Having taken a long nap during the drive back to London that evening, Bodie was consequently wide awake. He decided to spend a few hours reading the papers, getting caught up on the doings in London. In his job, it paid to keep on one’s toes.
He picked up last Saturday’s Times, settled on the settee and put his feet up on the coffee table (a privilege reserved for Master Bodie alone, as Doyle had discovered after numerous admonitions to keep his smelly feet on the floor where they belonged). He read his way through four days, to Tuesday’s local news. It had been a busy weekend, Monday being Summer Bank Holiday.
“LOCAL MAN KILLED AT BIKE RALLY” caught his eye, and he began reading the article. After a few seconds, he half-moaned, “Keith – dead?” Grimly, he continued reading. Keith Williams had been found, beaten to death, in the woods bordering the racetrack as the motorcycle meet was breaking up Monday evening. He had participated in a few of the races, placing third and fifth in two of them, and had been attending the meet with his fiancée, Cheryl Torrens. The police suspected foul play (“No kidding,” Bodie commented, tight-lipped), and they were seeking interviews with anyone who had seen Williams on Monday afternoon. Funeral services would be held the following Sunday.
“Sunday? Shit! That was today.” Agitated, Bodie flung the newspaper down on the coffee table and rose from the settee. He crossed from the parlour into the kitchen, heading purposefully for his stock of spirits. Pulling an upper cupboard door open, he snatched up a bottle of Scotch and resoundingly banged the door shut. Then, he fetched a glass and poured himself a liberal dose of Scotch. Reining in his feelings of anger and loss, he calmly raised his glass.
“To you, Keith,” he toasted his departed mate and quickly knocked down the Scotch.
Placing his glass on the counter, Bodie replenished his drink. He stood by the counter, swirling the full glass and remembering the last time he’d seen Keith Williams, only three weeks ago….
* * *
“Bodie!” Keith Williams greeted his friend, flinging his flat door open. “C’mon in. You’re late; the party’s already started.” Bodie followed his fellow ex-SAS squad-mate into the flat. Keith Williams was two inches shorter than Bodie and three years older, with blond hair and light blue eyes. He was currently sporting a tan, two-piece leisure suit and a wide grin. The two men passed a parlour full of nattering guests, only a few of whom Bodie recognized.
Keith led him to the dining room and over to his drinks cart, a bent finger beckoning to someone across the room. As Williams poured a third drink, a pretty, young woman in a low-cut teal dress joined them. The girl ran one hand through her long, wavy red hair and reached for the proffered drink with her other hand.
“You remember Cheryl, Bodie?” Williams passed Bodie the whiskey as the agent nodded, having met Williams’ current girlfriend a few months earlier. “Well, she’s finally agreed to let me make an honest woman out of her…. We’re officially engaged; gonna tie the knot the beginning of next year.”
They drank a toast, Bodie’s spur-of-the-moment congratulatory remarks sufficiently lewd for Cheryl to spot a long-lost friend and tactfully withdraw. Bodie finished his whiskey and commented, while Keith refilled his glass, “Congratulations, Keith. You’re a lucky man.”
“I know.” Williams drained his glass; then he took a deep breath. “Eh, Bodie, c’n I ask a favor…about the wedding? Will you be my best man?” At Bodie’s startled look, he added, “Always planned on asking Philpot, but that soddin’ hit-and-run driver last May put an end to that. I know we’re not particularly close nowadays, Bodie, but I do want the squad to be represented at my wedding. Damned few of us left.
“Up to you, mate. If you don’t want to, just say so, and I’ll ask Chambers or one of the other lads at the office. Civilians – not exactly the same thing, though, is it?”
“’Course I’ll be your best man, you berk.” Bodie lightly punched the future groom’s arm. “Consider it an honour. And I’ll take care of the bachelor party, too,“ he winked slyly, “Haven’t lived ‘til you’ve attended a genuine CI5 bachelor party, Keith….”
* * *
Haven’t live…and now you’re dead. Bodie abruptly cut off the flow of memories and stopped toying with his drink. With his glass in mid-air, his mind dredged up another piece of his past: the motto of his old SAS squadron. “’Til death do join us,” he toasted. Then, finished with his drinking, Bodie put up the Scotch bottle and washed out his glass, leaving it to air dry in the rack by the sink.
Returning to the front parlour, he picked up the abandoned newspaper and resettled into the settee. He slowly reread the article on Williams’ demise, then sat back to think – always, as Doyle teased, a dangerous occupation in Bodie’s case.
* * *
Stifling a feeling of déjà vu, Bodie knocked on the door to Keith Williams’ flat. He pushed all thoughts of the day’s boring, cramped stakeout in Doyle’s car from his mind. Moments later, the door opened a crack, and a pair of puffy blue eyes measured him.
“Bodie. C’mon in,” Cheryl said, then let the agent enter. “I don’t –” she began, but Bodie interrupted quietly.
“Was out of town all last week. Just found out about Keith last night. Was quite a shock…. Sorry I missed the funeral; would’ve come if I’d known.” He shifted awkwardly. A past master at dealing out death, he was patently out of his element handling its aftermath. It had been war in the jungle, and the casualties on both sides had just been additions to the body count. Bodie did not think about the surviving relatives of any of the terrorists or would-be terrorists he had taken out while in the Paras or the SAS, and his superior officers had had the onerous death duties associated with his three fallen comrades-in-arms. Likewise, Cowley took care of such matters in CI5; it was one of the few activities that visibly aged the controller.
“These’re for you,” he added, suddenly holding out a bouquet of lilies of the valley, carnations and heart’s ease.
“I’ll get a vase; won’t be a tick,” Cheryl said as she reached for the flowers. She stepped past the archway, through the dining room and into the kitchen. Bodie heard a cupboard door open and water running from a tap; then Keith’s fiancée was back in the parlour. He surreptitiously studied the girl as her fingers played absently with the floral arrangement. Cheryl wore a chaste, long-sleeved black dress with a Peter Pan collar, and her long, fiery hair was restrained by a thin black headband. Her current deportment contrasted vividly with that of the vivacious, sparkling girl Bodie remembered from the engagement party. Then, the parlour had been full of chattering guests and peals of laughter; now it was silently crowded with bouquets of white flowers and a few memorial wreaths.
“I can hardly believe it was just three weeks ago,” Cheryl broke the smothering silence, her thoughts on the same track as the CI5 man’s. “Keith was so looking forward to the wedding – and really pleased that you were gonna be best man. ‘The squad’ll be well represented by Bodie,’ he told me several times after the party. Always rabbiting on about the squad, my Keith was – though he was two years out of the SAS before I even met him…. And nary a one of them showed up for the funeral yesterday. I didn’t see a single uniform.”
“A military man’s time isn’t always his own, Cheryl,” Bodie defended the absent ex-squad-mates. “They could’ve been on maneuvers or in the middle of an operation – or even on holiday, like I was…all sorts of reasons for them not to’ve been there.”
“I s’pose so. Keith’s entire office was present, though, from old Mr. Kensell, the founder, down to all the girls in the steno pool. I can hear Keith’s opinion of the turnout. ‘Civilians,’ he’d snort, ‘not the same thing.’
“I’m not being fair, probably. They might’ve sent cards or something,” Cheryl said, gesturing vaguely at the mounds of flora overflowing the parlour. “Mum and Kay took care of the cards and letters. I couldn’t handle reading the same sympathy palaver over and over again. Most of my set disapproved of Keith, anyway; they thought he was too old for me.” The notion still struck the 26-year-old as ridiculous. “And too violent or dangerous or experienced; they never could agree on the proper character flaw.
“They didn’t really know Keith at all. Keith’s…wonderful,” Cheryl’s voice had softened, and Bodie wasn’t sure that his presence still registered with the girl as she continued. “He was exciting, passionate, protective. I enjoyed stalking around in spiked boots and black leather at his rallies, pretending to be a biker moll. Bit of a walk on the wild side for me – but I always knew I was safe with Keith by my side. He was forever looking after me.” She gazed directly into the CI5 man’s eyes. “Did you know Keith bought us a house in the suburbs right after I said, ‘yes’? He paid in full – plunked down most of his life’s savings.” The last remark defeated her defenses, and Cheryl began sobbing. She found herself enfolded in strong arms and her face buried in Bodie’s black polo.
“Go ahead and cry, luv. You’ll feel better afterwards,” he encouraged, gently holding her. When the girl’s tears ceased flowing several minutes later, she withdrew from Bodie’s embrace, and he handed her his handkerchief.
“I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “I don’t usually fall to pieces like that.”
“’S okay. Perfectly normal reaction after what you’ve been through. What did happen, exactly? The papers were rather vague.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Cheryl stiffened, then turned glaring eyes on him. “What happened?! Keith told me you were some sort of copper, but I never thought you’d play the tea and sympathy bit just to further your police investigation! Damn you, Bodie! Scotland Yard has been badgering me all week about the rally, and I’ll give you the same answer I gave them: I didn’t see anything or anyone suspicious. Nothing out of the way happened that I knew about – it was just another bike meet. A lot larger than the ones I’d attended before, but that’s all. Now, go write your precious report and leave me alone!”
Taken aback by the sudden tirade, Bodie had to raise his own voice to get her attention. “Cheryl! To set the record straight, I’m in CI5 – and we’ve got nothing to do with the police. I share your opinion of that lot, luv. Never met but one copper worth his salt, and he was an ex-D.C. when we were introduced. Didn’t come here to further some investigation; I came here because Keith was a mate, and we look after our own.”
His words calmed the girl down somewhat, and Bodie added, “Like to think that I’m your friend, too. You’ve got my number, Cheryl. Ring me up if you want to talk – about the rally or Keith or anything.” He walked over to the door. “’M sorry about Keith; he was someone special.”
* * *
With a clatter, the long stick fell to the floor. Bodie gently retrieved it under Master Shusai’s watchful, serene gaze. The hooded and robed sensei, with fighting stick at the ready, appeared eerily reminiscent of Obi-wan Kenobi calmly squared off against Darth Vader in Star Wars. Shusai didn’t even need a light-saber to beat him today, Bodie conceded as he picked up his wooden pole for the third time that practice session. Weapons held parallel to the floor in front of themselves, the two men circled cautiously, striking and parrying at will.
Five energetic minutes later, the master ceased feinting, raised his stick and bowed. Bodie instantly returned a low bow, and the mock fight ended. Removing his long robe and protective headgear, the gi-clad Bodie rejoined his teacher on the mat to hear his master’s critique. His concentration had been shot to hell, Bodie was the first to admit. He was also sure that Shusai had called the exercise short before Bodie could drop his stick for a record-shattering fourth time – unheard of for one of the master’s best students. “Consider the crane,” the master spoke. “An awkward bird with stilt-like legs, a long neck and a disproportionate torso. Yet, it will stand on one leg, perched on a stump for hours on end, with no discomfort. It can do so because the crane has achieved true balance. For the crane, this balance is largely instinctive.
“In a man, balance is not simply the even distribution of weight. True inner balance is not a matter of instinct but of the soul. Duties, obligations, memories and loyalties – both past and present – must be in harmony or life becomes chaotic. Each man must assign his own significance to these various life parts, and each man will weight these factors differently.
“You must center yourself, Bodie. Find your true balance – and perhaps you will find peace or purpose.” Shusai then inclined his head, and Bodie dipped his own, silently acknowledging receipt of the words.
* * *
Ray Doyle scowled at the still only half-completed report he was writing on the day’s fiasco. He and Bodie had been detailed to pick up Ted Ferris, a minor grass who had stumbled on a major piece of news about an ongoing gun smuggling operation. The meet had been scheduled for two that afternoon and should have gone off without a hitch. Doyle had met Ferris and barely exchanged a few words when the grass had suddenly panicked and fled, managing to wriggle through both CI5 agents’ fingers. A painstaking, six-hour search of Ferris’ accustomed haunts had failed to turn up the grass; so the two agents had conceded defeat and gone back to headquarters.
One of Cowley’s ironclad rules was that failures must be reported immediately while the incident was still fresh in the agent’s mind; so that mistakes could be analyzed and not repeated. Neither Bodie nor Doyle enjoyed the paperwork on any case, and both loathed writing reports detailing their rare failures. Frustrated, Doyle slammed his biro down on the table, watching as the pen slid across the tabletop, smacked Bodie’s writing hand and fell with a clatter to the concrete floor.
Bodie put down his own biro and glared at Doyle across the table. He pursed his lips, then silently bent over and retrieved Doyle’s pen from the floor. Bodie slapped the writing utensil down on the desk, eliciting a sarcastic “Ta, ever so” from Doyle.
“Sod it, Bodie! How’d you let ’im get past you in the alley, anyway?”
Bodie compressed his lips, then growled, “How’d he ever get past you in the first place, Doyle? Christ, you were talkin’ to the bloke! Ferris must’ve been all of two feet away from you.” He took a breath to calm down. “Luck of the draw. Even we c’n have an off day.”
Doyle wouldn’t let it go at that. “But how could Ferris go to ground so completely and so quickly? And where did he get to?”
“I don’t know!” Bodie had had enough. “You’re the ex-copper, Doyle; you tell me. Grasses and the criminal mind are your area of expertise, not mine.”
“Yeah, I know,” Doyle snapped back. “You military types only know about guns and bombs and killing people!”
Blue eyes darkening in anger, Bodie jumped to his feet. “That’s it! I need some fresh air!” He stormed out of the suffocatingly small, sparsely furnished office that doubled as an interrogation room for CI5’s more claustrophobic prisoners.
Rapidly striding down the central corridor, Bodie cooled down. Stupid to let Doyle’s ratty temper get to me after all this time. I know better than that.
Hoping their argument hadn’t attracted any notice, Bodie saw that the floor was nearly deserted except for a few people working the nightshift in the computer lab.
“Damned few of us left.” Keith Williams’ words echoed through his mind as Bodie glanced through the glass double-doors into the computer section, spotting a girl hard at work at her terminal. Inspiration struck Bodie, and he swung the door open, walking quickly over to her.
“Hello, Mary.”
The slim, young woman lifted her brown eyes from the computer screen and smiled fleetingly. “Bodie, what’re you doing here?”
Bodie grimaced. “Doyle and I got stuck writing reports…you know how that is. Look, luv, I need a favour.”
“Don’t you always?” Mary sighed. “What is it this time?”
“I’ve got a hunch about a case we’re working on, and I need the computer to pull a few files so I can follow through with it.”
The girl picked up a steno pad and a biro, saying, “Okay, what do you need?” Then, she busily wrote down Bodie’s request. The information needed was rather unusual, but Mary knew that field agents were encouraged to use innovative thinking in their assignments.
“How long’ll it take?”
“Oh, not too long. Lucky for you, it’s a quiet night. Should run in less than an hour. You’ll have a substantial report to wade through, though.”
“Ah…that’s another thing,” Bodie grinned disarmingly. “Don’t want Ray to know what I’m up to. You know him; old Sherlock Doyle thinks he’s the only one in CI5 with a detective’s mind – except Cowley, of course.” Bodie dug into his trouser pocket and took out his key ring. He removed his car key from the ring and then slipped the keys back into his pocket.
“Here. Have Fred or one of the lads put the printout in my car, then look me up. Doyle and I are in the cubbyhole, hammering away at our reports.”
Bodie placed the key in Mary’s hand and winked. “You can slip this back to me right under old Sherlock’s nose!”
The computer operator laughingly fell in with Bodie’s plans, and the CI5 agent slowly headed back to the cubbyhole and his unfinished report – with a quick detour to the restroom on the way.
Scribbling away, Doyle glanced up from the table as Bodie re-entered the tiny office and set two steaming cups of coffee on the table. “Peace offering,” Bodie said as he seated himself at the table and reached for his pen.
“Ta, ever so,” Doyle said, and this time, he meant it. He exchanged his pen for a coffee cup and took an appreciative sip.
The two were hard at work when Mary popped in three quarters of an hour later. “Oi, I wondered who was burning the midnight oil in here!” she teased as she circled the table in the center of the exceedingly small room. Passing around Bodie, she deftly dropped the key into his hand and said, “Don’t mind me – just stretching my legs. You boys gonna be here much longer?”
“No, we’re just finishing up,” Doyle said with relief as he signed his name to the bottom of his report with a flourish.
“Then I won’t keep you. G’night.” She left the room.
Doyle watched Bodie as the younger agent also signed his report, then he asked, “Fancy a drink, Bodie? C’n stop off at the Red Lion on the way home. First round’s on me.”
It was as close to an apology as Doyle would ever get, and Bodie accepted it. “On your bike, then, sunshine.” After all, he’d have plenty of time to peruse that printout later.
* * *
Raymond Doyle lounged in the blue estate wagon’s passenger seat, green eyes lazily focused on his partner as Bodie efficiently drove toward the rendezvous. Seemingly half-asleep, Doyle was actually keenly awake and sharply observant, mind busily worrying over Cowley’s recent revelations. Something, according to Cowley, was wrong with Bodie – and he had the statistics to back his opinion. Bodie’s recently completed September competency and intelligence test scores (Doyle privately referred to their constant end-of-the-month tests as their “Battles with Herbie”) showed a six-percent, across-the-board decline from August’s scores, and Dr. Ross was concerned.
Granted Dr. Kate Ross (Bodie had dubbed her the “Queen of Cybernetics,” and the rest of the field agents had quickly picked up the less-than-flattering nickname) had only been the head of CI5’s psychology branch for less than two months, but she was concerned – and rightfully so. Had Doyle noticed anything different or unusual in Bodie’s behavior of late? Dodging the question with the remark that this was Bodie they were talking about, Doyle had been told to pay close attention to Bodie and report any further odd behaviour to Cowley. To Doyle, this smacked of being uncomfortably close to the tail job Cowley had once ordered him to do on Bodie, and he didn’t like it one little bit. But he kept an eye on his partner nonetheless.
Doyle hadn’t noticed any difference in Bodie’s attitude – at least none that he would be willing to pass on to his boss. On duty, Bodie’s behaviour had been the same as always, hadn’t it? He still joked, teased and was strictly business when the job turned serious, backing Doyle to the hilt, as always. He still indulged in long kips while they were on stakeouts, only lately Doyle had the uneasy feeling that Bodie was feigning sleep as a way to avoid talking to his partner.
And Bodie had cut down on his off-duty hours with Doyle, too. They hadn’t double-dated since August and had managed only two pub-crawls in the six weeks since their holiday. Still…Doyle’d be damned if he’d tell the Old Man that the only change in Bodie was his avoidance of his partner’s company.
Maybe the wily old fox already knew, though. Today was supposed to be their day off, but Cowley had sent them on this wild desk chase instead. Was it because the Cow knew that otherwise Bodie would’ve spent the day without Doyle, out doing whatever it was he’d been doing – alone?
Had he done something to get up Bodie’s nose lately? Wracking his brain, Doyle came up empty. Other than the brief flare-up over their failure to apprehend Ferris two weeks back, Doyle’s disposition had been without fault. Bodie, too, had been quite his usual self on duty. He was uncommunicative and undesirous of Doyle’s company after hours, though. A pattern was emerging…. A familiar pattern, Doyle realised with a barely suppressed start.
Bodie had behaved similarly when Marikka had suddenly re-entered his life. Marikka! And now…another girl from Bodie’s mysterious past? Doyle had made a fine hash of things in his part of the Marikka affair. The German actress had wound up dead, shot in the back by her husband’s henchman, an innocent victim of MI6 Controller Willis’ ploys. Bodie had once loved Marikka a great deal and had still loved her even after she had betrayed him long ago in Berlin.
Sod it! Doyle was not going to spy on his partner’s rendezvous with a past love again. If Cowley wanted to keep track of Bodie, the Old Man could damn well find another man for his dirty work: seven-seven or five-nine – it was right up their alley. Doyle would continue to observe Bodie when he was with his partner, but that was it. He was not going to risk losing Bodie’s trust again, and Doyle would so inform the Cow, right after he and Bodie delivered the Old Man’s bloody desk.
* * *
Eyes closed for a moment’s respite, Bodie dropped the slim section of printout on his lap. Ever since he’d first read the files on his old squad two and half weeks ago, the information contained in the printout had haunted him. He had sorted the massive listing into separate files on each man by name, and one very disturbing fact was immediately apparent: With the notable exception of himself, every single demobilized man from his squad was deceased. “They can’t all be dead,” he had thought with disbelief, but they were. In contrast, of the men who had served with Bodie and were still in the SAS, only one was dead. Captain James Butler had been killed a year ago while on patrol in Northern Ireland.
Bodie did not accept coincidence; there had to be a reason for the unnaturally high fatality rate among his de-mobbed mates. Mulling over the deaths and searching for that reason occupied almost all of Bodie’s free time. He had reached the point where he could still see the block letters of the computer printout with his eyes shut tight: PHILPOT, JENKINS, MILLER, TREVOR…. Most of the deaths were accidents, like Philpot’s. Jenkins’ parachute had failed to open during a jump; Miller had fallen while mountain climbing in Wales; and Trevor had dropped to his death while trying to rescue a fellow construction worker. Roberts, the bully boy of the outfit, had been gunned down by the Met during a bank heist, and Simmons had OD’d on sleeping tablets, a possible suicide. There had been other accidents and misadventures – and the conclusion was inescapable: The last five years had practically wiped out the de-mobbed members of Bodie’s old SAS squadron. Bodie himself had had several close calls during those five years; it was part of the territory. William Andrew Phillip Bodie, however, was a difficult man to kill, as some had discovered the hard way.
Hold it! Bodie’s eyes snapped open, and he leaped to his feet, pacing as he thought. If the deaths weren’t coincidence and he ruled out kismet, that only left deliberate. Had some master killer tracked down and disposed of his squad-mates systematically? And, if so, didn’t that put him next in line? Or was he just being paranoid? Still, if someone had killed them and successfully disguised most of the deaths as accidents, that person would be a lethal enemy. They were all dead…and not just his mates, either. Philpot had been driving with his girlfriend, who had also died in the collision with the hit-and-run driver, and the co-worker Trevor had attempted to save had also been killed. This invisible killer apparently didn’t mind taking out innocent bystanders, as well as his intended targets.
Not-so-innocent bystanders, too – like Ray?
If someone really was gunning for Bodie, Ray could certainly be caught in the crossfire. That wasn’t fair; this possible vendetta from the past had nothing to do with Ray, who didn’t approve of Bodie’s past, anyway. Still, they were CI5’s best team, and Bodie was confident that the chances of anything untoward happening to him on the job were remote. That left his off-duty hours, which Bodie had lately spent holed up in his flat, poring over the bloody printouts.
However, if he was going to turn tables on this (phantom?) stalking killer, he needed to present a visible target. Not with Ray, although the idea of some sort of backup had merit, and CI5 had the best back-watchers in England.
Hmm... Lucas and McCabe, the new kids on the block, had worked admirably with him on the Apex kidnapping case just three days ago. Quite a spell since he’d last had men directly under his command, and a commander had certain obligations to his men, including rewards for a job well done.
Meanwhile, he’d concentrate on the enemy. Whoever he was had to have known all of the men in Bodie’s squadron, which would be a snap for another squad member. Thus far, Bodie had concerned himself with the victims, poring over the dead men’s files night after night, seeking a common event or assignment – some motive for their deaths. Although he now knew more about his former squad-mates (and their superior’s opinions of them) than he had when serving side by side with them, Bodie had learned nothing that aided his investigation.
He eyed the second, larger printout pile of active SAS ex-squad-mates of his – all, except Butler, very much alive…. Had any of them been in the right place at the right time to stage all of those “accidents”? He determinedly reseated himself and picked up the first file: Keller’s. That figured. In Bodie’s considered opinion, Jimmy Keller was capable of anything.
But not this, he concluded after studying Keller’s file. Keller had left the SAS for the Paras just before Bodie had thrown his lot in with CI5. Idly, Bodie wondered if his jibes about the good life in the Paras had spurred Jimmy into seeking a secondment with the paratroopers. Keller had stayed with the Paras for two years, then returned to Major Nairn and the SAS. Bodie shook his head over that bit of information. When he’d left the SAS, he’d left Freddie’s clutches for good. Bodie couldn’t think of any inducement the major could offer that would return the dark-haired man to the fold. Why had Keller come back?
The record was sketchy beyond that. After Keller had returned to the SAS, he’d had intensive intelligence training and then had been dispatched to Italy to infiltrate some terrorist organization in 1978. In the last addendum to the record, made just the month before, Nairn had noted a few more details of the group that Keller had joined and that his cover was working perfectly.
Undercover for two years? Bodie had pulled a few undercover stints over the years himself, and he’d gotten Doyle sufficiently well-oiled to disclose some of his partner’s own months-long, deep-cover assignments while on the force…but two years!? Well, if anyone could carry it off, Keller could, Bodie observed with reluctant admiration. However, under those circumstances, Keller couldn’t waltz in and out of England, bumping his ex-squad-mates off at will; so Bodie crossed Jimmy off his metal list of suspects. Reaching for the next printout, Bodie changed his mind and rose from the settee. He strode purposefully over to the corner desk and scrounged around for a pad of paper. His mind was already full to overflowing with facts about his dead mates – not to mention the storehouse of bizarre to vital information needed for everyday survival in CI5 – and he wanted a written record of his ideas. Sitting down, he grabbed a biro and began to write: “Williams, August 21, 1980; Philpot, May 23, 1980….” He listed all ten names and death dates down the left margin of the paper, then used an address book to draw horizontal lines across the pad, separating each name by rows.
Bodie rotated the little black book and marked off thus-far unnamed columns at the top of the page. Then, finished, he looked at the half-labeled, empty chequerboard-like squares. His vision wavered, and he saw a different set of squares on the paper.
“Let’s try the next one,” Scott’s soft, boyish voice encouraged from his left. “The tea-drinking Ukrainian didn’t like the dog in the blue house next door but didn’t mind the cat two houses down. What’s that tell ya?”
“The Ukrainian drinks tea,” ten-year-old Bodie answered promptly, staring at the partially filled pencil-drawn boxes.
“That’s right, but also the Ukrainian doesn’t have the cat or the dog as a pet –”
“Or live in the blue house,” Bodie interrupted, beginning to get the hang of this latest game. Scott, older by a year, knew every cheap, on-paper game and brainteaser two boys from the Liverpool docks could play. Bodie’s favourite was Battleships, but he was enjoying this who-lived-where/kept-what-pet/drank-which-drink/played-what-musical-instrument word tangle, with its list of clues. If they solved the puzzle correctly, they’d end up with each square filled and all clues matching their arrangement of the squares.
Bodie blinked, and the scrap of childhood memory evaporated. He frowned at the paper. This was not some child’s game – he was after a killer. Angry with himself for conjuring a scene from his long-buried childhood so easily, Bodie ripped off the marked sheet and returned to the sofa. Picking up the next file, he read it carefully, paying special attention to when and where the man was stationed. He was looking for someone who had been within striking distance at all of the specified times or, alternatively, someone like Keller, who couldn’t have been in the required places at the necessary times and, therefore, could be removed from his list of possible killers.
After a thorough perusal of the first file, Bodie wrote Dobson’s name in the first column of his diagram and checked all of the boxes in his column; Dobson had been posted in London the whole time and easily met the logistics conditions for being the suspected killer. Putting his pen down, Bodie tackled the next man’s printout.
* * *
Plopping the last printout down on the coffee table, Bodie sneaked a peek at his watch, surprised to discover it was almost midnight. He lumbered to his feet and stretched, glaring at his paper, which was now crammed with possible suspects. Only four men could be safely eliminated from the tall stack of printouts; the rest had been – and most still were – stationed in the London area, where most of the “accidents” had occurred. Wearily, Bodie admitted that he needed another plan of action. He was too tired to think straight now. He’d sleep on it and perhaps come up with a new angle the next morning. At least tomorrow was his day off.
* * *
“Bodie! What a pleasant surprise.” The SAS officer opened the front door to admit his early morning visitor. Bodie entered and followed Captain Timothy Royscliffe through the living room and into a spacious office-cum-study. On-base housing accommodations had improved tremendously in the past five years, Bodie mused, or else the gap between officer and noncom territory was a lot wider than he’d thought.
“Heard about Keith Williams. Damn shame, that. He was a fine man,” the uniformed man said as they settled comfortably on the Chesterfield.
Bodie grunted agreement and was relieved when Royscliffe switched topics. “Now, what brings you out to the old stomping grounds, eh?”
“’Fraid it’s business, Tim.”
“Oh? CI5 mucking about in SAS concerns? Didn’t think it was your patch, Bodie.”
“Major Cowley reckons any plot of grass in England is CI5’s patch,” Bodie rejoined easily, stressing the Cow’s military status. “’Sides, it was our tip-off, so we pulled checkup detail.”
“What exactly are you checking up on?”
“Our grass told CI5 about a long-term drop-off point – and mentioned someone in your squad might be involved,” the agent met his old squad-mate’s eyes squarely, lying through his teeth.
“Information exchange?” Royscliffe wondered what military secrets could have been divulged.
“Yeah, probably…or maybe drugs. Informant was kinda vague on that point.”
“But he was specific enough about the SAS to bring you here.”
Bodie reminded himself that Lieutenant Royscliffe – now Captain Royscliffe – had not been promoted because he was lacking in the brain department. “Yeah, he was convincing on that point. Gave us a list of dates when the exchanges occurred.” He pulled out a short, typewritten list of nine dates and passed it over to Royscliffe. Bodie had omitted Keith’s death date from the list since it was too fresh in everyone’s memories. Tim would hardly accept the coincidence that Williams had died on the same date as one of the supposed information swaps had occurred, and once one of the dates was questioned, they would all come under suspicion.
“Nineteen seventy-six?” Royscliffe exclaimed, reading the last date on the paper. “It’s been going on that long?”
“Yeah, well – you know these espionage cases. They go on for years until someone involved gets disgruntled enough or careless enough to get caught and then grasses on the whole kit and caboodle. And the authorities are continually amazed that the spy ring was operating for so long right under their noses – ”
“Only too true, Bodie. How can I assist you?”
“I need to question your men. Find out what they were doing at the exchanges times, among other things.” Bodie sighed. “Know it’s a long shot, but we’ve got to start somewhere.”
“Mmmm,” the captain agreed absently, turning the request over in his mind. “It’d be better if we could disguise the information we’re after somehow.” He missed Bodie’s involuntary start of surprise. “You don’t have to question them face to face, do you?”
“Not if you’ve got something better in mind,” Bodie grinned. “The Cow gives us a free hand in our cases.” Probably cut mine off if he gets a whiff of what I’m up to. Breaking one of the Good Rules, I am: “Thou shalt not use CI5 for thine own benefit.”
“Then I’ll give my command an unexpected quiz – a test of memory. I’ll have them write down everything they did on those dates from your list…. Our critics are always complaining that the SAS is muscle-bound, physically tiptop but not mentally up to snuff; so the lads won’t be too surprised.”
“That’ll work just fine, Tim. Should probably include some easy days, like Christmas and New Year’s.”
“You’re right,” Royscliffe agreed, scribbling down a few holidays. “And we also need some ordinary, inconsequential days to muddy the waters.”
Bodie watched as the captain added some miscellaneous days, purposefully including the CI5 agent’s birthday from two years ago.
Scanning the completed paper, Royscliffe observed, “Yesterday, I would’ve staked my word of honour that there wasn’t a traitor in my squad. They’re good men, Bodie. You know that – hell, you must know more than half of ’em yourself.”
Where does it all end? First, I’m using CI5. Now, I’ve got Tim thinking there’s a traitor in the squad. Is that any worse than a murderer on the squad? That is, if there really is a killer on the loose. But ten men have died, and I won’t be number eleven. If – life, no, death in a word.
It finally penetrated Bodie’s mind that Tim was asking him a question. “Eh?”
“I said,” Royscliffe repeated, “you’ve cleared this with Major Nairn, of course.”
“Well, I haven’t spoken to Freddie personally, but,” Bodie prevaricated, “I’m sure Cowley has, major to major, you know.”
“Ah, yes, where would the military be if one didn’t observe the proper channels of command?” Royscliffe rose from the sofa. “I’m off to give that quiz. I s’pose you’ll hang around here ’til you get the results?”
“Yeah, the Cow wants us to get to the bottom of this A.S.A.P.”
“That’s the umpteenth time you’ve used the royal ‘we,’ Bodie. Names gone to your head or something, William Andrew Phillip?”
Nah,” Bodie said sheepishly. “’M used to working with a partner, is all.”
“Oh? Where is he then?”
“Out following up leads on the other end. Don’t think he’s overly fond of the military, actually,” Bodie confided. “He’s always lettin’ me deal with any service types we run across.”
“Mmmm. Maybe he’s just taking a backseat to your knowledge and experience in the military area.”
“Could be.”
“I’ll have to meet him sometime and judge for myself, then. Or is the present as closed a door as the past was for you, Bodie?”
“No.” Tried to make it so, but the ghosts keep slipping through the cracks. “Maybe I’ll bring ’im round to meet you when this mess is all cleared up. Meanwhile –”
“I’ve got a test to administer. Make yourself at home, Bodie. I’ll be back at lunchtime.” Royscliffe left the study.
Bodie listened as his host’s footsteps receded down the corridor; then he walked over to the captain’s desk. He started prowling through the drawers and files, because his list of suspects included the captain of his old SAS squad.
* * *
Breezing into the restroom for a cuppa, Doyle found Lucas stretched out on the much-used settee and McCabe idly attacking The Times crossword puzzle at the table. “How’s it goin’, Mac?” he asked the seated, brown-haired agent.
Pondering Seven Down, stern authoritarian (“Cowley” didn’t fit – not enough letters), McCabe said, “Can’t complain, yet. Not looking forward to the Grade Seven call-out simulations next week, though. What’s it gonna be like, d’you think?”
“The real thing,” Doyle answered promptly, “or close as makes no difference. You two won’t be at a disadvantage, though, Mac. These mock-terrorist situations are a new twist for the entire squad. And the Old Man is combining the drills with Ross’ monthly IQ tests…evaluating mind and body at the same time. Doesn’t miss a trick, our Mr. Cowley.” Grinning evilly, he added, “Cheer up, Mac. Most of the squad’ll tell you it can’t be any worse than working with Bodie – and you’ve already done that.”
“Bodie? Bodie’s a brick.” McCabe pointed to his shagged-out partner. “Lucas, here, is still recovering from last night at the Pig and Whistle with him.”
Before Doyle could say anything, Lucas groaned from the settee, “It was the Hoof and Claw, you idiot. Pig and Whistle was Tuesday night.”
“Shame you couldn’t come with us, Doyle,” McCabe winked, “but Bodie said you were ‘otherwise occupied.’ A real raver, was she?”
“Lucas! McCabe!” Cowley’s stern, authoritative voice easily reached the restroom. “My office, now!”
Scrambling to their feet, CI5’s newest field team vacated the restroom, wondering what they were being called on the carpet for this time.
Soddin’ hell, Bodie! Ray Doyle slammed his cup of tea down on the counter. Here he thought Bodie was out with his past lady love, and the dozy bastard was painting the town red with Lucas and McCabe instead! Bodie, what the hell are you up to? One thing was sure, Doyle was fast losing patience with Bodie and his antics.
* * *
Bodie picked up his ansaphone. “Yeah?”
“’S me. Want to talk to you.”
“Okay. C’mon up, Doyle.”
Bodie had whisked away all evidence of his investigative pursuits by the time his partner entered the flat.
“What’s on your mind that couldn’t wait ’til tomorrow morning?” he asked as he shut the door.
“For starters, I’m here to pick up your tux. You said I could borrow it for my dinner date with Sally.”
“It’s in the bedroom. I’ll get it, just a sec.” Bodie disappeared down the hall, then reappeared minutes later carrying a hangered tuxedo and a very sheer, white lawn shirt. “Tie’s in the jacket pocket,” he said, handing the suit to Doyle.
“Very nice,” Doyle whistled appreciatively. “Nothing but the best for a girl like Sally, eh, Bodie? But, then,” he continued with an edge in his voice, “you haven’t met her, have you, partner? So why’d you tell Lucas and Mac I was busy with my little raver last night?”
Considering all the other lies he had been telling lately, Bodie was rather miffed at being caught out over a harmless little fib about Doyle’s girlfriend. “Figured she’d have to be a raver to be datin’ you, sunshine.”
“Oh, ta very much! You know bloody well I wasn’t out with Sally last night, Bodie! I asked you out for a pint, and you turned me down flat. Next I hear, you spent the entire night pub-crawling with Lucas and McCabe!”
“Jealous, are you?”
“Soddin’ hell!” Doyle took a firm hold of his temper and let out a deep breath. “I didn’t come here to argue, Bodie. I came to help.”
“Help? But there’s nothing wrong.”
“Oh, yes, there is, mate. And I’m not the only one to notice, either. The Cow’s got his eye on you, too.”
“Ray, I’m telling you, nothing’s the matter. There’s no problem,” Bodie reiterated his stance.
“You can lie to yourself, Bodie, but don’t try it with me.”
“Damn it, Ray! I said there’s no problem, and you don’t believe me. Well, that’s your prerogative, I s’pose. But you’d better believe me now, because I’m telling you the truth.” Bodie’s blue eyes glared at Doyle. “It has nothing to do with you or CI5. I don’t want your help, and I don’t need it. Now, was I speaking the Queen’s English for you that time?”
“Oh, yes, I read you loud and clear,” Doyle snapped back. “Thanks for the suit.” He grabbed the borrowed clothes and stalked over to the door. “Goodbye.” The door slammed resoundingly behind him.
* * *
Ray Doyle held his tongue until Bodie closed the main entrance door to the office complex housing Wrentham & Monroe, Engineering Specialists. Tapping Bodie’s jacketed arm, Doyle asked sharply, “Where were you in there, Bodie? You didn’t hear a word Wrentham said, just sat there staring at him across his bloody desk!”
“’Course I heard what he said!” Bodie retorted while they strolled down the sidewalk. “Said what they all say, didn’t he? ‘I can’t believe Jones was stealing our classified information and selling it to the Russians! He’s always been such a loyal, hard-working employee.’”
“The perpetrator’s name was Smith, not Jones,” Doyle corrected his partner. “So, admit it; you weren’t paying attention, were you? In fact, something’s been on your mind for quite a while now. You’ve been a bit…off for weeks. What’s wrong, Bodie? Maybe I can help.” He repeated his previously rejected offer.
“Nothing,” Bodie snapped the denial automatically. This had nothing to do with Ray, and Bodie was determined to keep him out of it. The ex-copper disapproved of Bodie’s mercenary past, and Bodie thought he had the all-too-common civilian’s view of the military as being only one step above mercenaries.
Bodie started into the zebra crossing, moving towards his Capri parked on the opposite side of the street. A motorcyclist in the near lane ran the red light, and Doyle’s strong arms yanked Bodie back to the safety of the sidewalk with only seconds to spare.
Well, that would have been that, Bodie thought with his customary black humour while he took deep, calming breaths. Would’ve solved all my problems, too, wouldn’t it’ve, Keith? If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Aware that Doyle was still gripping him tightly by the upper arms, he turned toward his partner.
Releasing Bodie’s arms, Doyle was startled by the expression of…resentment (or was it disappointment?) he caught in his partner’s eyes – as if he wanted to be run over by that bloody motorcycle. But that was crazy, wasn’t it? Doyle shook his head and found Bodie grinning back at him, his eyes their normal bright blue.
“Thanks, Ray. Reckon I owe you a drink for that, mate.”
“Yeah, but just a couple,” Doyle answered, as they resumed crossing the street. “Don’t want to start Craine’s Grade Sevens with a hangover tomorrow, now, do we?”
* * *
Bodie restlessly paced his parlour room floor. He and Doyle had checked out at headquarters, then lifted a few pints at the White Horse. Neither man had been full of conversation, and Bodie had readily acceded to Doyle’s request to call it an early night. He had dropped Ray off at his flat, then driven home and resumed wrestling with his problem.
The more he thought about it, the more confused and uncertain Bodie became. From one point of view, his mates had been systematically and ruthlessly eliminated in the five years since he’d left Special Services. Someone was conducting a vendetta against the ex-servicemen and was clever enough to have camouflaged his actions as accidents for the most part.
Viewed from the other side, his mates’ unfortunate deaths were all unrelated, ill-timed accidents or quirks of fate. Only a paranoiac would see the fatalities as even remotely connected, and of course, the belief that he was next in line was a classic symptom of paranoia.
So, which viewpoint was right? Even after extensively studying the SAS men’s files and their alibis, or lack thereof, Bodie was uncertain. He had been trying to get to the bottom of this mess for two months with no success. He almost wished he had told Ray about it and let the ex-detective constable apply his copper’s mind and nose to the problem. If he had, what would Ray have done first?
“Start at the beginning.” Bodie could almost hear Doyle patiently saying the words, trying for the hundredth time to teach the impulsive Bodie the rudiments of detective work.
The beginning…. Where was the beginning? Keith. Keith Williams was dead – murdered, in fact. No matter what else was or wasn’t true about the rest of his mates, Keith had been killed at that bike rally.
The rally. Quickly, Bodie walked over to his phone. He considered, and rejected, calling Cheryl before rapidly dialing another number. He spoke briefly to the man at the other end, then put down the phone, musing over the conversation.
Williams had exchanged words with a young biker on Saturday afternoon after being blocked by the Hell’s Angel and a few of his companions in one of the preliminary races. The youthful tough fancied himself the best thing on two wheels, according to Bodie’s biker mate, Martin. Martin also knew that King Billy, as the tough called himself, and his mates frequented a bar named The Chequered Flag. Bodie knew the place; it was close to his gym.
Very well. Starting tomorrow, he would make The Chequered Flag his new local. Sooner or later, he would meet King Billy and his royal entourage in the bar and take his measure of them. And then…?
THE END
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