung her right hand towards Bodie’s face, and he automatically blocked the slap. His bandaged right hand collided with her wrist, and the two stood frozen for several seconds. Bodie hastily withdrew his hand, which was smarting from the unexpected impact, and walked over to his bureau.
He grabbed the wallet with his left hand and somehow wrestled a ten-pound note out of it. Walking back to Michelle, he shoved the bill into her hand. “Call your bloody cab,” he sneered, “and don’t be here when I get out of the bath.”
Not waiting for a reply, he left the bedroom.
Michelle’s brown eyes watched his exit; then her vision blurred as she reached for the telephone and called a taxi.
* * *
Bodie surveyed his surroundings. Not the Ritz, he thought wryly, but it is a victory. Back on duty -- of a sort. The long, narrow room held a desk, table and chair, but the bulk of it was absorbed by the complicated black and white metal lattice of miniature bulbs, switches and connecting wires that comprised CI5’s internal residential security system. Doyle, tired of listening to Bodie complain about going stir crazy, had hit on the perfect position for his recovering partner: internal surveillance. Then, he set out to convince Cowley to give the assignment to Bodie, wheedling and plying the old man with Scotch until permission was granted. Bodie wished he had seen Cowley’s face when Ray gave his closing argument: “And remember, sir, they also serve who sit and wait.”
Now, Bodie sat, waiting. Security detail was handled on a rotating basis with agents-in-training, dispatchers (the “Voice of Control”), and the more senior members of the office staff alternating shifts. Cowley had been known in the past to assign the detail to agents in disfavour, but only rarely. Field agents considered the job worse than a stakeout, because even the longest stakeout involved some eventual activity, but the person on security detail had a successful watch if nothing happened -- and upwards of 95 percent of the time, the watch was uneventfully perfect.
No, the field agents did not like box duty, as they called it. Regular denizens of the secured room had their own monikers for the duty, as well: the web, the peephole, the listening post, the LP, the album. (“The album?” Bodie had not seen the connection until the training agent who was showing him the ropes yesterday had said, “Yeah, the album. Sit here long enough, sandwiched between two rows of ceiling-high monitoring panels, and you start feeling like a record album, complete with plastic shrink-wrapped jacket cover.”)
It was mid-afternoon, and Bodie was filling out the current hour’s status -- “no incidents, okay” -- on the clipboard. He was not exactly thrilled with his position on the web, but it kept his mind occupied, leaving no room for thoughts about recurring dreams or Michelle’s hasty exit. He had been thoroughly briefed yesterday and learned that he didn’t have to keep his eyes peeled on the many blue “activated” light bulbs tucked in various nooks of the electronic lattice. If something happened, an unlit twin bulb under the blue light monitoring the flat involved would turn on, blinking, and a high-toned beep would commence to further alert the lookout of the problem. A quick scan of the 2-foot by 3-foot master box on the table to the left of the duty desk would yield a four-digit code. The operative would then look up the number on the master listing of CI5 flats by code, occupant, location and phone number, and alert the agent concerned. Bodie had spent his first afternoon memorizing the more important codes: 7249, Doyle; 3856, Bodie; 1943, Cowley; etc.
As he finished writing and put the biro down, he heard a sudden beep. Swiveling around, he received visual confirmation of the alarm, spotting a pulsing red light halfway up the third panel. Next, he turned to face the master box and noted the code: 5227. Bodie thought that was the code for Jax and rapidly confirmed the number on the master list. His left hand picked up the phone, and he tucked the receiver under his chin, one-handedly dialing Jax’s flat. The phone rang in his ear with no answer. Bodie hung up the phone, pulled his R/T out and said, “Two-five. Come in, two-five.”
He was about to repeat his summons when Jax answered, “Two-five here. What do you want, three-seven?”
“Something triggered the alarm in your flat, two-five.”
“Oh. Uh -- this just happen, did it?”
“Affirmative. Got no answer at the flat, so I used the R/T. Do you know what set the alarm off?”
“Think so,” the voice answered sheepishly, amid raucous laughter in the background.
Bodie placed the dirty chuckle immediately. Doyle. He didn’t tell me the Cow sicced him on Jax while I’m sidelined. “Good. Fill me in so I can log the incident.”
Jax groaned; he had forgotten that the incident had to be properly filed in triplicate. The lads would have a field day with this little bit of carelessness for months to come. “We were late for a cross-town stakeout, so I drove by my flat to pick up my A to Zed --”
“And grab a quick bite for the road,” Doyle’s voice added loudly from the background, “seein’ as it was past two and we hadn’t had lunch yet.”
“Yeah, well, the upshot of it all is I must’ve left the kitchen window open, and that’s why the alarm sounded.”
“And is still sounding,” Bodie said, as the beep-beep-beep continued to reverberate through his tiny office. His guide had shown him how to cut the obnoxious sound, but the instructions escaped him at the moment. “Will you nip on back to your flat and close your blee -- kitchen window, two-five?”
“Already turned around, three-seven. ETA at the flat, two minutes.”
Bodie endured two-minutes-and-fifty-seconds’ worth of high-pitched beeps, then silence abruptly descended. “Thanks, two-five,” Bodie R/T’d, then asked, “Why’d you need a bloody A to Zed, anyway?”
“Exactly what I said,” Ray’s voice came over the receiver. “Told Jax I was conversant with practically all the streets of London.”
“That’s why I needed it.”
“That’s why you needed it.” Jax and Bodie spoke almost simultaneously.
“Okay, two-five, did you remember to reactivate the alarm?” Bodie couldn’t resist baiting Doyle’s temporary partner.
“Yes, Da, and we’ll lock the door on the way out. Two-five out.”
Bodie grinned, then started scribbling on the clipboard, recording the false alarm in triplicate for Cowley’s later perusal.
* * *
Bodie eyed the still-wrapped Swiss roll on the desk wistfully. The dark-haired agent had brought the roll back from lunch when he had resumed his position in the web, promising himself not to touch it until tea break. Another thrilling afternoon playing Spiderman. How do I let Doyle talk me into these things, anyway? Bored, he flexed his legs and tried to get comfortable in the Spartan office chair. He swiveled the chair around, letting his gaze travel over the electronic labyrinth, watching the lights not…blink. Blink. One steady blue light became a flashing red one, and a sharp beeping began.
All business, Bodie turned to the master box to read the code: 7249. Doyle. Disdaining the checklist, Bodie reached with his left hand for the telephone. He stared uncomprehendingly at his extended hand, which was completely sheathed in a thick white bandage as it banged uselessly into the receiver. His gaze shifted to his unwrapped right hand, fingers half-curled and held together. What the hell? The wrong hand is bandaged! The beeping continued as Bodie tried to separate the fingers of his right hand, a move that yielded very little success and much pain.
Ignoring the pain and the stiffness, Bodie clumsily grabbed for the phone with his right hand. The receiver slipped through his awkwardly cupped grip on the first attempt -- beep-beep-beep -- but he stretched his thumb far enough away from the clustered fingers to hook the receiver between the thumb and index finger on the second try. Then he raised the receiver to his left ear and pinned it under his chin as he reached determinedly for the dial. His right pointer finger slipped out of the hole as he fumblingly tried to dial the first number. Cursing, he repeated the maneuver and lost the dial again.
Forcing himself to remain calm -- beep-beep-beep -- Bodie put his thumb in the correct hole of the dialing wheel and pushed it back until his thumb hit the curved rest, then released it and dialed the rest of the number as rapidly as possible.
Beep-beep-beep. Ring, ring, ring.
Come on, Ray. Pick it up! No answer. Keeping the phone still tucked under his chin, Bodie clawed for the R/T with his injured right hand -- beep-beep-beep -- and maladroitly trapped it between his padded left wrist and the edge of his right hand as he thumbed the R/T down. “Four-five. Come in, four-five!”
The receiver remained silent.
“Four-five, this is three-seven. Respond, please.”
Beep-beep-beep.
“Doyle! C’n you hear me? Ray! Answer me!”
“Three-seven.” It wasn’t Doyle’s voice that came over the R/T. “He canna hear you anymore, lad. We’re too late. Send an ambulance and the forensics team over to four-five’s flat.”
“No! No!” Bodie shouted in denial and slammed his right hand down on the desktop. The painful contact wrenched him back to wakefulness, and his eyes snapped open. He heard nothing but the thudding of his heart in the darkened room.
No more beeps, he thought, gradually getting his heartbeat back to normal. No beeps, period.... It was another bloody nightmare!
Bodie’s gaze flicked to the alarm clock, and he was not surprised to discover that it was 3:00 a.m. After two weeks, his first recurring dream, Doyle dying in a twisted reenactment of the warehouse meet, had been supplanted by the altered garage shootout with Terkoff. Now, Terkoff had been replaced by this new nightmare, where Bodie was stuck in the web, unable to help while Ray was.... No.
In some ways, this new nightmare was the worst of the series, and Bodie refused to dwell on it in any detail. He was determined to circumvent this particular horrid dream and was also dead set against any action that strengthened or reinforced the dream scene. Shivering involuntarily, he realized that he had to devote the whole upcoming day to box duty. I can’t! I won’t. Have to talk Cowley into putting me back on the sick roll.
Bodie winced, visualizing the dressing down he would receive before the Old Man would grudgingly free him of surveillance duty. However, the controller would relieve Bodie of box duty, which was the agent’s objective and chief concern. Hearing the Scot’s righteous “I told you so” was a small price to pay for a move that would, Bodie devoutly hoped, nip this latest nightmare in the bud.
* * *
5:30 a.m. Ray should be pulling up any second now. Bodie’s gaze shifted from his watch to the empty street in front of his flat. He spied Doyle’s white Escort as it turned down his street and hurried down the flat’s walkway.
Doyle parked the car along the kerb and reached over to yank the passenger door open. His green eyes raked over Bodie from his trainers and navy jogging suit up to his squinting blue eyes as Bodie settled into the car. “Wasn’t sure you’d be here,” he observed as he put the car in motion. “Couldn’t get hold of you last night, so I came over anyway. Glad to see you still make good on some of our previous arrangements.”
“Now, Ray --”
“Stopped by HQ yesterday after Jax and I finished our shift to drive you home, as per our schedule.” Doyle stopped for a red light and turned to face his partner. “A bit off-puttin’ to have the Cow tell me he’d driven you home two hours earlier. I asked why, and he said you’d thrown in the towel as far as box duty went, and you were officially back on sick leave.”
Doyle shifted gears as the light changed to green and turned left onto a wider, more traveled boulevard.
“Ray, I --”
“Crikey, Bodie, I don’t understand you! First, you practically beg me to get you some office duty, any duty, and I manage to bribe the Old Man into giving you box duty. Next I know, you’ve up and quit with no real explanation, and you’re back on the sick list. Then I tried to get hold of you last night, but no joy. You didn’t answer your phone for so long I got worried and called HQ. They said you were temporarily exempt from call and didn’t even have a number you could be reached at! Where the hell were you, eh?”
Bodie remained silent for a few seconds, trying to marshal his thoughts. “Out with some mates from the Paras. And, yes, I was avoiding you -- and CI5 in general -- last night.” He winced as he considered how his words must have sounded to Doyle, who was pretending to be totally immersed in his driving. “Sorry, Ray, but I was feeling kinda low. Already went through the Cow’s tongue-lashing when I quit the web, and I wasn’t feeling up to another one by you when you found out about it; so I just, er, made myself scarce for the evening.”
Doyle hung a right before asking, “But why’d you quit the shift?”
“Thought you’d figure that out, Sherlock. Remember what I said about not being a thumb-twiddler? That was all I was doing in the listening post, and it was driving me up the wall.”
“The Cow did have some reservations about your ability to handle the boredom factor of box duty when I was talking him into it,” Doyle recalled as he turned his Escort into a driveway.
“Yeah, well, he pounded that fact into me yesterday, along with a dozen different ways to say, ‘I told you so,’” Bodie admitted ruefully. He noticed their surroundings as Doyle brought the car to a halt. “What are we doing here?”
“Got tired of the park,” Doyle explained as he got out of the car. “Thought we’d try a new route today.”
“New route fine, but,” Bodie glanced uneasily at the markers and headstones around them, “why a cemetery, f’r God’s sake?”
“Because it’s peaceful and quiet, and we can set our own pace without worrying about running over or into any other runners,” Doyle answered as he started his warm-up exercises. His good mood had apparently been restored by either his discussion with Bodie in the car or the prospect of their daily run.
Bodie shook off the unease he felt, seeing Doyle in the cemetery, surrounded by tombstones. Just residue from those damned dreams. He ruffled Doyle’s curls and teased, “So get with it, Mr. Pacemaker. Or should an old man like you be wearing one?” He took off down the cemetery path.
“Bodie!” Doyle sprang after him, in hot pursuit.
Nearly an hour later, they ended their morning exercise with an all-out dash to the car. Doyle edged Bodie out by mere seconds as he slapped the Escort’s bonnet resoundingly. “Winner and still champion!” he gloated as Bodie repeated the slapping motion -- only Bodie’s target was his partner’s back, not the car. “Bodie!”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Bodie clucked as he avoided Doyle’s retaliatory slap, “save it for work, mate.”
Doyle merely glared at his partner as they both got into the car. The drive back to Bodie’s flat proceeded quickly and smoothly, while Doyle filled Bodie in on the latest assignment with Jax and the CI5 grapevine’s current news items. They pulled up in front of Bodie’s flat, and Doyle put the car in neutral. “Enjoy yourself, sunshine,” he said in parting.
“Oh, yeah,” Bodie groused as he reluctantly stepped out of the car, “got a real full day ahead of me, I do. Watch the telly ’til I see spots in front of me eyes, 45 minutes of hand stretches, and then maybe I’ll treat myself to a thorough dusting job this afternoon.”
“Bodie,” Doyle’s voice held a warning note in it.
The dark-haired agent leaned against the car door and continued to talk through the open window. “Can’t help it, Doyle. You know I go round the twist when there’s nothing to do.”
“I imagine the whole squad knows it by now,” Doyle said. Correctly interpreting the wheedling tone and little-boy-lost expression that appeared on Bodie’s face, he continued, “You’re off your rocker if you think for one little second that I’m going to --”
“Aw, please, Doyle. There must be something I can do at work without using both hands that won’t drive me bananas.... I know! Dispatch duty, I can be the ‘Voice of Control’ --”
“Bodie! After what just happened with the box? Are you daft?”
“No, just desperate.”
“That’s it!” Doyle snapped. “Whoever said you had to mope around your flat all day? Go out and see the sights. Visit Piccadilly Circus or the Tower of London. Check out a museum. Don’t need your hands to walk around a museum or an art gallery, you know. I don’t get you, mate. There must be thousands of Yanks who’d give their right arm to be where you are now, footloose and fancy-free in London.”
Bodie straightened up and said stiffly, “Thanks for the advice. I certainly meet the qualifications in one area, don’t I?” He waved his bandaged right hand. “Better hurry, mate; you’re going to be late.”
“Bodie --” Doyle began, but Bodie stepped away from the car and strode rapidly up the sidewalk to his flat.
I was a bit heavy-handed, Doyle conceded, then winced at his inadvertent, but thankfully silent, choice of words. Glancing at the dashboard clock, he winced again as he maneuvered the car into traffic. He could patch things up with Bodie later; now, he had only ten minutes to hotfoot it back to work, and the Cow was a stickler for punctuality.
* * *
“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” the auburn-haired young woman spoke as the group reached the lower level of the Tate Gallery, “we’ll take a 20-minute tea break; then we’ll go on to the second half of the tour. The self-service centre is to your right, and there’s also a sit-down restaurant down the hall.” After she spoke, the cluster of thirty or so mostly American tourists split up and mobbed the cafeteria.
Pouring a hot cuppa and grabbing a biscuit from the self-serve counters, the guide paid for her snack and scanned the seating area. Impulsively, she walked over to a half-occupied table for two. “Mind if I join you?” she asked the dark-haired man already sitting there.
Blue eyes looked her over with friendly interest. “Be my guest.”
“Thank you,” the girl said, putting her tray down and taking the empty seat. Knew he was English. She took a sip of tea before adding, “My name’s Julia Pullen, but you already knew that, didn’t you? This is the third time this week that I’ve been your tour guide.”
“Is it?”
“Oh, yes. We keep a very strict account of our guided tours at the Tate. Besides, you tend to stick out in a crowd.” She lowered her green eyes demurely. “Not too many tall, dark and handsome men with bandaged hands take the gallery tour.”
“You’ve got me there.” He grinned and lowered his teacup, then extended his left hand. “My name’s Bodie -- just Bodie. Pleased to meet you, Julia.”
“Likewise, I’m sure.” Julia nibbled on her biscuit and watched Bodie take a left-handed bite from his own confection, then set it down and pick up his cup with the same hand. “Tell me, Bodie, what do you do when you’re not touring the Tate?”
“I’m a spy,” his blue eyes danced, “currently at loose ends.”
“An unemployed spy?” Julia giggled, going along with the banter.
“Temporarily unemployed,” Bodie stressed. “My governor, Cowley, says I’m no use --”
“Cowley?” Julia interrupted. “George Cowley?”
Bodie could only nod, bemused.
“My goodness, you really are a spy, or at least an agent.”
Bodie found his voice and demanded, “How do you know Cowley?”
“My stepfather plays golf with Mr. Cowley at least once a month,” Julia explained. “They’ve been doing it for years, and sometimes he stops by the house afterwards for tea or dinner.” She drank some more tea. “You’re part of CI5, aren’t you? One of Cowley’s men?”
“Yes,” he admitted, “though I’m usually not so slack-mouthed. I rarely tell my girlfriends, let alone --”
“Innocent, young museum tour guides?” Julia finished for him.
“Who are total strangers, yes.”
“Ah, Bodie, you really are new to the art world. It’s just as corrupt and sharp-edged as any other business.”
“That’s rather a cynical view for a young art tour guide to have.”
“Yes, but I’m not just a guide. My main position is the assistant to the exhibitions planner, and I’m learning about museum art from the floor up, as my stepfather would put it. But that’s enough about me. What’s your interest in art?”
“Keeps me off the streets -- and out of my partner’s hair. And it is interesting.” Bodie smiled. “My partner was studying art at one time. So we can discuss John Constable rather than detective constables on our next stakeout.”
Julia finished her tea and placed the cup on the table, taking a quick glance at her watch. “Break time’s over, I’m afraid. I really enjoyed our conversation, Bodie. Thank you.”
Bodie polished off the last of his second biscuit and grinned. “My pleasure, Julia.”
“Will you be back tomorrow?”
“Most likely.” Bodie’s grin vanished. “No chance of me returning to duty anytime soon.”
“How did you get to the gallery?”
“Took the tube to Pimlico Station. Can’t shift with this,” he glared at his offending, bandaged right hand.
Julia wanted to replace the dark look that suddenly appeared on his face. “Pimlico’s several blocks from here. Would you like a lift, at least back to the station? After completing this tour, I’m through for the day.” She blushed faintly. “I normally don’t offer strange men rides, but....”
“So we’re both acting somewhat out of character,” Bodie interrupted mildly teasing. “I’d like that very much, Julia. And I accept, on one condition.”
Julia’s green gaze met his inquiringly.
“There’s a nice little pub tucked halfway between here and the station. Would you like to join me for dinner there?”
“It’s a date, Bodie.” She rose from the table and picked up her tray. “And now we really have to go. The second half of the history of British art awaits us.”
* * *
“No!” a feminine voice cried out as Raymond Doyle reached the bottom of the stairway. A shot rang out as his own gun centered on the menacing figure at the top of the stairs, and he fired in immediate echo. His eyes and gun tracked Inge’s figure as she tumbled head over heels down the stairway and came to rest at his feet. Doyle spared the dead terrorist a quick glance and confirming touch, then left the body for Cowley.
“Bodie!” Keeping his gun in his left hand, the curly-haired agent charged up the stairs, three at a time. He reached the upper landing in seconds. Franz Myer stood handcuffed to a post in the hallway. A brown-haired woman, whom Doyle did not recognize, was helping Bodie to his feet.
Doyle walked over to the pair, placed his left hand on Bodie’s chest and his right arm around the injured man’s back.
“You all right?” he asked his partner, who was leaning on his left shoulder against the corridor wall.
“Yeah,” Bodie answered, elbowing himself out of Doyle’s support. Taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, Doyle walked down the hall to the stair top, eyeing the subdued Myer along the way.
Bodie took two short steps into the wallpapered attic room devoid of furniture, where Julia, still armed, huddled against the flowered wall. “Think that’ll be safer in my hands,” he said as he slowly extracted the gun from her grasp. He eased the safety on and transferred the gun to his left hand while he gingerly put his bandaged right hand on Julia’s shoulder. She nestled closer to him, and they went to join Doyle, Sara and Myer in the hallway.
* * *
“So what’s the verdict?” Raymond Doyle asked while closing the door to Bodie’s flat.
“At least three weeks,” Bodie answered as he walked further into his parlour.
“Seem to be taking it a lot better the second time round,” Doyle observed.
“Yeah, well, it’s pretty hard to claim I’m useful when both hands are out of commission.” Bodie held up his hands and flexed his wrists -- the closest he could get to wriggling his fingers. “Besides, I only had to stay in hospital overnight for observation, and getting out of hospital always puts me in a good mood.” Bodie smiled and sat down on the settee. “’M even willing to share me good mood. Want a drink? You’ll have to help yourself, though.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Doyle said and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with a glass of Scotch and joined Bodie on the sofa. “So how’s the hand? The left one, I mean.”
“Hurts like hell -- or it would if they hadn’t given me two painkillers before they discharged me. Only two knuckles are broken; the rest are just bruised. Doctor wants to wait ’til the swelling goes down before putting it in a proper cast later this week.”
“And the right one?”
Bodie grimaced. “He gave me a lecture on ‘overdoing’ things, then re-bandaged it. Said my recent activities didn’t do any serious damage to it, and it should be healed by the time the cast comes off my left hand. Guess I was lucky.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Doyle raised his glass and took a swig.
“Thanks for picking me up from hospital,” Bodie said, “and for putting up with me in general. Been a real prat since the warehouse shooting, haven’t I?”
Doyle smiled, remembering his conversation in Cowley’s car yesterday. “You’ve gotten up my nose a few times in the last two months, yeah.”
He’s smiling and relaxed now. We need to talk, clear the air, but how do I start? Bodie wondered. “Ray, I’ve been having these dreams --?” Sounds like something out of Crossroads, dammit! ’Sides we’re men of actions, not words. Actions! Like.... “Thanks for rescuing me yesterday, too. Didn’t mean to brush you off so quickly afterwards. Guess I was playing macho man in front of the girls.” Bodie shifted awkwardly. “But it was more than that, Ray. Needed to prove that I was still an agent, still capable of standing on my own two feet.”
“Still an agent?” Doyle echoed, puzzled. “Bodie, you single-handedly -- and with only one hand -- captured Franz Myer and took on the whole Myer-Helmut gang. If that’s not ‘capable,’ I don’t know what is.”
“Wasn’t referring to that...exactly.” Bodie vaguely motioned in the air with one of his bandaged hands. “Back at the warehouse, when I got shot....” Not doing this right, am I? Finally figured out what those dreams were drilling into me, but how do I tell Doyle? Ray bleeds for the masses; how can he possibly understand what a shock it was to me to place someone else first?
Bodie had used the previous night’s hospital-induced insomnia to analyze his dreams, and the message was clear: Ray Doyle dead was an unacceptable situation, and Bodie would do anything to prevent it. At the warehouse, the long-hated Peters wasn’t his first target; he had gone after the shotgun-wielding menace to Doyle. He had ignored not only the lead captor, but also Smithers, the gunman who had posed a direct threat to himself -- without even thinking about it. And when his nightmare had twisted the encounter around, the triumph of finally nailing Peters had been smothered by the agony of seeing Ray dead.
The other dreams had only hammered the point home. It was crystal clear to Bodie, Mr. Look-Out-for-Number-One, that Raymond Doyle was Number One, and William Andrew Philip Bodie was Number Two...but how could he explain it to Doyle?
Do I really need to? Maybe not....
“Sorry I left you hanging; was woolgathering.” Bodie broke his self-imposed silence, then started again. “Back at the warehouse -- it was the first time I got seriously wounded coming to your aid. Don’t want that fact to change us. Want you to know that I can still back you up, still guard your arse.”
“Is that what’s been bothering you? Bodie, you’re a berk,” Doyle scolded affectionately. “We’ve got each other out of all kinds of scrapes in the last two years and three months. Of course I still trust you to guard my back, injured or not. Always have, and I always will -- just like you trust me. Which reminds me,” Doyle lightly tapped his partner’s bandaged right hand, “I can’t mind your back if I can’t find it, sunshine. Next time you call for help, tell us your location first!”
THE END
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