The Londoner
by Swellison

Bodie grunted as he placed the last carton on the floor of the Reginald's hold. The boxes, stamped FRAGILE, ostensibly contained bone china, although the real cargo was heroin, cleverly tucked in the spouts, lids, and handles of various fine porcelains.. Since the Reginald only plied her trade at other English ports along the Thames, she had escaped the rigorous scrutiny the English Coast Guard applied to similar vessels with international destinations. She had not escaped CI5's interest, and Bodie had pieced together her owner's drug smuggling operations after a month of undercover work. He had passed on the information to Doyle and CI5 was set to spring.

Tonight we nail Tommy "Hammer" Smith, Bodie thought with satisfaction. He cast a disparaging look at his pea jacket, dark jeans, and workworn boots. And I can go back to wearing a decent suit and tie.

"Burns!" Durkin, a rough-looking young dockhand, called from the top of the hold's stairway, "Boss wants to see us on deck, pronto!"

"Be right there," Bodie said, making his way over to the skimpy stairs. He quickly climbed them and emerged on the deck only a few steps behind the other man. The two strode rapidly down the passageway to reach the main deck. The ship's deck lighting outlined three men waiting by the rails -- Tommy Smith, Hobbs and Porter, two of his more violent minions. I've got a bad feeling about this.

Bodie eyed Smith as he and Durkin joined the three men on the deck. The drug smuggler was an ordinary-sized man with a deceptively mild-looking face. He dressed casually, with a lined trench coat to keep out the November evening chill. Hobbs and Porter were wearing jeans, polos and jackets, similar to Bodie's attire. Hobbs had his hands stuffed into his pockets to keep warm.

"Shipment all loaded?" Mr. Smith asked Bodie.

"Yes, Mr. Smith."

"Good work, Burns -- or should I say Bodie?" Smith's voice was hard-edged.

"My name's Burns, sir -- Robert Burns," Bodie said flatly. He smiled coolly, "No relation.."

"To the poet, or Bodie?"

"Both." Bodie shrugged, "Either."

"Ah, I see." Mr. Smith pulled out a cigarette and Porter instantly lit it. "I don't believe you."

Too late, Bodie saw that Hobbs had removed his hands from his pockets, exposing the silenced revolver in his right hand. Damn! A distraction. Fell for the oldest trick in the boo-

Phut! Phut! The silenced gun discharged twice and Bodie literally fell to the deck, two gaping holes in his chest.

Mr. Smith exhaled and snapped his fingers. Hobbs pocketed his gun, then stooped over his victim. He rolled Bodie onto his back and calmly searched his pants pockets, ignoring the spreading bloodstains on the fallen man's jacket. He extracted a set of keys and a billfold, which he passed over to his governor. Mr Smith removed the folding money from the wallet, then handed it over to Porter.

About to return to his feet, Hobbs looked Bodie over once more. Something niggled at him, and he unbuttoned Bodie's pea jacket and peeled it back to reveal the bloody polo.. Grimacing, Hobbs did his best to avoid the blood while performing a quick patdown search. He felt a slight bump close to Bodie's left shoulder, and rolled the collar down to reveal an electronic bug. Wordlessly, he pulled the tiny listening device from its connecting wires. Hastily, he stood up and handed the now-defunct bug over to Mr. Smith. "We've got a problem, sir."

Mr. Smith eyed the bug distastefully, then threw the keys to Durkin. "Get rid of his car, Durkin!" he ordered, adding, "It's parked on the north side of the dock."

Durkin latched onto the car keys, and said, "Y-yes, sir, Mr. Smith," the first words he'd uttered since arriving on deck. With a last look at Bodie, he strode rapidly towards the ship's gangway.

Mr. Smith pointed to Bodie, lying almost at his feet. "Dump the body overboard, and the current'll take care of the rest."

Porter nodded worriedly, "What if he wasn't just an informer? What if he's a cop?"

"We don't have time for 'what if's' Porter!" Hobbs snapped. "C'mon, help me. Grab 'is legs, I've got his arms." Hobbs and Porter maneuvered Bodie to a clear stretch of railing.. "On three," Hobbs said, and they swung the deadweight between them, building up momentum. "One, two, three." They flung the body over the railings, tracking it as it hit the river water a good twenty feet out, and rapidly sank from sight.

"Let's go!" Hobbs and Porter hurriedly rejoined Mr. Smith. "Not so fast, Hobbs," their boss spoke. "How many of the boxes have the stuff in them on this haul?"

Hobbs responded promptly. "Only four, sir, lt was a light load becau--"

Mr. Smith cut off the explanation. "Then we'll each grab a box when we leave. That way, we'll salvage most of the shipment."

"Do we have time, Mr Smith?" Porter fretted.

Mr. Smith coolly looked at his underling. "You've just wasted five seconds asking me." He headed down the passageway leading to the hold, and Hobbs and Porter fell hastily in behind him.

The three men quickly descended into the hold, grabbed the earmarked boxes, then debarked from the ship "We need to establish an alibi at the other end of town, boys," Mr Smith said as they crossed the dock area. "Porter, make sure you pass that wallet onto your friends, and dispose of the credit cards properly."

"Yessir," Porter answered, eager to reach Mr Smith's powerful Cadillac and leave the docks behind them.

* * * * *

"I don't believe you," Mr. Smith's calm words registered in Doyle's earphones and on the recording equipment. Ray Doyle was monitoring his partner's situation from CI5's portable listening post, which the agents commonly referred to as the buggyboo.. He glanced at his wristwatch. Sod Cowley's schedule! Bodie's in trouble NOW.. Grabbing his R/T, Doyle spoke rapidly. "All units, move in! Bodie's cover's been blown! This is 4.5, repeat, all agents move in on the suspects. We're going in now!"

Issuing his orders made it difficult for Doyle to listen to the shipboard goings-on, but he clearly heard the tell-tale burst of static that recorded the bug's demise. Wrenching the headphones off, he threw them down on the small table housing the listening equipment. Hurriedly, Doyle jammed his R/T into his coat pocket and exited the van, banging the door home. Be faster on foot, he decided, abandoning the vehicle at a run. Much quieter, too.

Racing down the almost deserted docks, Doyle calculated that he would arrive at the scene first. The small microphone that Bodie carried had a limited range, so the van had been parked less than a quarter mile away. 'S'a good thing Lucas, Mac and Murphy assumed their positions early, Doyle thought as he quickly covered the dockside between the buggyboo and the smuggler's ship. However, the extra agents couldn't be stationed too close to the targeted ship or they would be noticed This restricted their direct visual surveillance, and placed even more importance on Bodie's wire. Doyle closed down that train of thought, unwilling to dwell on the implications of the destroyed bug.

Finally, Doyle arrived at the Reginald's minimally lit dockside. He paused next to a construction crane, the only cover in sight, and steadied his breathing. Peering out at the ship, he spotted Smith's silver Cadillac at the far end of the dock. One of the men slammed the trunk lid shut, and the three hopped into the Cadillac.. Bodie's not with 'em - unless 'e's in the boot? Gotta find out!

Doyle leaped out from the crane and sprinted toward the Cadillac as it started. He pulled his Browning out and yelled "Halt!" The car suddenly reversed and came barreling towards him. Doyle jumped sideways and the Cadillac sped past, narrowly missing him. Damn! Can't let 'em get away! He aimed his revolver at the fleeing car's tyre and fired. Doyle missed, and fired again.

The second shot didn't hit the tyre, either, but the Cadillac's driver attempted to dodge the next bullet by weaving. The tactic proved faulty and the next shot connected solidly with the car.

BOOM!! The explosion knocked the car into a piling and swept Doyle, more than a thirty yards away, off his feet. Momentarily dazed, he watched as flames engulfed the car. Horrified, he leaped to his feet. "Bodie! No!" He screamed and ran toward the burning car.

Whump! Something sprang at Doyle and tackled him to the ground again. Lying breathless on the concrete, he looked into Murphy's blazing eyes. "Doyle! Are you daft? What're you doing?!" The taller agent shouted, not relinquishing his hold on the frantic man.

"Let me go, Murph! Bodie might be in there!" I might've killed him. No! Doyle struggled to a sitting position, and Murphy shifted with him. Before Doyle could spring to his feet, Murphy threw his left leg over Doyle's right leg, and shoved his right leg under it, effectively grounding Doyle. Quickly, Murphy circled his left arm around Doyle, latching onto the curly-haired agent's left wrist. Murphy's other hand clamped around Doyle's right wrist. Doyle fought to rise for half a minute longer, then gave into the taller man's all-encompassing, octopus-like hold. He flashed back to being held in a similar, ignominious fashion at a bowling alley.. He jerked his head to the right, glaring at his partner. "Bo- " he started to say, then realised who was pinning him down. "Murph, Bodie's in there!"

Murphy's eyes saddened, but he still held Doyle firmly. "If he is, you can't do anything for him now, Ray! It's too late!"

"No!" Ray Doyle denied, and tried to yank his arms free. "Let me up!"

"Not 'til you see sense!"

Doyle could only see the burning car. Bodie! What have I done to you?! Abruptly, his flame-filled view was cut off. He vaguely heard shouts and many rapidly moving feet, but the sound was muffled. Feels like when me ears popped on that flight back to London. And what's going on with the lights? Doyle turned to stare at Murphy's worried face, inches from his own. The other agent's features were shadowcast, then revealed by a sharp red-tinged light, then shadowed again in a continuous dark-light-dark-light pattern. Doyle blinked, then swung his gaze back in the direction of the now-concealed burning car. A huge fire engine, emergency beacons flashing, was parked between himself and the Cadillac. Several firemen were running about, shouting at each other as they deployed a huge fire hose.

"You can let me up now, Murph," Doyle said, subdued. "I won't interfere with the cavalry.."

Murphy let Doyle get to his feet, but he kept a wary eye on his fellow agent. The two men strode over to the far side of the fire truck, keeping out of the way of the busy firefighters. Doyle stopped when he had an unobstructed view of the stillblazing car, and stood rooted to the spot the entire ten minutes it took to douse the fire. He seemed unaware of Murphy's presence at his side, only having eyes for the smouldering Cadillac. Neither man noticed the approach of George Cowley until their Controller spoke.

"Four-five, what is going on here? Six-two radioed me that the raid was underway, and I got here as soon as I could. You're ahead of our timetable by almost an hour and a half."

Murphy spoke on Doyle's behalf."Bodie's cover was blown right before I contacted you, sir. We decided to go in ASAP. We've been here" -- he glanced at his watch -- "about twenty minutes. I haven't seen Bodie, but 4.5 got here first." Murphy touched Doyle's shoulder, hoping for a response. "Have you seen Bodie, Ray?"

Eyes still glued to the Cadillac, Doyle answered tonelessly. "N-no. Smith and his two men were getting into the car when I showed up. They closed the boot and took off, so I tried to shoot out their tyres." He raised a hand vaguely toward the burnt-out car, "Didn't exactly succeed."

"So that's what happened." The captain of the fire brigade joined the three men while Doyle was talking. "One of your bullets must've hit the gas tank instead of a tyre. Usually, that won't cause an explosion, unless the tank was less than a quarter full. Then the shot would've ignited the petrol fumes in the tank, causing the explosion.

"Mr. Cowley, we meet again. I wish it could be under more pleasant circumstances."

"So do I, Captain Latham," Cowley returned the greeting.

"I take it these two work for you?" Cowley nodded, introducing Murphy and Doyle. The captain continued, "There's the bodies of three men inside the car. Would you know their ldentities?"

"Yes," Mr. Cowley said shortly.

"Three? Only three?" Doyle queried sharply. "what about - inside the trunk?"

"The trunk?" Latham echoed, puzzled.

"I've a man missing, Captain Latham," Cowley quietly informed the fire chief. "He was working here undercover and his cover was blown earlier tonight."

"I'll be right back." Latham about-faced and strode rapidly towards the Cadillac. He barked an order and one of his men pried open the trunk The two firefighters examined the opened space for a few minutes, then Latham returned to the CI5 men.

"There's no sign of anyone having been in the trunk, but something was there. Crates, maybe." He exchanged glances with Cowley and said, "Have your man give me a copy of his report tomorrow -- and I would appreciate the names of those three men. Poor sods, not a very pleasant way to go."

"If it helps, chief, they weren't very pleasant men," Cowley said grimly. "Drug smugglers, hoodlums, - and dealers to boot. The fire spared them a lengthy stay in prison.."

"Well," Latham coughed. "The fire's out, and you've taken over here, so we'll clear out. Hope you find your missing man, Cowley."

"Aye," Cowley nodded. "Thanks for the help, Latham."

The fire chief nodded, then walked towards his truck He efficiently rounded up his firefighters and the fire engine smoothly withdrew from the dock.

"Bodie wasn't in the trunk," Doyle felt compelled to say the words out loud, then sighed in relief. But his relief was short-lived. "So where the bloody hell is he?"

Murphy spotted a figure approaching the group from the Reginald. "Maybe Lucas can tell us something."

"Sir, I've just searched the ship," Lucas reported crisply "No one aboard, but there's bloodstains on the main deck - not much," he tacked on, seeing Doyle. "Another thing, sir, one of the boxes in the hold has heroin in it."

"One? There should've been four," Doyle remembered recording an earlier conversation of Bodie's.

Before anyone could comment, McCabe came into sight. His eyes sought out Cowley's. He paused, taking in the group of agents, then spoke. "I caught a man named Durkin trying to nick Bodie's car - he had the keys. Told him I was CI5, and he started grassin' on his guv'nor -- the smuggling operation" -- he hesitated momentarily - "everything. I couldn't shut 'im up. Left him handcuffed to the backseat, so I could make my report."

McCabe's eyes left Cowley's, and met Doyle's. "Ray," he said heavily, "Durkin said Bodie's dead. Hobbs shot him and they threw the body overboard. I'm sorry."

"No! Durkin's lying!" Doyle stepped forward "I'll get the truth out of 'im!"

"No, Doyle," Cowley spoke firmly and Murphy clasped Doyle's arm above the elbow, stilling him "I'll interrogate Mr Durkin, and rest assured, we'll set the truth out of him But you are to go home, Doyle. You're off the case, as of now."

"You think so, Cowley?" Doyle challenged, "Mister Cowley?"

"That won't work this time, laddie. You're emotionally involved - do you deny it? You're off the case. Don't make me ask for your ID and armoury as well." Cowley's resolved blue eyes met Doyle's hot green ones "Murphy, take 4.5 home and stay with him. I'll see both of you in my office at ten tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir," Murphy answered promptly. He released his grip on Doyle's arm and rested his arm across Doyle's shoulders. "C'mon, Ray."

Doyle ignored Murphy, continuing to stare at the Controller.

"I'm sorry, Doyle. We'll talk tomorrow. Dismissed."

Doyle finally gave in, and allowed Murphy to escort him away.

Mr Cowley watched them depart, then turned briskly to his other men. "McCabe, take Durkin back to headquarters. I'll join you shortly. Lucas, wait for the cleanup crew by the ship." A weary sigh escaped him. "I'll contact the harbour patrol and they'll set up dredging operations first thing tomorrow morning."

*****

Bodie opened his eyes and felt an odd pressure on his eyeballs. The world swam murkily by, as if he'd been drinking heavily. Don't even remember drinking... Where am I? He glanced around, trying to make sense of the off-kilter surroundings. Feels like I'm underwater. He took a deep breath and bubbles flowed from his nose. I am!?!

Without further thought, Bodie struggled upwards. It was heavy going, as the watersoaked pea jacket encumbered his arm movements Finally, he broke the surface and tread water for a moment, attempting to get his bearings. It was very dark, but he could see a faint globe of light off to his right. Determinedly, he swam towards it.. His feet bumped into the sand before it registered that he'd struck bottom. Wearily, he struggled to his feet and staggered out of the water and onto dry land. Bodie collapsed into a heap a few yards from the river's edge, and shivered in the cold November night.

Feel cold. hungry. tired -- miserable. But I think I should be feeling worse. He focused his bleary eyes on his water-resistant watch. 4:07 a m. Last I knew it was -- he drew a blank. He couldn't remember what time it had been. Another thought struck him. Who am I? The answer came reassuringly, without hesitation.. Bodie. William Andrew Philip Bodie. So I don't have amnesia, just don't remember where I am or how I got here. He got to his feet and surveyed the dock area.. Somehow, it felt right that he was on the docks, but at the same time, it was wrong. This is too confusing. Wish Doyle was here to figure it out. His partner was only a phone call or a taxi ride away. Eagerly, Bodie dug into his pockets, and came up empty No loose change, no wallet, no keys. Damn! Don't fancy me chances of flagging down a taxi here, anyway, at this time of night.

What would Doyle do? For some reason, it was easer to think for Doyle than himself.. Find the nearest copper and ask for his assistance. Bodie grimaced. Can't see 'em believing my story --- no ID, no money, and soaking wet. Probably spend the night in the drunk tank. No, thank you. Bodie walked restlessly, suddenly aware of how cold he was in his wet clothes. He reached a signpost and stared at it. It was not exactly familiar, but there was something about the location.... Out of the blue, it struck him. My bolt hole's near here. He hadn't been near his secret digs in months, but it wasn't a place he was likely to forget. Sure of himself, Bodie walked quickly away from the docks, down the crossroad.

After a brisk fifteen minute walk, he reached a row of old garages used for industrial storage. He stopped in front of the third one, and twirled the combination dial on the locked garage door. He flung the double doors open and stepped inside, turned on the lightswitch by the doors and closed them. The interior lighting revealed a large, dusty room. His spare car, covered by an old tarpaulin, occupied the central area. A large rectangular jumble of automotive parts and other odds and ends (which concealed Bodie's strategic stockpile of cash, passports, and personal armoury) ran along the left wall, and a crude six foot wooden fence partitioned off most of the right wall.

Bodie walked along the wooden fence and unlatched the gate at the far end of it, stepping into an extremely cramped bedroom. An army cot and a chest of drawers were the only furnishings in the makeshift sleeping quarters. Bodie rummaged through the dresser, pulling out a towel and a cast-off jogging suit. He peeled off his wet clothes, rubbed himself dry and put on the jogging suit Then he dove under the covers and fell into an exhausted sleep.

... Drowning.. He was drowning. No! Bodie's flailing arms struggled to reach the surface.. His left hand crashed into solid concrete and his eyes sprang open. Bodie stared at the ceiling while his still murky thoughts sought to place the sparse, claustrophobic surroundings. Where am -- oh, the bolthole. Strange dream, felt like I was drowning. Wait a minute, I was! He vividly recalled waking up in the river last night, or rather early this morning. This morning? He glanced at his watch, which he'd neglected to remove, and noted it was after nine. His stomach rumbled.. First things first. Breakfast.

That decided, Bodie climbed out of his narrow bed, and automatically made it. Army training.. Then he spied his worn clothes from last night, untidily strewn over the dresser top. He stepped over to the clothes pile and picked up the shirt, reflexively smoothing it. His hand encountered a rusty coloured stain with two holes in its center and he froze, thrust back into the events of yesterday.

"I don't believe you."

"Phut! Phut!"

PAIN! Red, hot, searing... nothing.

Bodie shook himself. How could I forget that? Sheer agony, worse even than when I was knifed at the cock-pit. Of course it was, I survived the knifing... Wait a minute, I survived the shooting too -- dinn't I? I'm here!? He took a deep, calming breath. If I was shot last night -- I was, dammit -- then why don't I feel it now? At a sudden thought, he pulled his sweatshirt up and exposed his bare stomach. No bullet holes. "But it happened! I know it did!" Bodie protested aloud.. Staring at the pale skin, he saw no evidence of recent wounds, but he could make out the scars from his earlier knife attack.

Suddenly, he stiffened, senses alerting him to another presence. Nonsense! I'm alone.. No one else even knows about this place. Bodie's nerves insisted otherwise, though.. He walked stealthily over to the gate and slipped out into the rest of the garage.. Forgot to turn the light off, he noted idly as he quartered the room. No one, but the back of his neck and some inner voice insisted that someone was there.. Resolutely, Bodie crossed over to the garage door, unlocked it and stepped outdoors.. He surveyed the outside area thoroughly. "Ray?"

No one answered and Bodie reentered the garage, slamming the door shut. Jumping at shadows.

A stranger emerged from beside the car. The man was tall, and well-built, with long black hair gathered in a ponytail. "Relax, I'm not headhunting today."

"Delighted to hear it," Bodie returned drily, "Who the bloody hell are you?"

"I am Duncan Macleod, of the Clan Macleod."

"And why'd you come barging in here?"

Macleod smiled disarmingly. "I was curious, so I came to investigate Relax, I told you I'm a friend."

"I've never seen you before in my entire life," Bodie stated flatly.

Duncan Macleod scrutinized his host, not recognizing the face."I have given you my name.. May I know yours?"

"Bodie.."

"Bodie," Macleod mulled it over "Just Bodie?"

"William Andrew Philip Bodie, if you must know."

"Bodie," Macleod repeated. "No, I don't know the name. But you-" He cut himself off, pausing to survey the garage. No swords. "You did feel me earlier, didn't you? A prickling sensation at the back of the neck, and a tingling certainty behind your eyes?"

"How'd you know--"

"Because I felt you, of course. Wasn't expecting it, though, which is why I slipped inside.."

"Well, that's clear as mud."

Duncan Macleod shook his head, exasperated. The Englishman was not reacting at all as he should be, unless... "When were you born?"

"Wha--? Thirty years ago, not that it's any business of yours."

"That explains it," Macleod said softly. "Been a long time since I've met a First Timer -- haven't seen one since the Revolution." He looked Bodie squarely in the eye. "You've had a recent - er - brush with death, haven't you?"

"What are you, clairvoyant?"

"And there are parts of it that you don't understand." Macleod paused."If you tell me what happened, I can help you make sense of it."

Bodie said nothing.

"Didn't think it would be that easy," Macleod sighed. "Very well, I'll tell you about me." He suddenly produced a flick knife from the pocket of the long overcoat he wore.

Bodie positioned himself to ward off an attack, but Macleod inexplicably nicked the palm of his own left hand and held it out for Bodie's inspection. As Bodie watched, the gash became a thin red line of blood, and then vanished completely, in the space of a few seconds.

"I am Immortal," Duncan Macleod stated. "And you are, too -- now."

Bodie raised his head sharply to meet Macleod's calm brown eyes. "Immortal?" he sputtered..

"Yes. I was born in Scotland, three hundred ninety years ago. I was a warrior, killed in battle -- but I didn't die. Well, I didn't stay dead, at any rate. I've been around ever since, in various guises-" Macleod locked gazes with Bodie. "I was thirty-five when I died the first time. And I've been th1rty-five for the last three and a half centuries.

"Tell me what happened to you yesterday. You should remember all of it by now."

"I was undercover and the operation blew up in my face. Somehow they twigged that I wasn't who I said I was, and then Hobbs shot me -- twice, in the stomach. Hurt like hell. Then I woke up in the river several hours later. They must've dumped me overboard.. I was dead." He shook his head, amazed. Then what he said sank in. "Doyle! Ray thinks I'm dead. Gotta let him know." He started walking towards the door.

"Bodie! Who's Doyle?"

"He's my partner, and my best mate. He'll be going spare over this."

"Bodie! Will you listen to me for a minute?" Macleod waited until he was sure he had Bodie's attention. "Being Immortal isn't all cut-and-dried. There are rules that you have to follow, and I seem to be your appointed teacher. I've got to catch a flight back to the States in four days, and that doesn't give us much time."

"So?"

"So, I'm asking you to hold off telling Doyle about this. If he's your friend, he'll be just as glad to see you alive four days from now as now." He hesitated, "Besides, after you know the score, you might not want to tell him anything."

Bodie looked at Macleod as if he had two heads. "Not tell Doyle?"

"It'll be your decision - four days from now. My car's parked not too far from here. It's time we hit the road." Macleod glanced askance at the grubby garage. "I can't train you here."

"Train?"

"Yes. You're Immortal, Bodie -- now you've got to learn how to stay that way."

*****

Macleod took Bodie to his country estate and Bodie embarked on cram course in Immortality 101. He learned about the sanctuary of holy ground, the Quickening, the Gathering, and the one way to kill an Immortal -- chopping off his (or her) head.

Bodie, panting, watched as his broadsword fell to the gymnasium's floor, out of reach. He felt the edge of Macleod's sword lightly tap the apex of his neck and shoulder..

"This is the one position you never want to find yourself in, Bodie," Macleod instructed grimly. "And you will only be in it once." Then he withdrew the sword and smiled.. "Not bad for a first timer."

Retrieving his fallen sword, Bodie held it out to Macleod.

"No, keep it - it's yours."

"Mac, I can't take this!" Bodie protested. "D'you have any idea of its value --"

"Twenty thousand," Macleod interrupted.

"Dollars?"

"Pounds.. And I am giving it to you. You've learned nothing in these last three days if you haven't learned how important a good sword is to an Immortal."

Bodie still held out the sword.

"Consider it a loan, then," Macleod suggested. I'll expect payment within the next century.. "

Bringing the sword back to his side, Bodie spoke. "Thanks, Mac, I'll take good care of it.."

"And remember what I've taught you." Macleod admonished. "We'll be going back to Town this evening -- my plane leaves tomorrow afternoon. D'you still want to tell Doyle you're alive?"

Bodie answered with no hesitation. "Yes."

Macleod handed Bodie a slip of paper with an address on it. "My flat in Kensington. Tell him you'll meet him there about eight tonight. That way, you'll have some privacy.. There's the phone " - he pointed to an end table in the next room. "Help yourself.."

Bodie walked over to the telephone, picked it up and dialled Doyle's number. "Ray, it's me. Have to talk to you -- alone. Don't tell the Old Man... Wha-? Green, your eyes are green... Here's the address" - he rattled it off - "See you at eight tonight. 'Bye."

"What was that about green eyes?" Macleod asked as Bodie hung up.

"Probably threw it in to make sure I wasn't a recording," Bodie answered after a moment's thought.

"Hmm. You CI5 agents are an interesting lot. I'm looking forward to meeting your Mr. Doyle tonight. Meanwhile, we need to get packing if we're going to be in London by seven.."

*****

Duncan Macleod ushered Ray Doyle into the parlour, then quietly stationed himself by the fireplace. Doyle noted the tastefully decorated room abounded in eighteenth century antiques and the three Gainsboroughs on the walls appeared genuine. He turned to reexamine his escort, as the room rather jibed with his first impression of the pony-tailed man, when he spotted the other occupant. Dressed in a customary dark suit and tie, the man stood in the center of the spacious room.

Doyle advanced a few steps, then froze. "Bodie?!"

"Yeah, it's me, Ray " Bodie stepped closer, and his grin became a frown. "You look terrible, mate!" he said, taking in the dark circles under Doyle's eyes. "Has the Cow had you on round-the-clock surveillance or something?"

"No, 'Ve been under house arrest since--" Doyle broke off, trembling slightly. "Durkin said they s-shot you and dumped the b-body overboard. Harbour Patrol was still dredging the river 'til yesterday. Bodie, you're really here? How--?"

"I'm here, Ray," Bodie said, "in the flesh, see?" He stepped even closer to Doyle and wrapped his arms around his partner in a gentle hug. Doyle fiercely hugged him back, resting his head against Bodie's shoulder. He listened to Bodie's reassuring heartbeat, and quiet tears of relief spilled down his cheeks. Bodie lightly stroked Doyle's curls."Mac, could you get us a cuppa?"

"Think you need something stronger than that." Macleod answered from the fireplace. He walked over to a well-stocked liquor cart and returned with two glasses of Scotch..

Bodie eased out of Doyle's embrace and took the two glasses from Macleod. They exchanged glances, then Macleod quietly returned to the fireplace, watching. "Drink this, Ray. You need it."

Doyle wiped the tears from his face before reaching for the glass. He took a healthy swig, then faced Bodie. "All right, why -- how are you alive?"

"That's kind of complicated, Ray. I didn't believe it meself, at first."

"Bodie---"

"I woke up underwater, in the river, in the middle of the night. Swam ashore, somehow. That must've been Thursday night - well, early Friday morning. It was four a. m.., and I didn't remember much. Didn't have any ID or money, or a clear idea of where I was. Finally figured out I was near my bolthole, so I spent the night there. The next day, I met Mac -- 'Duncan Macleod, of the Clan Macleod' -- and he filled me in."

Bodie gulped the last of his scotch and set the glass down on a nearby accent table. "Y'see, Ray, I'm Immortal -- Mac is, too, but he's a lot older than I am, been around for almost four centuries... I knew you wouldn't believe me.

"I can prove it, Ray," Bodie said, drawing a flick knife from his pocket. He handed it to Doyle, and then offered his left hand, palm up. "Go ahead and nick me - you won't hurt me."

Doyle stared at the knife in his hand, then exploded "You bastard." He flung the knife forcefully. It whizzed past Bodie's head with inches to spare and embedded itself in the wall. "You were dead, dead! I believe you, Bodie. You're he-ere, aren't you?" His voice broke, "That's all the proof I need."

"Ray, I'm sorry. I've been a berk," Hesitantly, Bodie put an arm around Doyle's shoulders.. "But then, as you're always telling me, you're the brains of this partnership.."

"'M sorry, too, Bodie," Doyle apologized sheepishly, "Been a little high strung of late."

"And with good reason," Bodie sighed. "Now, where was I? Oh, yeah -- being an Immortal isn't as straightforward as it sounds. Mac's spent the last three days teaching me the ropes -- and swordfighting.

"That's the first thing you need to know about Immortals, Ray. There's only one way to kill one: chop off his head -- or hers, as the case may be."

"Why would anyone want to kill an Immortal?"

"Ahh, the way Mac explained it to me, Immortals are just like mortals. There's good guys and bad guys - like Star Wars. There's Jedi Knights and the Dark Side of the Force.. Thanks to you and Cowley, I'm one of the Jedis. When a Jedi meets a Dark Knight, they usually end up in a swordfight," Bodie's tone grew serious, "to the death -- til someone loses his head. The winner then experiences the Quickening -- all the knowledge, skills and powers of the defeated Immortal are passed on to him, rather spectacularly. Are you with me so far?"

"Ye-es.. How many Immortals are there? and how do you recognize one? You don't look any different to me."

"I'm not sure how many Immortals there are. Mac says he knows of a thousand, at least. Immortals can feel each other's presence, that's how Mac and I met. It's kind of like you and I always knowing each other's wherea-- Hey, Mac, could Doyle be an Immortal? I've always been able to feel his presence, just like yours."

Macleod left his perch by the fireplace and joined the two agents. "There's only one way to find out if you're Immortal. You have to die and come back to your second life.."

Bodie shivered. "So much for that theory. Mac, will you explain the Gathering to Doyle for me?"

"It was foretold that at some point in the future, all of the Immortals will seek each other out," Macleod's voice deepened, "They will come together, and match swords to determine who will win the ultimate prize, the power of all of the Quickenings combined. Enough power to rule the Earth indefinitely. In the end, there can be only One."

He cleared his throat. "Of course, some of us don't want to wait for the Gathering to weed out the competition, so there are frequently skirmishes between two Immortals. I myself have been through many Quickenings. To borrow your phraseology, Bodie, the Dark Side of the Force is always on the prowl for Immortals to fight, be they good guys or bad guys. And some of the Jedis are very eager to prevent the bad guys from ever reaching the Gathering. So, an Immortal must be on his toes at all times.

"I thought that we were fast approaching the Time of the Gathering, but with you newly Immortal, maybe it is still centuries away. I hope so."

"I hope so, too." Bodie echoed. "There's a couple of other things I can tell you later, but you know the most important ones now." He hesitated, then plunged ahead. "Nothing's changed, has it?"

Doyle stared at him. "Everything's changed. You're bloody Immortal!"

"I meant between us. We're still partners -- and friends, aren't we, Ray?"

Doyle looked at Bodie's anxious blue eyes with dawning comprehension. "You big berk," he teased affectionately. "You've just been handed the world on a platter, and you don't want it. You'd rather stay in CI5 with me. You berk." He shook his head. "How are we going to explain your miraculous return to life? Unless you plan on telling all of CI5 you're Immortal, that is."

"We'll tell 'em I was wearing a bullet-proof vest. You wanted me to, anyway. You can sneak one out of supplies, and shoot the appropriate holes in it. I played dead, they dumped me overboard, and I swam for safety. Throw in a bump on the head and a few days' amnesia and we're in business."

"And what about Durkin? He knows what happened."

"He'll be so relieved to have the accessory to murder charge against him dropped that he won't say a word. Might be a little trickier with Smith and the other two, though.."

"They're dead, Bodie. Tell you about it later," Doyle said succinctly. "What about the Old Man? Have to tell him the truth, sooner or later."

"Yeah, like the next time 'it' happens."

"Next time?" Doyle clearly had not thought that far ahead.

"Don't fret, Ray. We'll work it out. That's what partners are for."

"Equal partners, Bodie. I'll not have you mollycoddling me."

"Okay - with one provisio. No more coin tosses on suicidal missions, I go in. I'm selfish, Ray, want you to stay alive as long as possible - that hasn't changed, either."

"Bodie," Mac warned, "You can't keep mortals from dying -that's one of the hardest lessons for an Immortal to learn, I know."

Doyle frowned, and switched the subject. "Mac, does it have to be an Immortal who kills an Immortal?"

"No," Macleod remembered an earlier time. "A mortal can kill an Immortal. Several Immortals were killed by MMe. Guillotine in the French Revolution."

"Okay, Bodie - on suicide assignments, you go in first unless it's a nutter with a machete or a mad bomber."

"And then what?" Bodie challenged.

"Then we flip a coin," Doyle's brief grin faded rapidly. "Can we still be partners? You don't need me to guard your back anymore."

"Maybe not," Bodie said, solemnly. "But I do need you to help keep a head on my shoulders.. C'mon mate, let's go home." He ruffled Doyle's curls. "Got a busy day tomorrow.. Have to buy you a sword." Doyle's eyebrows rose in a fair imitation of Bodie's well-known expression. "Well, you don't expect me to practice me fencing with Macklin, do you?"

THE END