Chapter One

He waited in the shadows silently, patiently. The lessons learned in his trade had been thorough, and of them number one was, bide your time; never, never rush your prey.

Hunching against the cold and drizzle, he glanced up at the little bit of overcast November sky visible between the overhanging buildings. Even the weather would work to his advantage by providing additional cover. They suited each other, he and the night. Both were wrapped in black on the outside, but with him the black went clear through.

His spirits were good. He was close now and the anticipation of the kill beat in his blood.

The recessed doorways and alcoves of the old style architecture provided perfect concealment as he studied the ancient building across the way. It was just coming on six and yellow light poured from two dozen or so windows that faced the street. Focusing his sight on one particular third floor window, he reached inside his leather jacket and retrieved the Browning Highpower. His other hand secured the suppressor from a hidden pocket in his jacket sleeve and with a soft click the weapon was ready. He didn't really expect his target to appear for several hours yet, but in his line of work one always anticipated the unexpected.

Settling the gun snugly inside the special sling built into the lining of his jacket, he flattened further against the wall, prepared to wait.

It was all very amusing, he told himself. They did the same work, and yet, this man and his organization were considered clean, inside the law. They were legitimate and respectable while he was not. That thought darkening his mood a few degrees, he realized the futility of such musings and shook them off. Concentrate on the job at hand, he admonished himself. Job...that's what it was, a job. But for the men in that organization it was a profession. Did having society's authorization really make that much difference? He knew it did and his mood crawled a little further into the black.

He considered the information he had gleaned bit by bit over the past several weeks. He had learned everything about that man and his elite little group. Powerful, they were. Answered to no one except the very highest in the monkey tree. And they were good. Very good. He had to give them that. But he was better, and before the night was over he would prove that. He smiled and grew a little warmer.

Across the way lights began to blink off one by one and a steady stream of people poured out of the front entrance. After the rush only seven windows of CI5 headquarters glowed yellow, that particular third floor window among them.

Does he suspect? No doubt word has leaked, it always does. Maybe that's why he was such a slippery catch. Perhaps he heard a whisper of a kill.

It didn't matter now, because George Cowley's minutes were numbered. Sometime between eight p.m. and midnight, given his non-routine, Cowley would emerge from the building using one of several different doors. Never one to create a pattern was George Cowley, but the suddenly dark office window would signal when. The appearance of Cowley's car and driver would indicate where. When Cowley did emerge, he'd make his way to today's ride. He always varied the route too, but the Browning would be waiting and that would be that.

The job completed, reports would be filed. Within hours of confirmation, final payment would be placed in the proverbial Swiss account. More importantly, good standing with the Cartel would be secure.

The thought brought him little joy. He hated doing their bidding, felt it beneath him. This was his first such assignment. Never before had he taken money to hunt down another man and shoot him from ambush. The term "hit man" played over and over in his head.

He really was too good for that organization, and wanted his skills put to better use. Had he left Africa ten years ago as planned, he might have sold them to Cowley, but.... He swallowed the bitter bile in his throat. It was just another of fate's unkind ironies that instead of working for this man he was going to kill him.

He clamped down hard on those thoughts. It was too late for that. The choice was made, and now was not the time to get stupid...and dead. But in a back room of his mind were the doubts and questions. Always there was that voice wanting to know how he planned to live with himself after. Each night it took a little more scotch to quiet that voice enough to let sleep claim him.

Distracted as he was, he still noticed the moment the third floor window went dark. After checking for passersby, he emerged from his hiding place. The rain had stopped, but he pulled up his collar against the damp, cold wind and slipped across the street.

The unsuspecting driver was dispatched with quiet efficiency then propped into a normal sitting position. Fading back into the shadows he was hidden from view, yet able to see his prey approach. Smiling in admiration, he watched Cowley exit a different door from the previous night and, also keeping in shadow, walk briskly toward the waiting car.

The exact moment to move would be when George Cowley was most vulnerable--when he had one hand on the car door latch and the other filled with the ever present briefcase.

Heart slamming against his chest, he took the last step just as Cowley's hand touched the car door. Shock registered on the older man's face, but it was too late.

The sensation of victory filled him as a vision of Cowley already dead on the ground flashed before his eyes. Then the door to the back room of his mind opened onto hell. It compelled him to step into the light, flip the Browning around his trigger finger and offer it, butt first, to George Cowley.

"Name's Bodie," he said, "I want to work for you."

---

Chapter Two

Only his heavy breathing betraying him, Bodie stood with gun arm outstretched, holding the Browning loosely, unthreateningly. He did not take his eyes off Cowley as the Controller stared him down for several long minutes. Bodie waited, determined to force Cowley to make the next move.

"My driver?"

"He'll have a sore head, but otherwise he'll be okay."

They might as well have been discussing the weather for all the interest either appeared to show.

Finally, Cowley reached out to accept the proffered weapon. Bodie, mouth dry, stood waiting the Controller's next move.

Once in control of the Browning, Cowley reached into the car for the RT that lay on the seat. Within seconds three men came crashing through the same entrance Cowley had used, guns drawn.

"Ach, put those away," Cowley said, anger and frustration thickening his accent. "I've the situation under control now."

With little wasted movement one man saw to the driver, another scouted the immediate area while the third gave Bodie a quick frisking. Then, hands on his head and surrounded by the three agents, Bodie followed George Cowley back into the building, passing through darkened corridors and finally entering a small room. As soon as the overhead light came on Bodie recognized the space for what it was: an interrogation room.

Bodie submitted to a thorough, impersonal body search from two of the agents, releasing a held breath when he wasn't asked to strip. The taller one relieved Bodie of the contents of his jacket and shirt pockets which contained the Browning's extra magazine, a biro and note pad. Then he took the watch off Bodie's wrist and inspected it.

"Empty 'em," the shorter agent said, pointing at Bodie's trouser pockets.

Lowering his hands slowly, Bodie dug into his pockets and placed the contents on the table--cigarette lighter (he didn't smoke but found a lighter had many uses), Swiss Army knife, hotel key, penlight, handkerchief (his mother's influence and it also had many uses) loose change adding to 76p, wallet containing 63 pounds.

"Permission to search the grounds, Sir?" The third agent requested.

"Do it, though I doubt you'll find anything," Cowley said as he emptied the Browning and held it up for inspection.

"Sir, I don't think you should be alone here with..." the other agent tried to put in.

Cowley favored the agent with a look that would stop anyone dead. "I have already been alone with him, out in the carpark." The Controller didn't add, "And where were you?" He didn't have to.

Paying no more attention to the departing agents, Cowley removed a large ring of keys from his briefcase. Using them to open a wall cupboard, he placed the Browning on a shelf and removed a tape recorder. "You'll have no objections," he stated rather than asked as he began setting up the equipment.

Knowing Cowley expected no answer, Bodie shrugged and made himself as comfortable as possible in the hard, straight-backed chair on his side of the table.

"Interrogation of Mr. Bodie. Tuesday, November 3, 1977, 11:59 p.m. For the record," Cowley continued, "state your full name and any others you have used, your date and place of birth."

"William Andrew Philip Bodie, born January 6, 1950 in Liverpool. No aliases."

Bodie watched with interest as Cowley used a pen to poke through the items on the desk.

"No identification," Cowley stated.

"No identification," Bodie confirmed.

"I'm flattered at the attention," Cowley said abruptly changing the subject, "but tell me, who sent you to kill me?"

"Zafael Cartel." Bodie saw recognition in Cowley's eyes. "They're planning on expanding their routes into England and you're provin' to be a right pain in the arse."

"Go on."

Bodie began explaining the Cartel's purpose and his assignment as Cowley pushed the tape recorder across the desk.

"You had no doubt of success?" Cowley asked when Bodie ran down.

"No, Sir."

"You made no contingency plans, then?"

"Only a fool would be so smug," Bodie replied, knowing where this was leading. Determined to be as straightforward as possible, he began before Cowley had to ask. Giving away his escape plans, Bodie said, "Victoria Station, level two, locker G54 contains a passport, a weapon and 500 pounds."

"And if you had to go to ground?" Cowley pressed.

He'll leave me nothing, Bodie thought, but was not surprised. "Liverpool, 1903 Huntington Place, garage in rear, vehicle with another passport, weapons, money and supplies." Letting out a heavy sigh, Bodie slid down in his chair.

"Two passports at least, and no aliases?" Cowley queried, clearly disbelieving. At any other time, Bodie would have smiled at his own, old joke.

"William Bodie. Andrew Bodie. Philip Bodie."

Cowley frowned. "Only two escape routes?"

"Yes, Sir."

Luckily for Bodie, the supply of tape gave out about the same time as his voice. It was just after 4:00 a.m.

Bodie was relieved when Cowley signaled a halt. He noted that the Scot was showing little sign of fatigue; just the opposite, George Cowley seemed exhilarated by his brush with death. Bodie watched as Cowley went to the door, opened it and called for more tapes. Within seconds an agent from the carpark, the tall one, appeared and set four cellophane wrapped cassettes on the desk.

"Take these we've finished with and find someone to transcribe them. And Morrow, some coffee please."

"Coffee coming right up, Sir." The agent picked up the tapes and headed for the door, only to turn back at Cowley's next question.

"I take it your search revealed nothing."

"No, Sir. Nothing." The agent's eyes flicked to Bodie and then back to Cowley.

Leaning back in his chair with a studied casualness, Bodie could guess what the agent was thinking, but the other man left without saying any more.

The break was short. With a mug of hot coffee between his hands, Bodie was talking again.

"Now," Cowley said, "start from the beginning. I want the structure and principals of Zafael Cartel."

As he repeated the information, Bodie cynically wondered how much of this information coincided with what George Cowley already knew.

The room was warm, and around 6:00 a.m. Bodie could not help himself; he began nodding off. But Cowley was having none of it. Chin resting on the palm of his hand, Bodie came abruptly awake when the supporting elbow was knocked from under him.

"You were saying, Mr. Bodie, how they actually plan to get the drugs into Britain."

Searching through the cobwebs in his brain, Bodie recited the routes.

By 8:00 a.m. fog filtered sunlight began seeping through the small window, announcing daybreak. Bodie barely noticed as he tried to concentrate on Cowley's questions.

---

Aroused by the aroma of fresh coffee and bacon, Bodie realized he had dozed off again. Awake now, he assessed the scene playing out before him.

Two new occupants were setting up a takeaway breakfast as George Cowley gave them orders for the day. Bodie was too hungry to care. "Permission to eat, ah, Sir," he asked, interrupting.

Cowley replied with a wave of his hand and Bodie reached for a plate of food.

"Betty's already transcribed several tapes," the Controller continued. "Get the information from her, then you two set about checking it out.... Come in," he said, interrupting himself, "ah, 2.9, good lad, you can see to Mr. Bodie here. He's to have a shower and shave," the Controller favored Bodie with a glance as he continued bolting down breakfast, "but not to be out of your sight. Have him back here in thirty minutes. Then you can have a look at his hotel room." Cowley tossed Bodie's keys to the tall newcomer.

"Yes, Sir. Want me to fetch anything back here?"

Bodie paused at the question and watched as Cowley hesitated for a moment, obviously considering the answer. "Retrieve all identification, monies, keys and the like. Leave the personal belongings--I want it to appear occupied," Cowley ordered. "Report back with what you find and arrange for a tap on the phone in case anyone tries to contact our Mr. Bodie."

The agent nodded to the Controller and started for the door. Gulping the last swallow of coffee, Bodie followed.

"Is 2.9 your first name or last?" Bodie queried the agent as they walked.

Bodie received an easy smile in reply. "If it's too much for you, try Murphy."

"John W. Murphy, III, of the Bantor Place Murphys?" Bodie inquired. He knew his point was not lost when the smile on 2.9's face froze.

Grateful for the privacy provided by the shower cubicle, Bodie let the steaming water pour over him. Somewhere in the back of his mind questions were trying to form. Questions he had been ignoring since his split-second decision in the carpark. Questions about the wisdom of his decision and what the Cartel would do when word got back. The roiling in the pit of his stomach punched home the foolishness of having such thoughts now. He scrubbed his skin hard and when the water turned cold he stayed under the stream until he began to shiver.

Long months in the jungle had made Bodie fastidious about his personal hygiene. He considered putting on dirty, sweaty clothes a mild form of torture. Having no choice however, he did it quickly, had a shave, then trailed Murphy back to the same interrogation room. Cowley wasn't there so the two settled down and concentrated on emptying the coffee pot.

"Just got in from Africa, I understand. Kinshasa, wasn't it?" Murphy asked.

Bodie, who had been contemplating the swirls in his coffee cup, looked up at the question. These were the first words spoken to him in a conversational, friendly tone since he had come into CI5 headquarters, but he was not fooled. He knew the technique and that Murphy was acting under orders from Cowley. The Controller had kept at Bodie all night using a harsh, no-nonsense, sometimes threatening investigative tone, never letting Bodie relax. Now, he thought, after a shave, shower and breakfast, comes the soft-spoken friendly type to engage in some seemingly general conversation and lull me into talking and revealing any inconsistencies in my story. It was the old "good-guy/bad-guy" scenario, but Bodie wasn't buying it. "Anything I've got to say, I'll say to Cowley."

Murphy shrugged. "Suit yourself." With that he picked up the empty coffee pot and left the room.

It did not surprise Bodie that within ten minutes Cowley was back, also shaved, showered and freshly dressed. The interrogation began again. It was all the same questions in different order and interspersed with new ones. Bodie had to admit that he had not been wrong about the Controller of CI5; this man knew what he was doing.

---

"What time and ah, day is it, Sir?" Bodie asked, after a long session.

George Cowley favored him with a searching look then glanced at his watch. "3:06 p.m., Thursday, November 5. You do know the year?"

Guy Fawkes day, he realized and felt a strange empathy with the wicker man at the bonfire.

"Yes, Sir, at least I think I do." Bodie rubbed his eyes and struggled to his feet. "Permission to walk a bit, Sir?" he asked as he tried to stretch the kinks out of his tired, cramped muscles.

"Granted," Cowley muttered and Bodie watched as the Controller changed the tape in the machine and added the full one to the stack on the desk. Then Cowley stood. "I will return shortly," he said, leaving Bodie on his own.

Alone in the room, Bodie began a quick routine of isometrics. Ten minutes later he felt alert enough to continue. Just hang on for a little longer, he told himself. Cowley would have to run out of questions soon.

Bodie retook his chair and stared at that stack of tapes on the desk knowing they represented the last thirty-six hours of his life. He thought about the damaging evidence they contained against the Cartel. Those tapes represented his death warrant--dictated in his own voice.

---

"I've better things to do than listen to you snore, Mr. Bodie."

Bodie would have liked to punch George Cowley's smug face, but he knew that this too was part of the strategy. Cowley had slept last night while Bodie had undergone another interrogation with fresh agents. Cowley was trying to get him angry enough to speak without thinking, to slip up. But Africa had prepared him for this also. Using his best tone, Bodie said, "Sorry, Sir, can't seem to stay awake."

Cowley surprised him by turning off the tape recorder. "Then I guess it's time you had some sleep. I'll get nothing more from you until you do." Cowley reached for the intercom.

As he was led from the room Bodie inquired, "Any chance of getting fresh clothes from my hotel room, Sir?"

Bodie waited several seconds, but when he received no response he followed his escorts out of the room.

---

Bodie woke gasping for air, not knowing if the perceived threat was real or dreamed. Sitting straight up he quickly glanced around the room to get his bearings and he remembered being alone in the squad room. He was wet with perspiration, his shirt sticking to his chest. Lying back down on the couch to catch his breath he knew there was no point in getting up to check the door. It was locked from the outside. The clock on the wall showed 10:00 a.m. Have to be Friday, the sixth, he concluded as his breathing evened out.

The clammy feeling finally drove him up and to the windows. Only one would open, and only part-way. Ironically it over-looked the carpark three floors below. He could see the spot where he'd been standing, remembered exactly where Cowley had been. There lies the place, he thought blackly, where William Bodie took leave of his senses. He smiled thinly and turned away.

The room did have a electric kettle and tea makings, so he helped himself. Soon, he knew, someone would be back to fetch him and the interrogation would begin again. His stomach growled as the kettle whistled. Scrounging through the cupboard, Bodie located a rather worse-for-wear swiss roll and ate it.

Just as he was about to relieve himself out the partially opened window the door opened. A woman, "Betty", he remembered an agent calling her, gestured for him to follow her.

"Fine, luv," he said, "but I need to stop at the Gents first."

"Certainly," she replied, "and you'll find a holdall with the clean clothes you asked for. Mr. Cowley says you're to have a shower." Betty smiled.

Bodie returned her smile gratefully as he realized just how awful he must look and smell. In the shower room he found a nondescript gym bag and it contained everything he needed: a razor, a suit of fresh clothes and toiletries. As Bodie sorted things out he could hear someone take up guard duty outside the door.

Feeling much better, Bodie found himself facing the door of the interrogation room. He straightened and mentally prepared himself for what was on the other side of the door. As he expected, there sat Cowley with his trusty tape recorder. Bodie was beginning to hate that machine.

"This time," Cowley began, "let's start with your background. Tell me about growing up in Liverpool."

Bodie lapsed into his standard response to this question. "Lived with me mum, dad and sister--and granny while she was alive. Dad was a meat porter. Regular working class family."

Cowley called a halt at seven p.m. "I have a dinner engagement, but we'll pick this up around nine. Would you prefer your dinner here or in the squad room?"

"Squad room, Sir. Not so claustrophobic."

"Very well." With that Cowley shut off the tape machine and led the way.

"Walker, have you had your dinner?" Cowley asked of the slender blond who was the room's only other occupant.

"No, Sir. Was just about to call a takeaway."

"Get enough for two. You're in charge of Mr. Bodie here till I return. He's not to be out of your sight, or have contact with anyone."

"Yes, Sir. I understand."

As the Controller turned to leave Bodie saw him almost collide with a blur rushing in the door. The blur stopped short in front of George Cowley and Bodie stared, intrigued at the interaction between the two.

"Well, 4.5, explain yourself."

"Sorry, Sir. Just goin' to write up me report before goin' off duty."

"Be about it then, but not in this room."

"What? Well, where then?"

"You're meant to be one of Her Majesty's finest; ferret something out. And next time enter a room properly."

"Yes, Sir," the new man said to Cowley's back. Then, when the Controller had gone he turned to Walker. "What's up his nose?"

"Lack of sleep," Walker said. "Be a mate and stay here while I order some takeaway, will you?" He turned to Bodie. "Anything you can't stand?"

"Not when it comes to food and birds," Bodie replied. Walker nodded and left the room.

"Name's Doyle," the newcomer said as he plugged in the kettle.

"Bodie," Bodie replied and he tried to reconcile the scene in front of him with Cowley's words. This skinny, unkempt bloke was one of Her Majesty's finest, and by Cowley's own words? Perhaps then Bodie did have a better chance of being accepted into CI5 than he had originally thought.

"Want some?" Doyle asked as he readied a cup.

"Yeh, thanks," Bodie answered casually, but did not take his eyes off the man. By the way this Doyle moved Bodie had no doubt that the agent could react instantly when the occasion presented itself. He seemed poised on the balls of his feet, as if always prepared for action. And the clothes could be for undercover work. But as his eyes traveled down the tee-shirted back, muscled arms working at making tea, shoulder holster pulling tight with every move, as they rested for a moment on the snug, bum-hugging jeans, then moved down the muscled thighs stretching beneath the denim, Bodie wondered, what kind of undercover work?

As Doyle turned, a full mug in each hand, and advanced toward him, Bodie had his first real chance to study this man face on. The effect was disconcerting as Bodie got caught up in a pair of wide-set eyes that seemed to change from hazel to green as Doyle came toward him. His looks could not be considered classically handsome, and the scarred right cheek added to--rather than detracted from--a truly remarkable face.

Doyle set the tea in front of Bodie just as Walker returned. "Guess I'll go ferret me out a space like the Cow said. Cíao."

"Yeh," Bodie answered, "and thanks for the tea." He motioned with his cup then took a sip.

After a halfway decent Chinese takeaway Bodie managed to catch an hour's kip before Walker shook him awake. "He's back, mate, and ready to go again."

Bodie did not have to ask who "he" was.

The questions didn't change, just more, more, more of the same. Again and again Cowley forced him to repeat the information, coming at it from every direction, leaving no area untouched.

"...Abdullah, I told you before, Rahman Abdullah!" Bodie snapped, then sighed in bone-weary frustration. "Sorry, Sir, just tired."

"Aye, Laddie, me as well."

The change in the Controller's tone brought Bodie instantly alert. He knew that it meant another change in Cowley's tactics. Sure enough Cowley sat back in his chair and loosened his tie. "Tell me," he said in a conversational voice, "what made you decide to turn against Cartel Zafael?"

Bodie leaned back in his own chair as he tried to compose his thoughts. The words "turn against" were not lost on him. Even though Bodie knew that Cowley was baiting him yet again by calling into account his loyalty and integrity, it still stung. Can you ever really be trusted? the Controller was asking.

Knowing he had to tell Cowley the truth, Bodie chose his words carefully. "Was too close to home," he said after several seconds. "I never had a desire to hurt my own country or countrymen. Over there, it felt like they were still fighting for a civilized life for everyone. At least, in the beginning I believed I was helping. Like the French Revolution or Yanks' civil war," Bodie shrugged. "I felt there was some purpose to it all. Then they started asking me to kill not because some ruler wanted to oppress people but so they could run drugs." He did not tell Cowley how just thinking about it had turned his stomach sour.

Bodie looked up to find George Cowley staring at him. "Perhaps we had better call a halt for a while," was all he said.

Bodie's relief was short-lived as Cowley got up and walked to the window. After staring out into the darkness, he came back to lean across the desk, looming over the younger man. Bodie began to perspire under the scrutiny. He felt a large, hard lump forming in his stomach.

"I've just one more question for now, Laddie." Keeping his intense blue eyes fixed on Bodie, George Cowley said, "The key question, Mr. Bodie. Why am I still alive?"

Instantly the lump went from the pit of Bodie's stomach to the back of his throat and doubled in size. He had known the question would come, had thought he would be prepared for it. He was wrong.

Bodie knew the answer he gave now would decide his future. The first crisis had come when he'd handed over his weapon. Then, once past those first few seconds with George Cowley, Bodie knew that CI5's Controller would glean every bit of information from him. Now, after all the hours of interrogation, that goal had been reached and it was time for George Cowley to exercise his options.

Bodie's mind spun with the possibilities. Given CI5's mandate, Cowley could have him locked away on some technicality which no one would ever question. He wouldn't even put it past the man to have him stuffed into a box and shipped back to Africa. Or the Controller could simply turn him loose and put out the word that he'd grassed. In either of the latter cases, the Cartel would solve the problem most efficiently.

The thought of spending several years in a damp English prison made Bodie shiver, yet he knew the very real chance of Cowley's choosing such an option. The Controller might also decide to keep Bodie around CI5, using his brain and brawn, but never allowing him the honor and prestige of agent status. That, to Bodie, would be the worst fate of all.

Bodie's hands were clammy and perspiration covered his forehead. He knew Cowley's eyes were still on him, waiting. Cowley wanted an answer, wanted the truth. Bodie would have to give that now, as best he could.

Taking a deep breath Bodie looked up into Cowley's eyes, then glanced at the tape recorder and back up at Cowley. After a slight pause Cowley reached over and shut off the machine. "Now, Mr. Bodie, why didn't you kill me?"

"Because you're the only one who could give me a chance to wear the white hat." Bodie caught the flicker of surprise in Cowley's eyes.

Knowing he had only this one opportunity, Bodie didn't stop to think or choose his words.

"Want to be able to stop lying to myself."

"Go on," Cowley prodded.

"Only know one thing, don't I? Weapons, hand-to-hand combat, explosives. I'm good at what I do. Not much call for good jobs though, I mean you don't see my type of work called for in the adverts, now do you? After I jumped ship at Dakar I spent a couple of years doing shit work, anything I could find. Then I took this job hauling 'cargo'. Knew it was guns, so I made it my business to learn to use 'em. Found I had a knack for it. Hooked meself up with some lads who knew their business. Got meself in good with the ring leader, followed 'im around and learned everything I could. Next thing I know I'm fightin' a war. Believed I was doing some good, then had to lie to meself to keep believing it. After a while that got harder and harder to do. Hell, one week we're allied with group A shooting at group B, and the next week it's the other way around. There was no 'us' and 'them' anymore. After a while it's impossible to tell yourself you're fighting for some high ideal.

"Couldn't take it anymore, didn't re-up when my time came, was planning on coming home, but...plans got changed." Bodie shrugged. "Tried going legit for a while. Was workin' as a bouncer, some body-guard jobs, that sort of thing. Then I 22

ran into some of the old mob and went back into the jungle. Last year I joined up with the Cartel--rationalized it by telling myself that it was just more gun running to the highest bidder. That worked for a while and I could look down at the lads running drugs and taking the hit jobs. But with these 'business men' you have to keep proving yourself. That only gets you in deeper and deeper. You're suspect if you seem too happy in one spot; it makes the higher ups nervous. They start putting on the pressure and force you into a corner. That's how I ended up stalking you."

Bodie cleared his throat as he reached for the water glass in front of him. Swallowing all it contained, he stole a glance at Cowley. Bodie was not surprised to find that the icy blue eyes gave no clue to the Controller's thoughts. George Cowley was too practiced at his art to give anything away. Instead he just sat waiting for Bodie to continue.

Bodie's next words, though forming in his mind, stuck in his throat. It was as if these words were weapons and he was about to voluntarily deliver them into the hands of the enemy to be used against him.

Startled by a low noise, Bodie looked across the table to see Cowley shift in his chair. Knowing the impatience this action implied, Bodie forced himself to continue.

"Trailing you like I was, I got to know some of what you were about, what you and your men did." Bodie forced himself to meet Cowley's eyes. "Seemed to me that there isn't much difference in what we do. The difference is in why we do it." Bodie shrugged self-consciously. "You and yours wear the white hats, and I want one."

---

Chapter Three

"You what!" Ray Doyle stared at George Cowley in disbelief. "You can't be serious."

"Since when have I taken to playing the jester, Doyle?"

"Cowley...ah, Mr. Cowley..., Sir, you can't mean this. Some hired gun tries to kill you and because he couldn't go through with it, you want to give him a job. It's ludicrous...Sir. It's a set-up."

"Sit down, Doyle, and listen. For all practical purposes, as of 11:37 p.m. on November 3, I was a dead man. Mr. Bodie had me in his sights. And where were you and the rest of my so-called agents while he was stalking me? Did any of you notice anything amiss? Don't interrupt," Cowley said forestalling Doyle's explanation. "I've spent the last three days listening to this man. He is a wealth of information, both on the organization that hired him and our own shortcomings...."

"You can't trust what he says, Sir. You'll never be able to...."

"Enough, Doyle. That's why I'm putting you on the job. You will work with Bodie. You will watch and question and track down every lead. Then report to me."

Doyle threw himself back in his chair, auburn curls bouncing. "Why me?" he demanded.

"Because, Doyle, I know you. When all your indignation is spent, you'll listen to him and you'll be fair. If you give him a clean bill of health, we can all rest easy in our beds."

Staring at George Cowley, his face still radiating his feelings on this matter, Doyle accepted the offered glass of scotch. "I'll start reading the transcripts of the tapes...."

"No, you will not," Cowley said flatly. "Do your own."

"But," Doyle sputtered, "why...? Comparison," he said answering his own question.

"Very good, Doyle. Now, first of all, you will move into a flat with Bo--"

"What? You want me to what?" The still-full glass hit the desk with a thud.

"Is your hearing failing, man? I said you and Bodie will be sharing a flat. I want you with him at all times. We both know the Cartel will not let this insult pass...."

"Retaliation," Doyle stated flatly.

"Exactly. And this organization's budget does not allow for around the clock protection for such as Mr. Bodie. Therefore, I want you guarding his back."

"His back!" Doyle was on his feet again. "Who'll be guarding mine?"

"I will."

Doyle turned at the words and their eyes caught. Then like equally charged forces, they repelled. Now that department scuttlebutt and George Cowley had filled him in who and what Bodie was, Doyle made no attempt to disguise his contempt.

"William Bodie, Ray Doyle," Cowley said by way of introduction as Bodie entered the room.

Bodie took two steps forward, hand outstretched. Knowing Cowley was watching and evaluating, Doyle copied the move. Hands clasped and the already flowing current ignited.

Nodded heads substituted for verbal greetings, but Doyle did not for an instant believe that Cowley was fooled by their overly polite actions.

"You have your orders, 4.5." Cowley's head went down, concentrating on the other work demanding his attention.

Recognizing the futility of further conversation, Doyle shook his head and headed for the door.

Doyle called by the housing office. He made arrangements for the use of one of CI5's vacant flats, ordered supplies, and signed papers. Those chores finished, he accepted the keys and stalked out of the building knowing the other man had no choice but to follow.

After a coldly silent drive of twenty minutes Doyle let them into their "new" home for a look around. The front door opened into a good sized lounge, with electric fire. To the left was a bedroom, on the right they found the kitchen, bath and finally the second bedroom at the end of the hall.

Doyle was relieved to have the bedrooms at opposite ends of the flat. At least, he hold himself, we won't have to listen to each other snore.

"Not bad," Bodie stated. "CI5 does well by its lads."

Doyle suppressed several negative comments. "Flip for the bedroom nearest the loo." He dug into his jeans for a coin.

Bodie won the toss and Doyle swore under his breath.

"I'm hungry," Bodie said, obviously deciding it was best to ignore Doyle's annoyance. "How about fish and chips or something, then go for our gear. That suit you, Doyle?"

"Yeh," Doyle muttered and made for the door. Heading for his choice of restaurant, he thought about the two of them going after their belongings. He wasn't keen on taking Bodie to his flat, but he realized that if Bodie was as good as George Cowley believed he was, it really didn't matter.

Doyle swung the Escort into an available spot and made for the restaurant. Once more leaving Bodie to follow or not.

"You gonna tell me you hate Chinese?" Doyle asked after they were seated.

"Would I be here if I did?"

So, Doyle thought, it's gonna be like that. Christ, what's the Cow got me into this time?

At Bodie's suggestion, they decided on a dinner-for-three and keeping the conversation limited to "please pass the whatever," emptied every dish. Bodie proved as proficient with chopsticks as Ray.

It was dark when they exited and headed for Doyle's.

"Want help?" Bodie asked. "Or maybe you don't want the place contaminated."

"Earn your keep," Doyle snapped as he slammed the car door.

With the boot full of Doyle's necessities, they headed for Bodie's hotel.

It was a rather small place in a very respectable, read expensive, area near the Thames. Doyle noted the exclusive address as he circled the block. After the second pass he said, "I make two blokes outside the pub across the way and two more in the black Escort down the street."

Bodie concurred. "I don't think we should risk another pass-by."

"Agreed. They'll spot us sure if they haven't already. Anything in there you can't live without?"

"Not really. Clothes can be replaced." And anything else of value, he thought, is safely locked away.

"You willing to just leave your gear then, at least for now?"

"Yeh, I think that's best."

"Tomorrow," Doyle said, "we'll get an expense chit from Cowley, and do some shopping."

"Doyle, I don't need Cowley's chit for clothes, or anything."

Doyle was amused by the hint of anger in the merc's response.

"Oh yeh, I forgot. You just got paid for a job--partial payment anyway." Doyle's tone said he clearly hadn't.

"Matter of fact, I did," Bodie said. "But I don't need that either."

"Africa must pay well."

"Better than CI5. We goin' to jaw here all night, or can we buy me a toothbrush?"

Back at the flat Doyle called in a report before disappearing into the bedroom to unpack his three holdalls.

Returning to the lounge, he found it empty. A quick glance in the kitchen found Bodie opening two lagers.

The ex-merc looked up. "Look, Doyle," Bodie said, handing Doyle an opened tin. "I see what you're saying. In your shoes, I'd feel the same. But we're stuck with the circumstances and each other, so let's try not to get too far up each other's nose." Without waiting for a response, the he left the room.

Doyle was left alone holding his beer. He took a long swallow and tried to straighten out his tangled thoughts. He didn't have much success except to admit that Bodie was right on at least one count; they were stuck with the situation, for the time being anyway.

Doyle realized that his fear lay not in what Bodie might do to him as an individual. That made no sense. Bodie had had his chance at Cowley, and for that matter, all the agents in CI5. What worried Doyle was what Bodie might do with information he picked up on the organization. As far as Doyle was concerned, Bodie represented one great big security leak, and why George Cowley couldn't see that was a mystery. What's the Cow really up to? Doyle wondered.

Cowley wouldn't even give him a fact sheet on Bodie. "Question him yourself," the Controller had said. Well, Doyle would do just that, and he was confident that when he finished with this ex-merc, Africa would again look good to him. Whatever or whoever he was, CI5 was no place for this intruder.

---

Bodie resisted the temptation to slam the bedroom door. He closed it with a soft click wishing it was the world he was shutting out, not just his contrary keeper. Finally alone and able to relax, he was overwhelmed with the realization of what a mistake he had made, a mistake of gigantic proportions. Slipping off his shoes, he flopped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.

Whatever had he been thinking, he wondered. He had hoped for a decent shake, looked forward to a good life; finally on the side of right. But if Doyle was anything to judge by, they would never trust him, or accept him as part of their closed club. It was more likely that Cowley and Doyle would pump out every last bit of information he possessed, then give him the boot.

Luckily, he had had enough sense to hold back some information, not give everything despite the long interrogation. For his own survival, he would stick to that strategy and dole out the prize bits only when he had to. He'd know those times just by looking into their eyes. Bodie leaned up on one elbow and took a long swallow of lager. It was always the eyes that gave them away. Cowley's would flash cold blue ice, and Doyle was even easier to read. He'd poise on the balls of his feet, nostrils flaring and his eyes would flash hot green fire.

In some things he found the man amazingly easy to read and he knew Doyle suspected him of playing a double game. Maybe he would even do what Doyle was thinking. He would go back to the Cartel with information. He could tell them that after trailing the CI5 mob, he saw that Cowley's death would solve nothing. The government would send in another controller and things would go on as before. The Cartel might doubt him, but who was to really argue his story? Besides, he would have a lot of information to placate them.

Satisfied that he still held a few aces, Bodie was able to relax and think about sleep. He drained the can and aimed the empty at the waste-paper basket and the Russian judges gave it a six.

---

Doyle woke to the smell of frying bacon and perking coffee. With some effort, he rolled out of bed, pulled on his jeans, and followed his nose to the kitchen.

"Miss Domesticity?"

Bodie raised the spatula in warning, but Doyle held up a hand of peace.

"I'm not complaining, I'm not." He ducked out to the loo and when he came back Bodie was already at the table digging into the full plate in front of him. Doyle helped himself to eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. "Good," he said with his mouth full. "Very good."

"What's on today?" Bodie asked, ignoring the off-handed compliment.

"Twenty questions," Doyle said, waving a packet that Cowley had sent via an early morning run with Murphy, "then checkin' the answers."

"More like twenty thousand questions," Bodie said, emptying his coffee cup, then getting up for a refill. "I'll need some time to get my shopping done."

"Yeh, we can manage that."

Breakfast finished, they sat at the table silently sipping coffee till the pot was empty.

"I'll tidy up," Doyle volunteered, "since you cooked. Then we'll begin."

Bodie made another pot of coffee while Doyle cleaned. Finished, Doyle asked, "Where do you want to sit?"

"Lounge--more comfortable."

Doyle agreed and moved the paraphernalia. Bodie followed with the fresh coffee.

"Where do you want to start?" Bodie asked as he sprawled on the settee.

"From the beginning."

They went at it steadily with only loo breaks until hunger drove them out. After a quick lunch at a nearby restaurant they drove to Regent Street. Bodie had very specific stores in mind, not to mention very specific clothes. He also had, Doyle noted with interest, several bank drafts and charge accounts.

Several hours later they arrived back at the flat laden with packages. Hearing the telephone ringing as they neared the door, Doyle took the steps two at a time, managed the door key, then sprinted across the room.

"Hello--hello. Damn," he said to the dial tone in his ear.

"They'll call back," Bodie stated, scooting the packages he couldn't carry across the lounge with his foot.

They made a pot of tea and went back to their assigned roles; Doyle asking the questions, Bodie providing the answers.

The phone rang again and Bodie listened to the one-sided conversation that told him absolutely nothing: Doyle. Yes. Right. Yes. Right. Fine. He was quickly bored enough to rest his head against the back of the settee and consider a quick kip, but Doyle rang off.

"That was Cowley on the heavyweights our boys picked up 'round your hotel last night," Doyle said, replacing the receiver. "Two men in the pub, two in the Escort. Our lads nicked 'em."

"Identify any of them?"

"Yeh, locals--cheap muscle, and not very good. They all talked, but didn't know much, now did they?"

"Suspect not. Hired by someone who also knows nothing. Cowley say anything else?"

"Not much of a talker, our George. Just wanted to know how it was going. Oh," Doyle added, "he did say to tell you that the information you gave him on Charlie checked out. Said you'd understand."

Bodie nodded absently and the two went back to the job at hand.

A pattern developed as one day turned into another. Taking advantage of their easy routine, the two slept until past eight then went to a nearby park for a thirty minute run. Back at the flat they took their time with breakfast and showers since it was a luxury neither often enjoyed. After working steadily for a few hours on the files CI5 already had on Zafael Cartel, they broke for a late lunch then spent a couple of hours checking out Bodie's local leads. At opening time they would have a pint before finding a nice place for dinner, unless there was a good match on. Then they'd get takeaway and eat in front of the telly. All this time both were watching for any subtle indications that someone was about to make a move on Bodie. After dinner, Doyle would write his report and then re-join Bodie in front of the TV.

"You have to read all those newspapers?" Bodie asked as he watched Doyle divide his attention between the screen and several local and worldwide news sheets.

"Yeh. The Cow expects us to keep current, he does."

"He know you call him that?"

"I suspect so. But you won't catch any of us saying it within his hearing, now will you?"

Any impartial observer would have quickly noted that their behavior often resembled that of two jungle cats facing off in uncharted territory. Each swaggering about hoping to impress the other, all the while sniffing out the other's weakness and strength, hoping to gain ground with each new discovery. To observe was the plan, watch and take in all the nuances of behavior the other would give without being asked, then when the time seemed right, dart in and try to claim a little more territory, always keeping one's own flank well guarded.

Whatever his personal thoughts, Doyle did as his profession and George Cowley required of him; he questioned this Bodie in a neutral manner. His opinions of the man and his deeds he confined to the reports that were for Cowley's eyes only. Bodie, for his part, gave only what he considered necessary to keep CI5's Controller happy.

It was usually past midnight when the two headed their separate ways down the hall.

"What's up your nose?" Doyle snapped when Bodie didn't answer his twice asked question.

"Just thinking," Bodie mused. "Openin' time was twenty minutes ago."

Doyle glanced at his watch in surprise. "We have been at it a while. Let's call it a day."

Doyle noted that this statement brought a smile to the ex-merc's face.

Showered and fresh, their moods were elevated with anticipation of a Saturday night ahead of them as they walked to the nearby Black Gander.

The pub was crowded with happy, relaxed people. The two pushed their own concerns aside and joined in the merriment. With pints and birds plentiful, the hours passed unheeded.

Doyle divided his time between two brunettes and did a double-take when he noticed the leggy blonde who had draped herself around Bodie.

He maneuvered himself and his two dancing partners in for a closer look, then, when he caught Bodie's eye, excused himself for a trip to the loo.

"Not thinking of settin' up housekeeping, are you?" Doyle asked when Bodie joined him.

"Well, she did invite me home to meet her bed. I don't suppose you could be a mate about this?"

"Just call me the Cow's grass," Doyle stated with a wide smile.

Bodie winced at the very bad pun, then asked, "Am I allowed any privacy?"

"Only in the sanctity of your own little room." Doyle's smile widened further.

Bodie walked away and avoided Doyle the rest of the evening. For his part, Doyle slipped out and made a phone call.

The lights blinking and a "last call" put an end to the festivities. After telling several lies the two regretfully untangled themselves from their respective beauties and headed back toward the flat.

"You prefer blondes, too?" Bodie asked, not appearing to carry a grudge over his loss.

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, I caught you giving my Liesel the once over more than a few times, now didn't I?"

"Just natural interest," was Doyle's comeback. "Sometimes that's all this job allows." Mentally he noted the name, 'Liesel.'

"You trying to discourage me from joining up?"

"Just stating facts, mate. Just stating facts."

"Yeh. I've noticed our lack of a proper social life. Such a shame too, she's crazy about me and I hate disappointing such a beautiful bird."

"She'll live," Doyle told him. "Uncle Georgie gave me strict orders. You're not to be out of my sight for more than a trip to the loo--and then I'd better be able to hear you," Doyle finished as he maneuvered the key from his pocket and let them into the flat.

It had not yet gone midnight, but Doyle was not surprised when Bodie headed to his room. Doyle did the same.

Waiting a few minutes until the flat was quiet, Doyle retrieved his RT. He plugged in an earpiece thereby insuring some privacy before making contact. "Four-five to Alpha One. Come in Alpha One."

"Alpha One went home." It was Murphy and his tone was surly.

"Got you out of a warm bed, did he, Murph?"

Murphy muttered some obscenity at Doyle who only snickered and asked, "Camera set up and ready?"

"Of course," Murphy confirmed. "It's in the closet. I'm across the street with a view of the front door. Now would you mind telling me what's going on?"

"Well, I do believe our ex-merc and hopeful young agent is about to have a visitor."

"Yeh, I figured that when I heard the name. What I want to know is how you got him to invite her back to his own flat--with you there. I can't believe--never mind. There's a car pulling up. Yeh, here comes our blonde bombshell now."

"Is she alone?" was Doyle's next question.

"Yeh, alone," Murphy confirmed. "Should I tell the backup to stand down?"

"Not yet. I checked the front door--latch's been taken off. How's the picture?"

"Fine. Bodie just lying on the bed. Doyle, what do you figure they've got planned?"

"Exchange of information, what else. She's probably working for the Cartel Zafael same as Bodie. Last reports put her in Africa. I kept too close a watch on them in the pub so they decided to try this. Why? You thinking they might be after me? That doesn't make any sense."

"No, I don't think that, neither does Cowley. He said...."

"Never mind," Doyle interrupted. "There's the door now--got 'em, Murph? Murph?!"

It was thirty long seconds later before Murphy replied. "Yeh, got 'em now. Coming in clear. Hey."

"What's going on?"

"Doyle, they're exchanging information all right, but it's very personal."

"What!?"

"Those two are in a clinch that may just melt the camera lens."

"Bloody hell!" was Doyle's only comment. "Still at it?" he asked Murphy when the silence had gone on for several seconds.

"Yeh," Murphy said with little enthusiasm. "If they don't come up for air soon, you're goin' to have to go in there and do CPR."

"You see, Murph, I told you they knew each other. Hell, this could mean we're in for a wait. How long do you suppose it's been since our ex-merc there had any? I mean with him stalking Cowley for the past few weeks he probably didn't have time for much else."

"What gets my goat," said Murphy, "is that we didn't catch the slightest scent of him. Suppose he really is that good?"

"Hell no!" Doyle said angrily. "At least, I don't like to think so. What I can't figure out is what the hell Cowley is doing."

"Me either. Asked him the other day."

"You asked him!" Doyle blanched at the thought. Murph, sometimes I think you have a death wish. Well, what'd he say?"

"Said that in our business men as good as Bodie don't come along very often. Said he was a natural...oh, bloody hell."

"What now?"

"They're undressing each other." Murphy's whisper was raspy over the RT, "Good lord, they're crawling into bed. Oh my, that's nice," he muttered, voice growing distracted.

"Just keep filming!" Doyle said, not sounding nearly as confident as he would have liked.

"Doyle, they're really going at it. This isn't my idea of fun." He snickered. "Sex is a participation sport, and I'm on the wrong end of this bloody lens."

"Shit!" It was all Doyle could think to say.

"Jesus! I gotta try that some time."

"What? Murph, what?"

"I'm not explaining," Murphy told him. "You watch the tape. You plannin' on keeping at this all night?"

"Yes. Shit!" Doyle flopped onto the bed. "What a mess." Doyle waited through several seconds of silence broken only by Murphy's quiet breathing. "What're they doing now?" he asked.

"You got ears. Listen." Murphy plugged Doyle into the circuit.

"Christ," Doyle muttered.

The two agents listened, and Doyle knew that Murphy's eyes must be glued to the monitor.

"I can see why she decided to get laid first," Murphy stated, a little out of breath.

"Now what the hell's that supposed to mean?" Doyle demanded.

"You get a look at him sometime, then ask me."

"I don't mean that," he grated, refusing to think about the implications, "what did you mean by, 'first'?"

"I was just thinking that they'll fuck first and talk later, that's all. Why, what are you thinking?"

"Nothin'."

"You sure, Doyle? Look if you've any ideas...."

"Hell no, Murph, I was just wondering...oh, never mind."

The erotic noises in his earpiece made Doyle get up and pace. "Christ, Murph, haven't they finished yet?"

"Hey, our lad can go; got stamina, he has."

"Great. This is great, just great! The Cow's gonna love this. I promise him information and get all set up for what? A video nasty."

"A damned good video nasty," Murphy breathed. "Well, Doyle, you promised him action, and he's getting that. Oh, maybe not the type he wanted, but...."

"Shut up, Murph."

"Oh boy, here we go."

"What? What?"

"False alarm. They're just changing position."

"They're gonna go again?"

"Looks like it," Murphy stated flatly.

"Ray," Murphy speculated, "you don't suppose that Bodie just wanted to get a leg over, that he doesn't know who she really is?"

"No! Not possible."

"Why not?" Murphy wanted to know.

Because if that was all it really was then he'd never live it down. "Because I said so," he stated flatly. "We can place her in Africa." Doyle wasn't sure who he was trying to convince with that statement. "Hell, he has been out of the country for over ten years and back in the bush for most of that time. You think maybe he doesn't know who she really is?"

"Bloody hell, Doyle," Murphy swore, "do you realize what that means?"

"Hell yes. She's living up to her name. It means we'd better be ready for anything when they're finished. If they finish. Bloody hell!" Doyle flopped back onto the bed. He drummed his fingers on his thigh for several minutes, then got up and paced some more.

Two loud sighs followed by one "Oh, God!" and one deep-throated "Christ!" and there was silence.

"They done now?" Doyle asked feeling as big a berk as Murphy must.

"Looks like it. Doyle," Murphy's voice grew panicky, "she's leaving, and she's naked."

"She's just going to the loo, Murph." Doyle's voice was heavy with exasperation.

"Oh yeh, I guess you're right. And Bodie's just lying there smiling. I would be, too. You better be ready as soon as she comes back."

"Right, just give me the word."

It was several minutes before Murphy said, "Okay, Doyle, go."

Quickly and quietly, Doyle made his way out of his room, across the lounge, and down the hall past the loo to crouch next to Bodie's bedroom door. "I'm in place," he informed Murphy in a whisper.

Murphy continued to feed information. "...Still sitting on the bed next to Bodie...Still talking...Bodie's trying to coax her back into bed. She's begging off, something about an early morning. She's going for her clothes...underwear. God, she's built! ...And wears sexy knickers, Doyle." The whispered commentary stopped suddenly and Murphy was practically yelling down the line, "Christ, Doyle, go! She's got a gun...!"

Before Murphy finished his command, Doyle had shouldered his way through the door. He landed in a crouch, gun aimed. "Drop it," he said to the blonde who had already snapped a silencer into place and was just swinging around to aim the weapon at Bodie's chest.

Bodie had already rolled off the bed and was keeping low to the floor.

"You know," Doyle said to the blonde as he relieved her of the weapon, "being lousy in bed's not a killing offense."

"Well, it should be." This from Bodie as he got up, offensively unconcerned with his nudity, and went looking for his pants. The blonde only sneered. Peripheral vision all he had to work with, what with his attention on this lovely assassin, Doyle felt his masculine ego twinge as he watched Bodie dressing from the corner of his eye. The man looked better naked than he did in clothes, that was for bloody certain; all smooth skin and hard muscle--Murph was certainly right about Bodie. But Doyle could have wished for a bit less distraction, right at the moment....

"Situation under control," Doyle said into the RT as he gave Murphy the all clear. "Send in some paper and string. I've got a pretty package I want wrapped nice and tight."

"All right, Doyle, what's going on?" Bodie asked, pulling on his cords.

"You really don't know who you just fucked, do you?"

Bodie shook his head. "I can bet you're about to enlighten me, though."

"Be my pleasure. Bodie, may I present Ms. Willi Van Broegen."

"Bloody hell!" Bodie breathed, sitting down hard on the edge of the bed. "The Blonde Widow!"

"Right." It was Murphy in the doorway, panting hard. "And as far as I know, you're the only one to ever escape the web alive."

---

Bodie knew that Doyle's job was to watch him, keep an eye out for anything suspicious and keep him alive. He knew that this included surveillance at whatever level Doyle thought necessary. What he hadn't expected was that such surveillance included a bloody camera in his bedroom.

After Murphy left with the woman in tow and an altogether too smug smile, Bodie tried several times to begin a conversation and voice his indignation. Problem was, he couldn't seem to get past the first inhale of breath.

"Can't believe you just thought she was another bird," Doyle repeated himself for at least the fifth time, and whatever control he'd had blew.

"Just shut the fuck up about it won't you?" he growled, the need for action bringing him up off the couch and pacing hard. "Or go and tell it to the Sun, but leave off with it around me."

He heard Doyle's sigh, but the quiet invitation still surprised him. "What's wrong, mate? What's really wrong?"

"You had a fuckin' camera in my bedroom, Doyle, and I don't like it," he admitted, turning on the man. "Not one damned bit."

"Well since havin' it there saved your bollocks I don't see where you've much room to complain."

Bodie sat down and rubbed his face, feeling confused and angry by turns, finally smiling faintly. "That's the problem," he admitted mildly. "Just doesn't mean I have to like it, now does it?" Doyle smiled back and the tension eased in the room. But one question, one of the only two real important ones, had to be asked. "Been there all along, has it?" he asked, trying to keep the strain from showing.

"No! Sorry," and Doyle did sound contrite, "I didn't realize it would look that way. I had Murph set it up when I recognized the bird. That was the call I had to make from the bar. Thought you two had a meet planned--well, you did," and he smiled again, "but I was expecting you to exchange information, not be getting a leg over."

Bodie finally exhaled, letting go his anger and acknowledging to himself that Doyle had, in his own covert little copper's way, ultimately been protecting his back. At least, that was how it had turned out, which had to be good enough for now.

"I want it out, Doyle. And I'll thank you to at least consider asking me outright next time, rather than go to all this bother.

"And one more thing--I want that fucking tape. I'll not have half the squad, hell, half the population of England--maybe the world--watching me perform. In fact, I'll not have anyone watching me perform that I haven't at least invited meself. I want it gone."

When Bodie entered his bedroom late the next afternoon, an unassuming, untitled cassette lay in the center of the bed. He didn't have to view it to know what it was, didn't want to even think about it--damned embarrassing indeed, finding oneself the star attraction in such things.

Especially given how good it had been.

---

Chapter Four

"Patricide! That's the kind of man you want to hire, a man who committed patricide?" Blazing eyes and tone of voice left no doubt as to Doyle's feelings.

George Cowley looked up and studied the young agent. "Bodie told us that he left England within weeks of his father's death and that he was only fourteen at the time. What else do you have on this matter?"

"It's all right here." Ray dropped a file folder on Cowley's desk. "And it's enough to convince you that CI5's no place for Mr. Bodie."

The Controller picked up the folder and spent the next several minutes reading through it while Doyle lounged confidently in a chair.

"No," Cowley finally said in response to Doyle's statement, "this is not enough. Bodie was a fourteen year old boy at the time and this is an Open Coroner's Verdict. Nothing here is proven." He closed the folder. "I want more. I want the whole story. Take a few days, go to Liverpool, and ferret out all the details."

"Sir, I understand that there could very well be extenuating circumstances in this matter, and no one knows better than me just how good Bodie could be at this job, but this," Doyle leaned forward and jabbed his finger at the report, "just goes to prove that he's not CI5 material."

"Very amusing, Doyle." A slight smile spread to George Cowley's eyes. "Those are almost the exact words Dr. Ross spoke of you when we were processing your papers."

"What?" Doyle sputtered. "Why?"

"She felt there were some aspects of your personality that, shall we say, strayed from the norm."

"But you hired me," Doyle said in confusion.

"Yes. You see, Doyle, one thing Dr. Ross tends to overlook is that an organization such as this seeks certain quirks of personality in its agents."

"Quirks? What quirks in my personality?"

"I seem to recall the term 'adrenalin junkie' was bandied about."

"Adrenalin junkie! No, Sir. Not me...."

"Not now, Doyle, I haven't the time. On your bike to Liverpool."

---

With Doyle gone almost three days now, William Bodie was at a loose end. The endless questions had, indeed, ended. As had the habit of lying in of a morning--Cowley'd seen to that quickly enough on Doyle's return to his old flat. Having exhausted Bodie's information on Britain, CI5 handed him over to an agent borrowed from Special Branch who specialized in foreign affairs, where he answered a whole new set of questions. When Cowley was satisfied that they had wrung every bit of useful information from him the Controller had set him in the same damn interrogation room where it all started, with all the transcripts of his interviews from November 3 to the present. Now he was up before dawn (or so it felt to Bodie), into the office and, for the last three days, reviewing his transcripts for typographical and informational errors. His eyes were feeling the strain.

It wasn't the only strain; with Doyle gone from the city entirely and Cowley sparing him only the odd glance, life was too damned quiet. He also wondered what was going on.

Following the Van Broegen episode Doyle had returned to his own flat and Bodie was moved into a bedsit that was drab and shabby, and altogether beneath even his lowest standards. Around the office, the agents didn't trust him, didn't try to get to know him--didn't talk to him at all, save for an oddly curious and unnervingly pleasant Jax.

Ah well, he thought as he approached Betty's desk, it can only get better.

He was wrong.

"Transcripts again?" Why another day going over transcripts? Bodie couldn't believe it.

"Sorry," Betty said with a shrug, and went back to her own work.

Bodie was far from pleased at his day's assignment. Bodie was expected to go over each one for errors that, even if they existed he would no longer recognize, because George Cowley had reduced his brain to Swiss cheese. After thirty minutes Bodie tossed the stack across the room.

Something was up. He could smell it. Doyle had been gone for the past three days, the only explanation given that he was "on another case." Bodie's inquiries as to the nature of the case got him no answers, but the ex-merc had his suspicions. He had let it go for the first two days, but not the third. Without telling anyone, he left CI5 headquarters and went out to do a little investigating on his own.

---

The late morning train from Euston to Liverpool was on time, so it was just gone noon when Doyle spun his car to a stop at the curb in front of Lime Street Station, and George Cowley got in.

"Afternoon, 4.5," Cowley said as he settled himself down and accepted the portfolio Doyle handed him. For the next few minutes he studied the papers therein. "She knows the situation and she's agreed to talk to us; that's a good sign. Any reluctance on her part, do you think?"

"Don't think so, Sir. Spoke with her yesterday, and she seems to want to do this for Bodie."

"Keirin Bodie," Cowley mused aloud, "two and a half years older than her brother."

It was half twelve when Ray Doyle parked the car in front of a block of renovated flats on Victoria Street.

Cowley pressed the buzzer and the door clicked open, giving them entrance to the building. They climbed the steep stairs to the first floor.

The door to number three was already open and a pleasant looking woman of about thirty years or so stood in the doorway. She smiled tentatively at Doyle, and invited them in.

"Ms. Bodie, this is Mr. Cowley," Doyle said by way of introduction.

"It is most gracious of you to see us," the Controller said as he handed her his hat and coat.

"Please," she said, appearing quite nervous as she accepted them, "go on through to the sitting room. I'll bring in the tea."

Within a few minutes they were all settled by the electric fire and Keirin began pouring tea.

"I want to thank you, Miss Bodie," George Cowley said again as he accepted a cup from her slightly trembling hand, "for agreeing to see us on this matter. I know it canna be easy for you."

"No, Mr. Cowley, it's not very pleasant. But Mr. Doyle," she handed Ray a steaming cup, "has explained the circumstances to me, and I want to do this for my brother."

Cowley took a long sip, then set down the cup. "Best we begin then. I understand that your mother had been ill for some years, and that she died as a result of that illness."

"Yes, she had Multiple Sclerosis, and was confined to bed for as long as I can remember." Setting down her cup, Keirin went silent for several seconds, then said, "Mr. Cowley, would you mind if I just told you what happened in my own words? I believe I would find that easier than answering questions."

"By all means, Miss Bodie," Cowley responded, "and go at your own pace. Our time is yours."

Keirin Bodie leaned back in the overstuffed chair and crossed her legs, obviously trying to relax. "As I said, my mother was ill and confined to bed all of Will's and my lives. My earliest memories are of sitting next to Will on her bed, listening to her read to us. Poetry. She read a lot of poetry...." As she spoke, her fingers toyed with a loose thread on the arm of the chair.

As the story began to unfold, Doyle sat quietly, fading into the background. He watched as Cowley tried to ease the situation, and win the confidence of this young woman. She wasn't what could be called beautiful; attractive would be a better word to describe her. Neat and well kept, she possessed a fine-boned, delicate sense of grace which showed in her every move. Long of torso and limb, she was within an inch of her brother in height; but where Bodie was broad, Keirin was not. The genes these two shared had manifested themselves in very different forms, except for the eyes. Keirin shared her brother's deep blue eyes. An attractive woman, he decided before shifting his concentration back to her story.

"My father worked as a meat packer," she was saying, "and my grandmother lived with us. She took care of the house, us kids, and my mother. My memories of those early days are very happy ones. It was after Granny died that things started to go sour. I was eight at the time and Will almost six...."

"What do you mean by sour?" Doyle interrupted. "And why do you think that your grandmother's death caused a change?"

"I can only tell you my feelings in retrospect, Mr. Doyle. I've had a lot of years to think on this, and I've come to the conclusion that it had mostly to do with dad's lifestyle. While Granny was there taking care of things, his life wasn't much different than that of his mates at the plant. He got up of a morning and went to work. He stopped at the pub, then came home to a clean house and found a hot meal waiting."

"This grandmother," Cowley asked, "from whose side of the family did she come?"

"The Bodie side. She was me dad's mum."

Once interrupted, Keirin seemed to lose her train of thought, and hesitated when Cowley asked her to continue. Obviously restless, she stood and walked to the window, facing away from her audience. "On the surface, one would think that the only thing my father was lacking was his marriage rights. Although I know that was not true."

"So," Cowley said, trying to cover the awkwardness, "while your grandmother lived, your lives were about the same as those of your school chums."

"Yes, except that my mother never left her bedroom." Keirin went back to her chair and her tea.

"The change in our home came when Granny wasn't there to care for things." Keirin refilled the tea cups, and passed the plate of biscuits which Cowley and Doyle declined. "My early memories of Dad are very vague. But I know that after Granny was gone he was angry all the time." She shook her head. "He didn't seem to know how to deal with the disorder. First we had a series of girls to cook and take care of the house. I remember that as a strange and frightful time. Will and I never knew who, if anyone, would be there when we got home from school or woke in the morning."

"Were you frightened?" Doyle interrupted again. "I mean waking up alone and all," he shrugged, dropping his eyes in sudden embarrassment. Her story, told in her quiet voice, and his own knowledge that this was Bodie's past he was hearing, were drawing him in and making it personal.

"Yes, Mr. Doyle, I was." Keirin shared a melancholy smile. "But Will's being there helped. That's when he became my big brother instead of my little brother. He was very protective of me."

Doyle had been watching the young woman for several minutes now, and he had come the to conclusion that the protectiveness ran both ways. The hair on the back of his neck prickled at the thought of an angry Bodie, if anyone bothered with his sister.

"Dad went through a series of women," Keirin continued. "They never seemed to stay very long. Sometimes there would be supper on the table and a note saying they wouldn't be back, more often it was just a note. One time a lady left right after breakfast; food still on the table and Mum alone all day with no help. It was a strange thing, and at the time I didn't understand. But the girls that Will and Mum and I liked, the ones who were good to us, well, they didn't get on with Dad at all. The others, the ones Dad preferred, they were either neglectful or downright mean to Will, Mum, and me. It took me a long time to understand what was going on."

Doyle noted the look this remark produced on Cowley's face as the Controller asked, "As a wee lad, how did Bodie fare in all this?"

Keirin almost smiled at his question, tilting her head and looking at him in a manner exactly like her brother's. "It's been a long time since I thought of Will as a 'wee lad'. But to answer your question, the first year after Granny died was very bad. Then little-by-little, Will and I learned to take over the chores, and a nurse from the Health Care Office came once a day to help Mum. By the time I was eleven, Dad quit bringing in girls and I was expected to do the meals, house, and laundry. Will helped and as he got bigger, took over the heavier duties."

"We did very well for a couple of years. I remember those times as almost pleasant. Dad was gone a lot and Will and I took care of the house and Mum. Then...."

Doyle noted that her voice had been growing steadily softer, and when she finished it was just a whisper.

"Miss Bodie," Cowley said when she had been quiet for a long time. "Would it help to know that Doyle is one of my best detectives and that he has been investigating this for several days?"

As the implications of his words penetrated, Keirin's eyes began tearing. "You know then, that my father molested me." She laid her head on the back of the chair as tears ran down her cheeks.

Doyle's insides were alive with a helpless anger. It was all he could do to stay seated and remain silent. He wanted so badly to hit something, anything--or comfort her.

"Your mother was still alive when this began?" Cowley's voice was soft, his tone gentle and leading.

Before she could answer there was a noise like a small explosion at the door. They all turned to stare as it burst open, broken lock swinging, and a raging Bodie charged into the room.

Realizing his prediction had just come true, Doyle sprang into action. Uncertain where Bodie's anger would land first, Doyle stepped in front of Cowley, who had also gotten to his feet. In that same instant Keirin was up and moving toward her brother.

"Will. Will," she kept repeating, visibly startled by his unexpected presence.

Bodie grabbed her up and pulled her along with him as he made straight for the CI5 men. "Out!" he yelled. "Get out now, before I kill you both!" One arm was around his sister, the other up and ready to land a blow.

All four were talking at once, but nothing could be heard over Bodie's roaring voice. "Out!" he continued to order, "Get out!"

Face-to-face with Doyle now, the yelling continued until Cowley stepped between the two men. Getting close up in Bodie's face, he issued his one word order.

"Enough!"

When the two jerked back in surprise Cowley moved even closer. Grabbing Bodie by the shoulders he forced the younger man to make eye contact. Bodie suddenly froze, his breath coming in great gulps.

"Sit down, lad, and listen to me," Cowley said, his voice returning to normal.

Still breathing heavily and trembling with suppressed rage, Bodie allowed Keirin, who had never let go of his arm, to lead him to the sofa, and gently push him down.

"Get out," he said again, having caught his breath. "You had no right to do this."

"But I did, lad. You gave it to me when you signed on."

"Well, I'm signing off," Bodie said, hunched tensely against the back of the sofa. "I wouldn't work for you now--for anything."

"Will. Will," Keirin crooned as she sat next to her brother, patting his arm. "Please, don't do this."

Bodie turned to face her, an unhappy smile twisting through his rage as he looked at her. "Kit, I'm sorry. I never meant to bring this on you, but it's over now." He took hold of her hand as he turned back to face his adversaries, his features hardening. "Didn't you hear me? Get out--of my sister's life--of my life."

"Bodie, lad, think of what you're saying." Cowley deliberately kept his voice calm.

"No!" Bodie stood, anger flaring again. Doyle started forward only to halt at a wave of Cowley's hand.

"Will." Coming up, Keirin put her hands on Bodie's face, forcing him to look at her. "Will, listen to me. I won't let you do this. I want to tell them. Oh God, Will, I need to tell them." She was crying now. "I can't keep it inside me any longer."

Ignoring the other two men, Bodie pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. "Kit, it's all right, now. I'm here. I'll take care of you."

"Oh Will, you're not listening. This is eating me alive!"

"Okay, Kit," he said, still attempting to soothe her. "If you need to talk, we'll find someone--a doctor who can help--"

"No," she snapped angrily, and Doyle saw his partner in her all over again: all temper and stubborn determination and flashing eyes. "I'm going to do this for you, for both of us."

These two, brother and sister, were locked in events from the past that would stay buried no longer.

To allow them at least the illusion of privacy, Cowley and Doyle stayed quiet and moved to the other side of the room.

"Kit, you listen to me. I won't work for that man and his lackey for anything." Bodie spat out the words as he jerked his head in Cowley's and Doyle's direction.

"And I know what will happen," Keirin said. "You'll go back to Africa, and I'll lose you for good this time. No, Will, you don't understand. I want to go on with my life." There was desperation in her voice as she sat and yanked Bodie down next to her on the sofa. "Will, listen to me. I've met someone--I have a chance at a new life, a chance to be whole. Please, don't deny me that."

"Kit, you can have those things without baring your soul to these hypocritical bastards."

Doyle and Cowley were forgotten now, unimportant in comparison with Keirin's need to be free of this personal devil. She grabbed hold of Bodie's jacket and he seemed as startled by her intensity as the CI5 men. What private hell, Doyle wondered, had they unleashed in this young woman?

Tears were streaming down her face now, and she was close to hysterical. "Will," she demanded, "I want this said!"

"Why, Kit? We don't have to let this be so important. We can handle it. It's like I've always told you, you have to put it behind you. It was less than six months out of your life, surely...."

"Six months!" She jerked away from him, her rage almost equal to his earlier. "Six months! You can't still believe that fantasy. It was over five years of my life!"

"Kit?" Bodie shrank back as if struck, and her instinct to protect her brother won out over her anger.

"Oh, Will, I'm so sorry. I never meant to do that. But you have to know the truth, for both our sakes." She moved in close to his face. "Will, look at me." He stared unseeing as she said, "He started when I was eleven years old--before I even began menstruating." Her hands and voice trembled, tears ran down her face, and Bodie just sat there, stunned into silent immobility.

She leaned against his chest and sobbed for a long time.

Quieting some, her breath coming in great gulps, Keirin reached for the paper hankie box that sat next to the tea things. After blowing and wiping a few times, she turned back to her brother and took a deep breath. "Will, I'm going to do this. You can stay--or go--as you must, but this is going to be said, here and now." Her hands flailed as she spoke and her voice broke, but her determination was unmistakable.

"The lass is right," Cowley said quietly from across the room. "Let the truth be said, then laid to rest once and for all."

As if just remembering they were there, Bodie came to his feet with a jerk and headed in their direction. "Get out!" he bellowed. "This is none of your concern. I won't have Kit exposed...."

Bodie's body suddenly went slack, as if his knees were about to buckle. Both Cowley and Doyle moved quickly to aid him, but in the end it was Cowley who took hold of Bodie and led him back to the sofa. Doyle knew that his touch would only make matters worse.

Needing something to do, Doyle went to the kitchen and looked in a few cupboards. His search was quickly rewarded. Returning to the lounge with bottle and glasses, he poured two fingers of scotch all around. Keirin's hand shook to the point of spilling the liquid, but she drank, making a face at the taste. Keirin took the teapot and disappeared into the kitchen. Water ran, telling Doyle that fresh tea would be more to her liking.

Bodie, staring into space, would not accept the offered glass, so Doyle took his hand and placed the drink in it. When their eyes did meet over this action, there was nothing but contempt in Bodie's deep blue stare.

The three stayed quiet as sounds of tea making echoed in the background. Doyle refilled Cowley's glass, but was not quite sure he should again venture near Bodie's. Instead he handed the bottle to Cowley.

"Here, lad. Have some more." Cowley poured, ignoring the look of disgust he was getting from Bodie.

"I could kill you for this," Bodie's eyes went from Cowley to Doyle, "both of you."

"But you won't," Cowley told him, "because you're a man of ethics and principle. That's why I was willing to take a chance on you."

Keirin, returning with a fresh pot of tea, provided a needed distraction. "Anyone else?" she asked, then poured for herself when all declined. She took a few sips, using the time to regain control, then set down the cup, and turned to Bodie. "Will," she said, taking his hand in hers, "I am going to tell everything that happened. It's not going to be easy, but I'm going to do it." Tears had started again. "Will you stay here with me, and help me through this?"

Bodie only nodded, like a condemned man stepping up to the gallows.

Keirin sat back and Bodie put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close.

"To answer your earlier question, Mr. Cowley, yes, my mother was still alive when my father began molesting me. That's why I didn't feel I could say anything to anyone." She clenched the hand that Bodie was not holding. "It's not that simple, of course, there were so many factors. I was young, and afraid. He told me it was my duty to take over for my mother."

Bodie's head jerked back at these words, and what escaped his lips was like the choked-off cry of a wounded animal.

Keirin tightened her hand around Bodie's, but continued to speak directly to Cowley. "He wasn't hurting me at first, just holding me, comforting me, and that didn't seem so bad. In fact, I enjoyed that. For so many years he had ignored me, and at first I liked the attention, but then...." She had to stop and reach for a tissue. "You really don't need all the sordid details, just to know that it started once Mum had been moved from the upstairs bedroom to the lounge. It was easier for everyone who had to care for her, and she was less alone. We set her up there with the telly and all.... That left Dad and me with rooms upstairs. Will's room was in the attic. Dad never touched me when anyone else was around, only in my room. He settled into a routine of about once, perhaps twice a week, and it was always late at night, when everyone was asleep."

As she continued her story, Doyle felt his heart break for her and what she had been living with, and not only her. How many others had similar stories? It made his own family history seem almost benign by comparison. His own sense of guilt was overflowing after what he had thought of Bodie. No wonder he killed the old man, Doyle thought, knowing that in those circumstances he would have done the same.

It was hard enough just witnessing how Bodie was taking this now. Obviously, he was as caught up in it as his sister, the tension standing out starkly because Doyle knew where to look: jaw so tight he could imagine he heard grinding teeth, muscles hard with tension, his face utterly blank in a way Bodie managed only under duress.

"When I was sixteen--in fact it was my birthday," Keirin's head went to Bodie's chest and she cried for a long moment as Bodie held her tight. "...That's the night Will found out. He had come downstairs and must have heard me. My father was--my father was..." she trailed off, but it was Bodie's face that paled. "He was with me in my room."

Bodie cleared his throat and when he spoke, his voice was distant, many years away. "I'd gone down for the loo and heard something, got scared because I thought someone must've broken in. When I got to the doorway, I saw someone on--with Kit. I was just about to go for whoever it was when I saw, Christ I saw it was him." Bodie's voice tightened in pain; Keirin's hand touched his arm. He stopped and glanced around, seemingly startled at his lapse.

Doyle jerked out of his chair, unable to sit any longer. He went to the window and stared out at nothing.

Bodie held one arm tight around his sister; with the other, he smoothed her long hair.

"I turned at a sound and Will was standing there, frozen, and then he bolted away.

"When Dad finally went to bed, I went up to check on him, to make sure he was all right. He was crying, he must have been since he left my doorway. I tried to comfort him, and it was then that I told him it was the first time Dad had done that. I gave him some story about it having been my birthday. I was afraid, you see, so terribly afraid that if he did anything it would destroy the family. Mother wouldn't have survived the news, and I knew that the state would split us up in foster care. I'd have done anything to keep Will with me--I loved him so much more than I hated Dad and what he had done. I tried to make some kind of sense he would accept, because I knew my brother. He was only thirteen, but I knew him and I wasn't willing to let him act on his instincts.

"Mum was sinking faster than ever by then, some days she didn't even know us. What she was on the inside was gone. It seemed that Will and I were just biding our time, trying to figure out a way to cope when she passed on. I knew Will wouldn't stay with Dad, but..." she looked up, with eyes wet and beseeching. "I was only sixteen, I'd no idea how to earn a living and I had precious little education. I wanted to be able to take care of Will, and back then what with the 'family secret', I could barely take care of myself."

Bodie drew in a breath and opened his mouth, seemingly to pick up the thread of the story, but Keirin continued first. "Mother died just a bit less than four months later. After that I didn't know what I was going to do. And in all honesty I was terrified of what might happen, that I'd lose Will to the courts or our father's temper. Things had gotten worse, much worse after that night and Will could be an unholy terror when Dad was about. But--" her voice choked to silence and she shut her eyes. "But in the end...."

Now Bodie did break in, his voice flat and calm. "She'd spun me a good story that night, but it mustn't have been good enough, because she was right. I decided that night in my bed that he wouldn't live much longer. I couldn't do anything then, you see, just stood there frozen and heard her crying and her pleas, just fucking stood there and watched my own sister getting raped, but that was the last time. I swore then that it was the last time I'd ever let my fear rule me, the last time I'd stand by without doing what needed to be done."

Cowley poured another glass of scotch and offered it to Bodie, who brushed it away.

"I thought about it all the time, couldn't concentrate on anything else. Had liked school before, did good work, but it all went to hell after that night because I flat didn't care anymore. And when I found out that no-good bastard was taking time off work just to get at her, I never went back. All I knew was, the sonofabitch was going to pay for what he'd done."

Keirin seemed to have gathered her thoughts, because she overrode her brother's words, taking the telling back onto herself.

"I was terribly afraid for Will. He pushed--well, you may know something of what he's like now. He was no different when he was young. Our father spent his days heaving beef carcasses, he was a big man. Taller, heavier, stronger. Will kept picking fights with him and I knew, I knew that it would get beyond anyone's control, that Dad might kill him out of hand in an angry moment. But I couldn't get Will to stop, I couldn't get him to leave it alone." She paused, and when Bodie started to speak she clutched at his arm. "Please Will, just give me a moment. Please."

Keirin paused for a moment and Bodie looked up at Cowley once with angry betrayal in his eyes, then caught sight of the glass of scotch on the table in front of him. He loosed his hold on Keirin just enough to reach it before settling back.

When the silence stretched too long, Doyle turned to see Bodie place the empty glass back on the table. Doyle wished to hell he had never come to Liverpool. He had never wanted to do this to another human being, but knew that his chances of ever convincing Bodie of that were nil. And he wasn't sure who, right in this moment, he felt more genuine pity toward; Keirin, who had been hurt and abused those many years ago, or Bodie, who had suffered for her before offering his own brand of justice and trading off any future he may have had. Doyle was certain of one thing, though; this scene, once begun, had to run its course. Knowing that, he forced himself to go back and sit in the chair next to Cowley.

"Dad had an awful hangover one morning at breakfast, but was as kind and careful as he had ever been with me. Will didn't come down at all, and after Dad left for work I went to check on him. I found him still in bed, face black and blue, bruises everywhere, so sore he could barely move, and I realized then that they had been fighting. Really fighting, not just bad tempers and nasty words."

Keirin went on, timidly. "I really did think that Dad would just kill him outright," she whispered, so quietly Doyle and Cowley leaned unobtrusively forward in their chairs. "They faced off like animals, didn't stay in the same room together for love nor money and Will kept his back to the wall at all times. After he dropped out of school, he was always home, or near it...."

Bodie's eyes flickered for a instant, then fixed into a blank stare and he interrupted her in mid breath. "She's right about that. I was bound and determined to have done with him, but I wasn't stupid. The waiting was hell, and home like a war zone. But I couldn't not stay--anytime I was away was open season on Keirin, the bastard."

At Bodie's silence, Keirin picked up the thread. "Dad was so much worse after Mother died; I think he was afraid I'd run away, I'd threatened to do it so many times. But Will knew the truth, knew I wouldn't leave without him and didn't know how to take him with me. I wanted...I wanted.... A couple of weeks after the fight, Dad came home furious. He'd been reprimanded at work, and had gone off to his local before coming home. It was obvious he was looking for someone to take out his troubles on."

Again, Bodie tried to interrupt her, and again she shushed him. "As soon as Will came home, not fifteen minutes after Dad got there, Dad started in on him." Her voice took on a faraway quality as memory caught hold, and her smooth white skin paled even further. "He had a bottle of gin with him, and I couldn't stop him turning it up between every breath. Will started antagonizing Dad when he got quiet, backing off when he got too riled."

"Kit, stop it," Bodie grated in a pain-filled voice. "Stop it right now."

"No!" She continued on, doggedly, "It was past midnight, and I shooed Will on up to the bath. Anything to keep him away from Dad, anything to keep that monster from hurting him again. Because I knew, I knew it wouldn't stop this time."

"Bodie left the room?" Cowley interjected quietly.

"No," Bodie growled, "I didn't bloody leave the room. The three of us were in the kitchen, and he decided to try to get to me through Kit. He started saying things about her, how she was his best girl, and..." he faltered just for an instant, "God, it made me sick...." Keirin's eyes were tearing again, but Bodie was no longer smoothing her hair. Now his fist was trembling as it clenched and unclenched. "But I waited, didn't even know for what. Then, right out of the blue he pushed Kit aside and went for me. It was the strangest feeling, I remember. I wasn't scared at all, just tense and ready. I sidestepped him, and he slammed into the cupboard, and when he turned I knew I had a chance. He was in a rage, and not thinking straight." Bodie's eyes glazed over as his face tightened in anticipation of victory. Keirin lay crying softly on his chest. "He wasn't even quick anymore, the drink had ruined that. All he had was his bulk. I kept baiting him. Kept it up until he was blind with rage. Then he just stopped...wouldn't charge me anymore. He was out of breath, panting like an old dog, sweating rivers. The alcohol was winning over his temper; left to his own, he'd just sleep it off. Knew if I didn't do something, I might never get another chance. So, I hit 'im. I remember he blinked, and looked so stupid, like he couldn't believe what I'd done. I backed up toward the cellar stairs just like I'd planned in my mind. Over and over I'd pictured it...."

Sweat glistened on Bodie's forehead as it must have that night. It filled everyone's nostrils, and the tension was so thick that even Keirin had gone quiet.

"It was like it all happened in slow motion," Bodie said, still staring backwards in time. "He lunged at me, mouth open--screaming, but I couldn't hear anything. I just gave the door a little push and stepped aside. Moving like an express train he was, nothing could stop him. He hit the doorway and kept screaming all the way to the bottom. I was afraid to go down, but had to make sure. He was laying across the bottom two steps, had to step over him to get out of me own shadow and have a good look." Bodie shivered. "God, he was still breathing, could see that bear chest heaving in the dim light. I almost threw up I was so scared. But I had to do something quick, cause if he got up, I was dead. Went looking for something to finish the job. Found an old coal shovel and went back to him. Kit was there by then staring down at him, crying." Bodie's voice was quickening as he seemed to want this done with. "...So I hit him, I just hit him and it was over...."

"Bodie," Cowley's voice was dead calm, "there was no shovel. The wounds were not consistent with that kind of weapon...."

"See. See Will, it won't work. They know!" Kit was shaking him, her voice eerie and trembling. "They know what happened." She jumped up to face Cowley and Doyle with wild eyes. "I did it. I did it," she repeated, body quaking, but voice steady. "Don't you see, I couldn't let Will do it, not for me, I had to do it--besides, I wanted to do it! I wanted him dead!" she screamed. And then more quietly, almost a whisper, she echoed, "I wanted him dead. And it was so easy. His head was lying right there on the edge of that last broken step--right there, like it was meant to be. All I had to do was pick up his head and smash it down, pick it up and smash it down, pick it up...."

"Easy Kit, easy," Bodie crooned as he pulled her back down next to him and rocked her back and forth in his arms. "Kit--shh, come on, settle down...."

Doyle heard Cowley swear under his breath, while he tried to keep the bile down.

Fully drained of all energy, the four sat quietly for a long time. It was Cowley who finally broke the thick silence.

"So, Bodie, you accepted the blame. Knowing that at sixteen, your sister would face an adult court, and you at fourteen might not, you hid the truth."

"The truth was," Bodie said, his voice a raw whisper, "she just beat me to it. If she hadn't finished him, I'd have done it--with the shovel."

"But you let the blame fall to you, and fled the country to keep it so."

"I had to, she couldn't stand up to any more questions. Enough," Bodie rasped, "no more."

"You had help," Cowley continued, ignoring Bodie's plea. "From whom?"

"Our uncle John, Dad's brother," Keirin volunteered. "He understood, I think, and he helped. He got Will a place on an outgoing ship and paid for the passport. He helped me, too, he and Aunt Meg. We got the house sold and they helped me find a flat and a job. It was Aunt Meg who suggested I get some more schooling..." Keirin trailed off.

"He knew what his brother was like, you see?" Bodie explained, then he too fell silent.

"Do you suppose, Mr. Cowley, that I'll go to jail?" Keirin's sorrowful voice cut them all to the quick.

"Ach, no, lass," Cowley soothed. "This is no official inquiry. As far as the courts are concerned, this case is long closed, and no word of this afternoon will go beyond this room."

"Are you sure?" The sudden hope in her voice was high contrast to the disbelief on her face.

"I am. There are no outstanding warrants on this matter, Doyle checked that out. Your brother even entered this country under his own passport with no trouble. No, lass, you have nothing to fear."

"Then it's all right." A small smile began to grow in her eyes. "It's all right, I said it all--out loud, and it's all over." She hugged Bodie close and sobbed, but the sound was different this time, not the strangled cry of despair, but of relief and of hope for better times to come.

Bodie, finding his voice, echoed her words. "Kit, it's all behind you now. Tell me you believe that, and that we won't ever speak of this again." She shook her head and smiled at him.

"I can go on with my life now. I met someone, his name's Jeremy,

and, Will, he wants to marry me. Don't you see, now that I said it out loud, I can tell him...."

"No," Bodie snapped. "No one else has to know...."

"Oh yes they do," she snapped back with equal fire. "Will, I couldn't marry anyone with something like that between us. I need a clean slate, and now I can have it. It's so wonderful, being with him." A full smile lit her face for the first time. "He's so good to me, and, Will, he's the first I can let touch me. When he puts his hands on me, it's him I feel, not Dad.... Do you understand what I'm saying?" She took tissues and wiped away her tears. "I feel as if I can breathe again. I've been living with that so long. I feel--alive, alive."

Doyle knew that she was on the point of hysterical shock. He made for the loo and returned with a wet cloth, then found her glass in the mess on the table and poured a half inch of scotch into it. Approaching her from the side opposite Bodie, Doyle took her hand and brought the glass to her lips. She took a sip, and Doyle tipped the glass so she swallowed it all. After a cough, she smiled up at him. "Thank you. I think I'll be okay now." Doyle handed her the cloth and she pressed it to her face.

A voice in the doorway caught everyone's attention.

Kit's smile brightened further. "Jeremy, oh Jeremy," she called as she went toward him.

Fear, confusion and anger all mixed in the man's features as he tried to determine what was happening here. "God, Keirin, are you all right?" he asked, pulling her close to study her face. "You've been crying. My God, what's going on here? What have they done to you?"

"Oh Jeremy, everything's just fine now, just fine. But we have to talk." She glanced back at the three hard faces. "Not here. I want us to be alone when I tell...."

"Kit, " Bodie interrupted, coming to his feet. "Don't."

"What the hell's going on!" the young man demanded.

Pressured again, Keirin began to cry. "Please, Will, let me finish this. Please...."

With a glare and a sweeping wave of his hand, he left her to it and sank back to the sofa.

Grabbing the angry, confused young man by the hand, Keirin pulled him toward the door. "I'll explain it all, Jeremy, only not here. Let's go upstairs to your flat where we can talk." Wiping tears again, she dragged Jeremy out the door.

A heavy silence flooded the room as the three men were left to deal with their own emotions.

Doyle watched in amazement as Bodie took only a few seconds to change his whole persona. The slumped shoulders straightened, making him appear to grow three inches. Then his face hardened as each feature froze in place. Lastly, those deep blue eyes turned to stone. The transformation complete, a very menacing Bodie looked up at George Cowley. "Get out. You got what you came for, now get out."

Cowley had been pacing, rubbing not his leg, but his chest. Doyle guessed that the afternoon's events had turned his stomach sour to the point of pain.

Looking as grey as the November afternoon, Cowley paused. "What I came for, Laddie, was to set the record straight so that...."

"Just get out! None of that matters any more. There's no way I'd work for you!" The ugly glare he had for Cowley spread to Doyle.

When neither man moved, Bodie started toward them and Doyle knew that leashed emotions were about to erupt. Absolutely clear where his responsibility lay, Doyle moved in front of the Controller, and took Bodie's fist square on the jaw. He went down, rolled and came up ready to give one back.

Cowley sidestepped him. "Four-five! " he snapped, and training halted Doyle in his tracks. "If you've a mind to hit someone, Bodie," Cowley continued, "it had best be me. Doyle was just following orders."

His prey within reach, Bodie stopped, fist drawn back, rage burning in his eyes.

Unflinching, Cowley stared him down. "On a cold rainy night not so long ago, you asked for a chance. Now I'm asking for the same."

Bodie took a deep breath, his whole body trembling as he fought the adrenalin rush, the need to release his pain into violence, then ever so slowly the dead weight of his arm dropped to his side.

Doyle backed away, rubbing his jaw, and let Cowley go on.

"You, Laddie, are asking for membership into a very elite club. Our little group provides security for heads of state, not to mention the numerous other top security items in our brief. Now how do you suppose the Home Secretary took it when I proposed hiring you?"

Bodie's head jerked up at this.

"Well, did you think you'd be welcomed with open arms? No, I'm afraid not. My superiors suggested I use you, get all the information I could, then send you packing."

The trembling was beginning to still in Bodie, but as his eyes measured the Controller, it was clear the younger man was listening.

"But I don't work that way. I saw something in you that night, something I thought my organization could use. I'm willing to give you a chance, but first I have to convince others."

"A man like you makes his own choices," Bodie snapped.

"Not always, Laddie, not nearly as often as I'd like. I have certain requirements to satisfy, not the least of them being Dr. Ross and her tests."

Bodie winced involuntarily at the mention of that name.

"Aye, I see you remember your bout with that iron lady. Well, she remembers hers with you. She was not fooled, knew you were hiding something, keeping it back. Something not to do with Africa--you were too open about that. Something, she thought, from your youth. Now we know what it is, don't we; now we have a lever to get her to retest, re-evaluate you."

"Sod off!"

But Cowley would not be put aside. "I refuse to accept that. You put your life, your very being in my hand that night. Not even this afternoon can change that. I'm not going to let you waste yourself on Africa, not when I can use you."

"Well it isn't your decision any more," Bodie sneered.

"Just tell me," a new voice intruded and all turned to the graven-faced young man in the doorway. "Just tell me," Jeremy repeated, "is what Keirin says true? There'll be no legal problems over--over this?"

"She is correct, young man, you needn't worry." It was Cowley who responded with authority.

Looking relieved at the reply, Jeremy nodded and disappeared.

Cowley turned his attention back to Bodie. "Your sister needed this." He stopped when Bodie started for him, murder in his eyes.

"No!" he shouted, "don't try that. She has nothing to do with what's between us now."

"I think maybe she does," Doyle ventured. "She needed an authority figure to confess to...."

---

Bodie turned his icy blue eyes rage on Doyle, but the other man stood his ground.

"You told her," Doyle went on, "that it would be all right. Didn't believe you, did she? Needed to hear it from the father confessor here. Took his words to release her."

Having said his piece, Doyle subsided, but not Cowley.

"Doyle's right about your sister needing this," Cowley reiterated, "and we needed it. You were asked for this information and refused to offer it. I had to know, have to know everything about you, and you understand that need. You tried to hide this from me and there was no other way to uncover the truth. Secrets are one thing I cannot and will not risk allowing my men to have. Though I'll admit," he added almost in afterthought, "that I can understand your motives.

"Nevertheless, Bodie, I believe this benefited everyone involved."

"Christ," Bodie said turning his back on both men, "next you'll be wantin' me to thank you. Could've helped her without you...." His voice trailed off into a whisper.

"Not quite," Cowley continued, "and it's not over yet, not by half. You'll need to stick by her, get her counseling. I'll give you some good names...."

Doyle backed off and watched. He did not understand what was between these two disparate men, but something linked them. Otherwise why was it so important that Cowley convince Bodie to stay? Doyle could not remember the old man ever having done anything like that before. Obviously, Bodie had touched something in George Cowley, but just what, Doyle wasn't sure. No other would-be agent--or full agent, for that matter, had ever talked to Cowley like Bodie had, and not received his walking papers. Yet here he was, a leader who picked his men from the best this country had to offer, talking hard and fast to one William Andrew Philip Bodie, trying to convince him not to walk away from a job he didn't yet have, and might not get.

And what was Bodie searching for in his life? What had motivated him to hand over the Browning Highpower, and take a chance on George Cowley? He tried to imagine himself in Bodie's shoes, gun in hand, anticipating the smell of cordite and the flow of blood, and then just...handing over his weapon. And couldn't. He couldn't begin to imagine the strength required to take so great a risk--and he knew Bodie wasn't stupid. He knew Bodie had known exactly what he was getting himself into. But that was history past, and here in this room was history in the making, make-or-break, and the biggest question of all in Doyle's mind was where was this all going to end?

They had intruded on Bodie's private life, his past. The final outcome of that might be on the plus side, if this Jeremy could take it all in stride and come through for Keirin. Doyle secretly hoped he would. She deserved her chance at a whole life. But would Bodie come to see it that way?

"Enough," Cowley finally said, and Doyle recognized the tone. Cowley would have no more arguments.

Bodie had retaken his seat on the sofa, and Cowley was leaning over now, glaring down at him. "You signed on with me, Laddie, and that makes you my man until I say otherwise."

Bodie glared back.

"No!" Cowley gave no chance for argument. "Take a few days, stay here with your sister, and think about this. Then report to me on Monday next." He waved Bodie to silence. "Don't speak now. Monday will be soon enough."

"Come along, Doyle." With a wave of his arm, Cowley made for the door, Agent 4.5 in his wake.

---

Chapter Five

Too weary to move, Bodie lay slumped on the settee staring at nothing. He had endured an afternoon of witnessing the total disintegration of everything he had lived the last twelve years to protect, then, within a few minutes of each other Keirin, then Cowley had walked out on him. His brain, on overload, had simply shut down.

But, Bodie being Bodie, he couldn't manage to keep it that way. His head clearing, Bodie studied the room until he remembered where he was. "Bloody Christ," he muttered to himself when it all came flooding back. Unable to face anyone, he struggled to his feet and let himself out of the flat before Keirin and her boyfriend could come back.

On the street, it took him several minutes to remember that he had rented a car for the trip to Liverpool, and several more to recall where he had parked it. It was like living in a nightmare; everything was disjointed, skewed out of place and there was no thought of how to fix it.

With no real conscious decision of a destination, Bodie drove the city. Soon he found himself cruising familiar neighborhoods, past the old school yard, the playground, Fenton Street where Granny had shopped. The car finding its own direction under his absent, inattentive hand, drove slowly down Leeds Street, past number 67 where it had all happened. Warm light glowed from the front windows, people moved behind lacy curtains. Who lives there now? he wondered. Do they know a man died at the bottom of their cellar steps?

Suddenly wanting no part of that house, Bodie squealed tyres as he rounded the corner.

Sometime later he spotted the Blue Bull pub. He knew the name but had never been inside the place before, did not know why he was here now. Parking the car, he remembered what facts he knew about this particular establishment. "A man's pub," he recalled his father saying, "no place for decent women." Bodie had heard his dad's stories of this place any number of times. It had been called the Blue Anchor then, but that was when the Liverpool docks were in full swing with cargo coming and going day and night. The demise of the docks had taken several related businesses down. The arrival of the meat packing plant, giving jobs to many of the out-of-work dockers, had facilitated the pub's re-opening, albeit with a new name. But, by the look of it, Bodie decided, the same old decor.

As Bodie's eyes adjusted to the dim lights, his ears and nose were assaulted with the peculiarities of these early evening socializers. A deep drinking, loud, rollicking group of hard-working, physical men who stank to high heaven. "You never get the stink off ya'." Bodie's father's words echoed in his mind. Their clothes reeked of sweat, alcohol, and the blood of the animals they slaughtered.

All carbon copies of my old man, Bodie thought as he squeezed himself a place at the bar and ordered a pint. He listened to the bragging and the bullshit and noted that some things never changed. The government doesn't know what it's doing; the boss is a sod; your team will win its next match because it's the best; your old lady and kids do things your way, or else; and there's nothing worth watching on the telly.

Bodie turned to swig another ale and survey the crowd as it began to thin out. The braggarts were heading home to narky wives and hungry kids waiting supper.

The pub grew quieter as the career drinkers ordered another pint all around, while the conversation slowed to a crawl and grew morose. These were the serious malcontents angry at a system that had robbed them of a man's job. Just like my old man, Bodie thought again as he continued to drink and eavesdrop on snatches of conversation. Most came from two or more generations of dock working families and planned to make it their way of life. Their fathers and grandfathers had been men doing men's work. The commerce of the world had passed through Liverpool ports and the men had loaded and unloaded crates from any country you could name. To spend one's day handling everything from the exotic prizes of the rich, to the medicines and necessities of everyday life, to the small cheap trinkets that brought some joy to the Isle's poor gave a sense of satisfaction. Now their descendants spent their days slaughtering cattle, and the satisfaction was gone.

Bodie had heard all these stories at the supper table. His father's face would get red, his tone angry as he pounded on the kitchen table and raved about the injustice of it all. Even Granny had her memories of Granddad to contribute. Bodie hated supper time and had made himself a vow. No matter what he did for a living, he would never spend his days in the slaughterhouse.

Why'd Dad take it out on us, Bodie asked himself as he chugged down his drink and re-ordered. It wasn't our fault. But how to reason with a dead man? And, even were he alive, how to see past all that anger and pent-up rage, past the perversion and the drink and say there, that's what must have caused all this. Feeling his mood slinking from darker to black, Bodie admitted to himself that he didn't give a damn what had made his dad the way he was; the simple truth of it was that as long as all of the abuses kept raining down on ignorant little kids, the reasons didn't matter at all.

Bodie continued to listen as the drink loosened these men's tongues and their feelings. Noticing a change in the atmosphere, he was somewhat unnerved by the sense of sadness and loss that began creeping into the voices. Feeling sorry for themselves, they are. Crying in their beer for Christ's sake. What about the wives and kids waiting at home? Who feels sorry for them?

Bodie cast a disgusted eye over the crowd. Do your wives and daughters tremble at the sight of you, he wondered, and do all your sons want you dead?

"Better they stay here," he mumbled. "No one would care if you lousy scouser bastards never came home!"

"'Ay!" the man next to him said, "who you callin' scouser?"

"You--all of you," he snarled, aching to deliver his own retribution. "Lousy scouser bastards!"

The words were barely out of his mouth when the first fist caught him on the jaw. It was followed by one in the stomach and another to his face, all of them so fast he didn't even have time to wonder why he had asked for this. He was left to roll with the punches and take the pain as meaty arms held him for his beating, and punches landed hard from every direction. Too mentally weary to fight back and almost welcoming the physical assault, Bodie gave himself up to his fate.

Better me than their kids. He held onto that thought when a hard knee caught him in the kidneys, forcing his breath from his lungs to make room for the pain in his back, and he groaned aloud, needing it to stop and stop now, and wondering if it would ever end at all. Fists were flailing around him, everyone trying to land his blow and too many succeeding. Hands and arms held him upright, forced him to stand against the repeated torture of jabs to his gut.

His face had gone almost numb from the pain, his lips cut against his own teeth filling his mouth with the soured metal taste of fresh blood.

And Christ, had it been only a few seconds? Time was spinning out with the agony, but over the noise of the one-sided fight he could hear the bartender and landlady discussing his destiny. The bartender was all in favor of calling the police, but the landlady did not want the extra trouble. "Just get 'im out of 'ere," she yelled.

A particularly strong blow landed in Bodie's middle and he went slack against it, knowing that with no stiffened muscle between the blows and his organs, the next strike would do real damage. And it didn't bloody matter. He was barely conscious as the arms holding him dragged him the length of the pub, through the door and heaved him into the street.

Bodie lay in the gutter too bruised and beaten to get himself up. He had started the fight, wanting physical pain to replace the one in his heart. It didn't work. Nothing could make it go away. That pain went soul deep.

Spewing hate for everyone, Bodie fought to override the pain that was only physical and concentrate on his list of grievances, Hate all them lousy scouser bastards. Still furious, still ready to kill them all, he muttered the words over and over. Hate them all. No good--none of 'em. Family's no better--Mum, Dad, Keirin. People just use you. Like Cowley and that bastard Doyle. Like.... Just use you and throw you away. Family's the worst. All those years I stayed away, and for what? To protect her, I thought--more the fool me. Betrayed by all of them.

Christ, he hurt. Everywhere hurt, the pain burning in his kidneys and guts like a branding iron searing through him. His face was swelling already, jaw growing tight and tighter still, but it didn't matter. The pain didn't matter.

Mum--why'd you have to be so sick all the time? Don't remember ever seeing you in anything but that damn dressing gown, lying in bed. Never even saw you in street clothes. Mum, Mum.... Bodie tried to pull himself up on his elbows only to flop face down into the street as the ache in a little boy's belly came back with knee doubling intensity.

He clenched his fists to fight off the tears, turning them into anger, blaming them on the pain. Like Dad, always angry about something. Using us, then throwin' us away. And Keirin, so helpless when she was scared, wanting her secret kept. But strong enough to spill her guts when she's no longer in need. Cunning bitch! Yeh, she had the strength to throw you over for another protector. You've been replaced, Sir Galahad.

The sins of the fathers were indeed visited upon the sons. Bodie knew that. He, his mum and sister, even Granny had all paid the price of this particular father's disappointment. The man had taken no pride in earning his daily bread and visited the sin of the slaughterhouse on his family. He was no damn good, no real man would do that to his wife and children. Again Bodie damned his father to hell and congratulated himself for being a better man. No, a small voice in the back of his mind said, I would never kill cows for a living--I kill people....

The pain of that realization hit him harder than any blow in the beating he had just received. "No, no, no..." he rolled in the street and wrapped his arms tight round his burning middle. "That's not the way it is."

The door to the pub opened and disgorged some of the cow killers. As they passed one of the spit on the man still lying in the gutter. "Crazy bastard's talking to 'imself," he said and then they all laughed.

Laughter cut through Bodie's pain to open a new wound and his mind's eye saw how he must appear. This would never do. No matter the pain, no matter what had brought it all on, he could not allow himself to be looked down on by his inferiors.

He had lost control and, to Bodie, that situation was worse than hell. As a deck hand and merc he had learned discipline. Keep your hands busy and the task will occupy your mind. Having only that experience on which to draw, Bodie struggled to his feet and, wiping some of the blood from his face with a sweep of his shirtsleeve, he made his way shakily for the car.

Finally locating a rental shop, he parked the vehicle and threw the keys in the letter box, wondering about deductions for blood stains in the upholstery. He caught a taxi to within a block of where his getaway car was parked. He knew Cowley had emptied his stash from the Victoria Station locker, but crossed his fingers that the car was still here in Liverpool.

It was, though the passport, gun and money weren't.

Slipping under the dash, Bodie soon had the motor started. A stop at a cash point and a visit to "Jimmy's" replaced the important items Cowley had taken. A passport he didn't need now. It was well after midnight when he started south for Wales, and by noon the next day Bodie was solidly dug in at someone's remote cottage.

---

Doyle gave Cowley his report, then sat back in his chair. The room was silent except for the scratch of Betty's pencil flitting over paper as she wrote.

"So, there you have it, Dr. Ross," the Controller stated, looking anything but pleased. "He's gone to ground. Why? And what will he do next?"

Dr. Ross's face softened into what for her passed for a smile. "The 'why' is very easy, George. You and Doyle pulled the bottom out of his life and his sister didn't help by aiding you. Bodie has spent almost half his life protecting certain secrets. First about what his father was doing, then about how the man died. Those secrets forced him from home and country, and at a very early age. They kept him away twelve years."

"He's feeling resentful, then?"

Everyone smiled. George Cowley always did have a gift for understatement.

"Yes," Dr. Ross continued, "and hate, and most of all betrayal."

Ray watched as Cowley nodded agreement. For his part, Doyle felt several emotions, the strongest one deep embarrassment. All the things he'd thought, all the accusations made, and Bodie had deserved none of them.

"That's the why," Cowley stated, "what can we expect him to do next?"

Dr. Ross sat a little straighter. This was where she earned her keep. "As you say, he's gone to ground to lick his wounds, taking no real care to hide his whereabouts."

Cowley's look was skeptical.

"She's right," Doyle agreed. "If we didn't suss him out before and can now, it's because disappearing isn't his number one concern."

"Agreed," Cowley acquiesced, nodding to Betty to insure she noted that bit of information.

"My 'educated guess'," Katherine Ross provided the inverted commas using her index fingers, "is that Bodie is sorting things out. He needs to reflect and put this new information into perspective. He's replacing the old reality with a new one he can live with. When all the anger is gone, he'll want to come back."

"Will he?" Cowley's eyebrows rose in doubt.

"He may not even know it himself right now, but I'll bet my reputation on it."

"That's good enough for me," Cowley said. "Has your opinion of him changed since your first interview?"

The jackpot question, Doyle thought and listened for Dr. Ross's answer.

"Of course this trauma changes my interpretation of many factors of my assessment," she nodded, "but I'll want another go at him before I'll clear him."

"Thank you, Doctor," Cowley said and as Ross rose to leave, Cowley turned his attention to Doyle. "Take a trip to Wales. Tell Mr. Bodie to report to Macklin on Monday next."

"I thought Brian was doing a two-week survival course for the SAS?"

"He is."

Doyle grimaced as he pictured Bodie going through the hell of one of Macklin's SAS spectaculars. "Punishment?" he queried.

"No," Cowley replied. "Just seeing what he's made of."

"Christ," Doyle muttered eight hours later as he bounced his way along the back roads of Wales. Bodie deserves a fortnight with Macklin for putting me