PROLOGUE

Shadows lengthened and deepened along the quiet street as the sun set in a leaden sky. He walked more briskly towards the Underground as the chilly darkness seeped around him. It was unusually quiet this twilight hour; though in the distance he could hear the famous bells of St. Mary Le Bow. The oddly comforting sound brought back memories of childhood. Smoke and incense, chants and hymns spoke of an ancient magic. He stopped at the street corner to listen more carefully. There was always a mournful quality to the bells at dusk; he wondered briefly why they still rang at all. He couldn't imagine that many people went to Vespers here.

Simon loved church bells when he was an altar boy. Especially he adored their victorious pealing on Easter morning, heralding man's triumph over death. Another childhood memory surfaced; one of devotions to Our Lady and Masses on the first six Saturdays in Her honour. Those who completed that cycle of devotions were assured that they would not be abandoned at the hour of their death, nor die "in Her disgrace." It was a cheap enough insurance policy taken out for the hereafter; he'd completed the cycle in the company of his mother and sister. He could even recall the Act of Perfect Contrition that was a Catholic's last hope for salvation. Almost involuntarily, the words flooded his mind.

O my God I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee
And I detest all my sins for fear of Thy just punishment
But most of all, because they offend Thee, my God,
Who art All-Good and worthy of all my love.
I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more,
And to avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.

Suddenly he was not alone. He turned, uneasy that he'd been so focused on his memories and the bells that he'd heard nothing else around him. Still, there was no cause for alarm. After all, he was off duty in a perfectly safe, usually busy part of town. He looked at a woman beside him with a guidebook in her hand and a slightly panicked expression on her face. A lost tourist, and a very pretty one. Playing Sir Galahad couldn't be made easier. Perhaps she would welcome joining him for a drink in a nearby pub.

There was something vaguely familiar about her, though he had no idea what it was. He smiled as she pressed closer, book open in her palm, until their elbows nearly touched. A faint scent teased at his nostrils, unsettling but not powerful enough to be unpleasant. Some peculiar perfume, perhaps. He bent his head towards her dark hair and dutifully looked at the page she presented.

"Can you help me find my way, sir?" Her voice was slightly accented. "I would so appreciate it." Her smile glittered under the streetlight.

"'Course, miss. Where are you trying to get to, then?"

"MI6 Headquarters." The smile was gone now.

He stared back for a split second too long.

---

"Do you have any idea what this is about?" came Doyle's irate voice as he stomped down the hallway. He'd had a perfectly pleasant evening all planned, and breaking this date on such short notice would likely terminate a budding relationship as well. It was enough to curl a man's hair. Not that Doyle needed any assistance in that regard, Bodie reflected, as he watched his colleague approach.

His own plans had been likewise cruelly shattered, but the sight of his fuming auburn haired partner restored his good humour for some reason. He hid a smile that lurked just below the surface. "Haven't heard anything yet," he responded, "except for us to sit out here and wait for Cowley to come along and brief us. No sense in wondering about it until then." He curled as comfortably as possible on the lone bench in the corridor outside Mr. Cowley's office.

His deliberately bland answer earned him a sharp look from his friend. Whatever Doyle would have said in reply was cut off by the sound of the office door handle turning, followed by Cowley opening it. Their Controller did not step through however; he merely held it open for the Minister to pass, then motioned his waiting agents inside. The Minister nodded at them, then turned to Cowley once more. "Three hours, then, George. You'd better hurry."

Bodie caught the faint signs of strain on the older man's features, saw him attempt to mask it as he turned to face them. Much as he would have liked to complain as often as Doyle did, he could never forget that the old man worked harder than any of them. Many were the nights he simply did not go home. Tonight looked like one of those nights. Clearly, this was not going to be a routine assignment, what with the Minister already involved, and all.

He wasted no time on idle preamble. "Simon Stuart is dead. The Metropolitan Police patrol discovered his body in the City nearly an hour ago. Let's go." He firmly shepherded them towards the door, ignoring their gaping mouths. Stuart was a solo undercover agent, very experienced, very tough. Doyle had teamed with him once to recover two kidnapped hostages while Bodie and Murphy thwarted a terrorist assassination attempt. The man was good.

They knew better than to ask any questions until they were ensconced in the rear seat of the car and their driver was pulling away from the curb. Cowley looked over his right shoulder and forestalled them. "He was working as a consultant on a problem MI6 has been having. A very serious problem. Three of their agents have been found murdered in the past week and a half. Now Stuart has been murdered in apparently the same fashion. The Minister has given authority over the entire case to us."

Bodie and Doyle glanced at each other. MI6 weren't going to be terribly happy to relinquish this mess to their rivals, especially since it involved their own people. Willis and Cowley had been on the outs ever since the former had tried to frame Bodie for an assassination. And what exactly had Stuart been doing for them? Cowley's brief synopsis raised more questions than it had answered.

They were, alas, thoroughly used to being given incomplete information on a need-to-know basis, and this looked like no exception. Bodie settled in philosophically while Doyle chewed on a hangnail, wondering how much more he could get out of the old man. He settled on an obvious query. "In the same fashion, hm? No chance it could be unrelated to the case he was on?"

Cowley didn't bite. "No chance at all, 4.5. You'll see for yourself soon enough."

He knew better than to ask what that meant. "And the three MI6 men? Any connection between them, or were they just targeted at random because they were in that mob together?"

"An interesting line of thought, Doyle. I don't believe this is a random terrorist attack on MI6 the way CI5 were targeted by Wakeman, and neither did Stuart. Had it been a matter of hitting people based on mere opportunity, these particular three would have been unlikely targets at best. There must be some connection between them, though at the moment, Willis doesn't know what it is. They were not currently assigned to anything together. But in the past..." Cowley fell silent for a moment. "We shall have to find out."

Bodie considered what was said, and unsaid. "And, of course, once they, er, realise what the connection is, they'll tell us straightaway."

Cowley didn't even bother to respond to that.

"So how are we going to discover the connection if they don't co-operate? Do we have authority to search their files and operation reports? I don't imagine Willis will approve, do you?" Doyle wanted to know.

"The Minister hasn't given him much choice." Cowley irritably waved Doyle to be silent and continued, "Yes, of course he can drag his feet, and probably will for a time, but it's not to his advantage to hold us up indefinitely. Not if he wants to protect his own people. They haven't the resources or the training to do standard police work, whereas we can. He's not a complete fool."

Doyle kept his own counsel on that regard. "The Met is giving us support on forensics, then?"

"A special team of our own criminal laboratory people and theirs are working on any physical evidence found. The Chief Coroner will report directly to us about all the bodies."

Neither agent had bothered to ask where they were going. By now it was apparent that they were being taken to the very heart of the old City. The well-known dome of St. Paul's Cathedral came into view. A few moments later they turned onto Watling Street, then up Bow Lane. Doyle stared at the crime scene vehicles in the middle of the block.

"This is mad! We're within sight of St. Paul's. A mere block or two from the Underground station. There must be dozens of potential witnesses. When did they find the body?"

"Shortly after six. The corpse was still quite warm. And no witnesses have come forward. Ah, here we are."

They clambered out and rushed over to the demarcated area where the greatest concentration of police uniforms stood about. Stuart lay covered at an odd angle, partially obscured by the corner of a building. Still, a passer-by ought to have noticed something. It had still been rush hour at that time of day. Doyle bent over and gently lifted the fold of the blanket up as Bodie looked on, holding a torch steady.

"Jesus Christ!" Both men stared, dumfounded for a minute. Finally, Bodie ventured a remark. "Saw a man mauled by a starving lion once, in Africa. Looked a bit like this. Only more bloody. With injuries like that, where's all the blood, then?"

Doyle swallowed, forcing his brain to engage after the initial shock of seeing Stuart's face. Bodie was right; when a man's throat has been ripped out, allowing an observer to partially view his vertebrae past the torn windpipe, there ought to be gallons of blood on the scene. There was none. Only his shirtfront corroborated what had become of him.

Both men stepped back as Bodie swept the immediate area with the torch. Nothing. Cowley joined them, having concluded his business with the Officer in charge. He stood quietly for a moment, then allowed, "If you're looking for blood on the ground, you won't find any. Not so much as a drop."

He had their undivided attention now. "I take it the other three corpses looked like this?" Bodie asked, his voice deliberately steady. "Not exactly your typical M.O., is it?"

"Hardly." Cowley sighed. "The other MI6 victims looked exactly like this; throats torn out, nearly decapitated, virtually bloodless. No gunshot or knife wounds; no sign of poison or drugs in their systems. All these men were experienced, skilled in hand to hand combat and well armed. Not one even drew his weapon."

Doyle checked to verify Cowley's pronouncement. Sure enough, Stuart's gun lay untouched in his shoulder holster. He sat back on his heels, frankly bewildered. "How could something powerful enough to tear his throat out just creep up on him without being seen?" He examined one of Stuart's hands. "His nails aren't broken; his knuckles unscathed. As if he put up no fight at all."

"Or didn't have time to," Cowley added.

"This makes no sense. Stuart was a tough man. His reflexes were honed as fine as Macklin could make them. Why would he just stand here and let something rip into him like this?"

"Something or someone? You're not suggesting a wild animal has a vendetta against MI6, are you?"

Bodie looked at his superior sharply. "Obviously, a someone. A someone with enough speed and strength to do this with, what? What was the murder weapon, sir? Teeth, nails, a garden claw? I'm sure you'll know."

The slightest hint of a smile lightened Cowley's grim features. "Into the car with you. We'll let them wrap things up here and await their reports."

---

The car was in motion for all of five minutes before Cowley uttered the one word Bodie was patiently waiting for.

"Teeth."

Bodie frowned, not truly surprised, but puzzled all the same. "Human teeth?"

"That's being debated as we speak. At least, I am assuming that the debate will continue over Stuart's body as it has over the others. Several learned pathologists have been called in to identify the precise causes of these marks. Human saliva has been found in the wounds of the other three men. It matches to each of them, and it is not theirs. Yet the pattern of the bite marks do not fully match the human mouth. Incisors are far too long."

"So we have, what? A person who immobilises his victims somehow, renders them helpless, puts on a pair of false teeth and rips away as they stand there?" Doyle shook his head. "Then what does he do with the blood? Drink it?"

Cowley peered over his shoulder. "You have a likelier explanation?"

Bodie stretched and yawned behind his hand. "Sounds like our next move is to put out an APB on Count Dracula, doesn't it? You think he might be paying London a visit again? Perhaps just a distant relative of his. But why pick on MI6? Or poor Stuart for that matter?"

"This isn't a laughing matter, 3.7," Cowley scolded.

"Believe me, sir, I'm not laughing. What provisions has Willis made to protect his people?"

"They're off the street, travelling in pairs. He's moved their accommodations around. Other departments, including ours as much as possible are picking up assignments. We can't place a guard on every one, though. Still, it's reasonable to assume our murderer will try again."

"Where are we going?" Only Doyle had apparently been paying attention to his surroundings as they travelled west on the Strand.

"Buckingham Palace."

"What?"

Cowley did not quite hide his amusement at their joint reaction to his announcement. Nor did he comment on the glances that flew from one to the other. He allowed that morsel to sink in for several heartbeats, then continued as if uninterrupted. "The Minister has been making arrangements for special inquiries on this particular assignment. We are going to see to it that everything is properly organised, and render our assistance."

"What sort of special inquires, sir?"

"That will become more apparent later, Bodie."

Doyle finally erupted. He'd been doing a slow burn since uncovering Stuart's crumpled body. "So we get to play twenty questions with you while some maniac is tearing people apart, is that it? How the hell are we supposed to be responsible for this case when someone else already is, and you won't even..."

"You're not." Cowley's calm reply sliced right through Doyle's rant.

"We're...not. I don't under..."

"I am. Directly answerable to the Minister 24 hours a day until this is resolved. You are my hopefully able assistants, but I am the primary investigator. It is my responsibility to see the case solved, and to work unstintingly with the person being asked to inquire directly. Any further questions, 4.5?"

He knew when he was beaten and slumped back against the upholstery. "No sir."

"Good."

---

The ride to Buckingham Palace was notable for its silence. Cowley chose to impart nothing else and neither man was willing to risk further questions. The driver had no comment to make. They stopped and gave their business at the front gate, then proceeded through to the imposing front entrance. Cowley gave no indication that this was out of the ordinary, and his agents kept their tongues still. Neither could have pretended to be blasé about this amazing turn of events, and saw no reason to act otherwise. It was time to place their trust in their leader and keep still about it.

If Cowley noticed their joint decision to offer him their full support, he took it as his due. They were announced at the door as if they were visiting nobility, then ushered deep into the shadows of the Palace. Doyle shook his head, then tried to commit every detail of what he saw to memory. His mother would kill him if he didn't.

Bodie noted his preoccupation, and smiled encouragingly. He had no one to impress, other than the two who stood beside him, but he was always willing to help out where Doyle's family was concerned. His mum had taken Bodie under her wing, and it was a comfortable place to be. Besides, he was better at embellishing a tale for ladies than Doyle was.

They found themselves led into an old-fashioned chamber in a presumably less travelled area of the Palace, and offered refreshments. They took their cue from Cowley, who refused everything. Moments later all three stood; Cowley with unfeigned respect, Bodie and Doyle in stupefied astonishment.

The Queen Mother came over to greet them.

---

It was hard not to fidget like an ill-mannered schoolboy. Doyle did his best, and for once envied his partner his military training. Bodie looked like he could stand at parade rest until Hell froze over, in perfect ease. Even his clothing dared not crease or wrinkle. Not so himself, Doyle reflected. He probably came off as a ragamuffin cockney child, here by blind chance. Upon further consideration, that was quite appropriate. It was what he was.

If the Queen Mother even noticed him, he had no clue. She'd been engaged in quiet private conversation with Cowley for nearly a quarter of an hour. He had been correct, attentive, and apparently at ease, though Doyle would have bet he was no more familiar with the halls of the mighty than himself. From their position, nothing could be overheard. He directed his attention once more to standing still.

After an eternity of waiting, the Queen Mother and Cowley finally rose from their seats. Their Controller motioned them forward, then took Queen Mary's hand and kissed it, bowing deeply. They were dismissed.

Once they were outside, Cowley indicated that they drive themselves. "A car has been called to take me back to Headquarters. You two are to proceed directly to Portsmouth. You will meet the Hovercraft at midnight, and pick up our guest. A lady will be arriving from France, travelling under the name of Eleanor Genet. She will be expecting you. Please bear in mind at all times that she is a most honoured guest of the Crown. You are not to trouble her with questions, but do answer any she might have for you. You are to transport her forthwith to the Tower of London, where I will be waiting for you. Do you understand?"

They didn't, of course, but neither said so. Theirs not to reason why... They climbed into the front seat of the Ford Granada and Bodie prepared to fire up the ignition.

Cowley leaned into Doyle's open window, weighing his last words to them, "Be sure to treat her exactly as you treated the Queen Mother. No differently. Is that clear? Then, be off with you. I'll meet you at the Tower."

---

Chapter One

At this late hour, few were weathering the Channel crossing. Customs were nearly deserted. Scattered family groups awaited their arrivals with an air of stolid resignation. It was quite cold.

A few moments after midnight, the Hovercraft pulled into dock, its mighty engines slowing to a roar over the water. Disembarkation proceeded with all due haste; everyone, it seemed, wanted to get out and along to their final destination.

All but one. Bodie scanned the crowd repeatedly, but one after another person got taken in hand by waiting friends, relatives or colleagues. No lone females appeared. He cursed briefly; they didn't even have an idea of what she looked like. They could find themselves here half the night looking for a stranger. It was not an appealing prospect.

The crew began leaving as well. He couldn't take any more. Catching Doyle's eye, he intersected with one of the hostesses, for once all business. "Might you have noticed a lady travelling in from France, all alone? We're supposed to be meeting her here."

"Name?" The woman was tired.

"Eleanor Genet."

"Her. She's coming. Takes her time, that one, when she wants to. Just hold on a bit."

They wound up waiting until nearly twelve-thirty. All but the cleaning crew had left by the time she came up the ramp into the now deserted station. There would not be another departure until the morning. It had to be her, something about her air of grace and nonchalance.

She was of medium height, very slender build, in a black trench coat. High heeled full black leather boots, a black silk scarf about her neck, and a large brimmed, veiled hat completed the ensemble. Oddly enough the effect was not dour. She might have been a Hollywood movie star travelling incognito. The entire outfit and everything else about her fairly shouted of money.

Or was it power? Bodie was suddenly uncertain, and knew that even if the waiting area had been crowded to capacity instead of empty, he still would have found himself staring at her. If only to catch a glimpse of her face.

She strode over to them purposefully. "Gentlemen?" Imperiously, she raised one leather-gloved hand.

Bodie took it immediately, bowed, and brought it to his lips. He straightened with extra effort, barely resisting the urge to salute. He caught Doyle looking at him curiously, but paid it no mind. He had no idea who she was, but if her bearing was any indication, Cowley had done well to warn them to treat her like a queen.

Doyle was slouched against a pillar, making no move to change position yet. Either he had not heard the same message Bodie had, or he was deliberately choosing to ignore it. Bad, that. He couldn't imagine her tolerating it. Part of him wanted to thump his sarky partner on the head, the other moved to defend the little bastard. This one could eat him alive if they weren't careful.

She was nothing if not direct. "Are you here to escort me to the Tower?" she demanded, looking right at Doyle.

"Yes indeed, ma'am, if you are Madame Genet." Bodie murmured, running interference.

Her eyes never left Doyle. "Then stand up straight when I am talking to you. If you ever behave with such ill grace in my presence again I will have you removed from this mission at once. Do you understand?" The voice was deadly soft, utterly cold.

Wide green eyes met veiled dark ones. He straightened right up, chagrined, looking for all the world like a schoolboy chastised by a headmistress. "Beg pardon, ma'am."

"You are excused, this once. Now, collect my bags while this gentleman shows me to the car." There was just enough of an inflection on 'gentleman' to make Bodie doubly glad he had seen fit not to test her. This one would overlook nothing. He offered his arm to her and they proceeded forward without a backward glance.

The car had been left directly in front, a perk of being CI5. Bodie opened the passenger side at the rear, but the lady forestalled him. "I should like to sit in the front." He opened the correct door and helped her in without comment. Doyle loaded her bags into the boot and wordlessly took the back seat. Bodie slid in on the driver's side next to her.

It was his first opportunity to really take a look at her, albeit sideways as he started the engine. Her veiled features were regular, possibly beautiful, though it was hard to be sure. He was dying to see her eyes. They had possessed enough authority to cow Doyle, not an easy thing to do. Even their boss had trouble with that at times.

As if on cue, she removed her hat, put her gloves inside it, and ran long thin fingers through straight, shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair. She was beautiful. She had the kind of ageless perfection of line and form that once more reminded him of a movie star. High cheekbones, large eyes, wide mouth, silky hair... She could be thirty, or fifty. He had no idea.

He still couldn't tell the colour of her eyes, but could feel their power whenever she glanced his way. It was unnerving. Hairs prickled along the backs of his arms as he pulled onto the main road. That was ridiculous; she was still just a woman. He decided on a little light conversation. After all, even royalty engaged in small talk with the help. "Beg pardon, Madame Genet. Have you been to Britain recently? Your English is very good."

A tiny smile curved her painted lips. "Actually, no. Not for many, many years. But I did once live here for a time. Things are much different now, I am sure. I must say, I am looking forward to seeing how much."

"Monsieur Genet must be sad to be left behind. Will he be joining you later?" he ventured.

The smile widened. "You wouldn't be trying to flirt with me would you, Mr....eh? Or is it interrogate?"

"Bodie, ma'am. Just Bodie. Well, a lady as lovely as yourself must be used to poor blokes like me. No offence meant."

"None taken. As to your question, I have been a widow for many years."

The silences were companionable now. Bodie occasionally pointed out some landmarks that could be seen by night. It was well over an hour's drive, but the lady seemed quite alert; considerably more than Bodie felt. Doyle never said a word. Bodie did check once to see if he was even still awake in the back seat. He was staring out the window, so Bodie said nothing.

The lights into London grew with the traffic. She asked more questions about their surroundings, which was a good thing, because the strain of driving as well as being awake for so long was beginning to tell on him. They had turned onto the Victoria Embankment, heading east towards the Tower when out of the blue her next question brought him up short.

"Do you know why the Queen Mother asked me to come here?"

He answered as honestly as he could. "Not really, ma'am. We've been told the specifics of the case we are assigned to, but not why it was deemed necessary to send for your specialised assistance. Nor would anyone explain what that was when we asked about it."

"Is that why your young friend is so morose? He thinks his precious time is being wasted by a lot of foolish secretaries?"

He glanced back at Doyle, who was sitting ramrod straight in his seat now. "Perhaps. It might be best to ask him that directly."

"Why? You probably know him better than he knows himself."

How she had come to that conclusion, Bodie dared not even guess.

---

Neither man had ever been inside the Tower of London at night. It was unearthly in the moonlight. The great walls were more imposing, the battlements more threatening. The grey stone took on a silver sheen that reminded Doyle all too much of a graveyard. The deep silence didn't help either. Three rows of gates were each opened for them by a Yeoman Warder; a shock, since every Briton knew the gates were locked at 10 PM in the ancient Ceremony of the Keys, much loved by tourists. No other soul seemed around, though he knew Cowley and the Constable of the Tower had to be nearby. There was only a light over at the entrance to the White Tower, the oldest part of the castle complex. Bodie drove over to it and parked. It was the correct decision, for Cowley and the Constable emerged from the shadows to assist the lady by opening her door.

Cowley bowed as deeply as he had earlier in Buckingham Palace, and took her proffered hand without hesitation. The Constable followed suit, traditionally attired in scarlet tunic and hose. "Your rooms stand ready as always, Madame," he murmured after greetings. "I am responsible for your comfort and satisfaction during your stay. Please inform me at once if there is anything you require."

Another Beefeater emerged from the shadow of the building and took the luggage in hand. It was little enough, really. She'd only declared a carryall and one suitcase, besides her purse. Doyle trailed along, bringing up the rear of the small party entering the ancient edifice.

Part of him was utterly incredulous at this pompous display of rank and obsequiousness; the other part was furious with Bodie for going along with this rubbish. He'd been chatting her up right proper in the car. 'Course, she was a looker, no doubt. But there was something unusual about his demeanour with her. The bloody merc seemed to genuinely like her. This was beyond Doyle's comprehension. She grated on him; had from the moment he'd laid eyes on her, though he was hard pressed to say exactly why.

As to their assignment, he'd given up even trying to figure out what Cowley was up to. As long as it didn't get him or Bodie looking like Stuart, he had no choice but to play along.

He started to pay closer attention to where they were going. They had been steadily ascending a spiral stone staircase for some minutes, then moved down a lateral corridor. They'd bypassed the modernised parts and seemed to be heading to an unrennovated section of the tower. Now this was interesting. He knew there were areas of the Tower that had never been opened to the general public, but had supposed they hid thoroughly mundane modern offices. This certainly did not seem to be the case tonight. The dust on this floor appeared untouched for decades.

Their journey ended at an ancient arched stone doorway that showed no signs of having been unlocked for at least as long as the floor had gone untrod upon. Straw torches hung in cobwebbed iron grates on either side of the entrance, musty, decomposing. The Constable hastily lit them; as old as they were, he had no trouble getting them to catch fire. Next, he fumbled with a set of keys that looked as if they too should be in a museum, rather than the security arrangement for one. The lady said nothing as first one, then the other massive lock turned.

The curved paired doors themselves were wedged tight. First the Constable, then Cowley and Bodie leant their shoulders to them. It took their combined weight, plus the Warder and Doyle's, to finally push them all the way open. Beyond lay cold, stale air and deeper darkness.

The lady gently but purposefully took a modern torch from Bodie's hand and led the way inside without comment. Even with its help, the room beyond felt Stygeian, close, dense, airless. Doyle brought up the rear again reluctantly.

The other men must have felt the same, for there was a flurry and bustle of activity as candles were searched for and lit. Within a few minutes the greater dimensions of the chamber they had entered became more apparent.

It was larger than he'd expected, with the kind of vaulted ceilings one more customarily found in the crypts of Gothic churches. As little as Doyle knew of archaeology, he had no trouble guessing that at one time this had been a place of sophisticated wealth and luxury. Candlestick holders were everywhere in abundance. A large hearth lay piled with kindling and wood; it took little more than a match to light it. In a matter of minutes, heat and light intruded into every crevasse of the deserted room.

Deserted? Doyle revised his hasty appraisal. Unused, certainly, and for a very long time. But the lady moved about it without hesitation. Ancient, exotic furnishings, silk hangings and tapestries, gilded wooden chests abounded in the quiet spaces. He felt like a grave robber; this was surely how they found the tombs of Egyptian pharaohs, with every utensil, every implement ready to service its master in this life or the next. A great curtained bed dominated one corner of the room, while the shadows beyond it hinted of a doorway to yet another chamber.

If the mustiness disturbed her, she gave no indication of it. The Constable and the Yeoman Warder conferred briefly with her and Cowley, presumably to see to their future needs and wishes, then beat a hasty retreat. Their Controller showed no sign of a similar departure, however. As expected, Madame Genet took a seat in a carved wooden chair by the fire, indicating that Cowley was to do likewise. Bodie moved closer, as did Doyle himself. Time for business, though it was a hell of a time in the morning to conduct it.

Cowley came armed with a briefcase that Doyle assumed would carry the pertinent details of the case, nor was he proved wrong. The Controller began sorting and displaying things at once.

"Madame, I presume you have already been familiarised with some of the particulars of these terrible incidents? You must surely appreciate how uncommon such occurrences are now." As opposed to when, Doyle silently asked. This whole thing was taking on the aspects of a Hammer film. He was itching to have it all laid out, even as he refused to take any of it seriously. Only Stuart's death reminded him that ultimately it was no lark.

Suddenly he had the full brunt of the dark lady's attention upon him. It was enough to squeeze the breath out of him. In that instant he knew what grated on him about her. It was simple fear.

"You knew the last victim personally, Doyle?"

His mind went blank with panic. There was nothing in the room but he and her. There was no thought of dissembling. "Yes, ma'am. We worked on a case together a while back. He was... very competent." Only after her eyes moved elsewhere was he able to wonder how she had come to know his name. Maybe Bodie had told her.

Even Cowley was not unaffected by her. He stuttered slightly as he laid out the police photographs of the other victims before her. Of course, he might just be embarrassed at showing such horrible sights to a lady.

Madame Genet displayed no more than clinical interest in the grisly pictures pressed before her eyes. Of equal concern to her were the encompassing details; the lack of witnesses, the lack of blood, the lack of struggle. In the process of her review of the evidence, Doyle learned that the other three victims had also been killed just after dusk, in relatively populated areas. It was a clear pattern all right but a pattern of what? Ghouls that went bump in the night? He refused to countenance that.

A proper police investigation would be focusing on what assignments the three MI6 agents had in common in the past few years, and what, and how, Simon Stuart might have found out about a connection. If Willis didn't like it, too bad. Time was being wasted, and other lives might be at stake.

"That's utterly correct, Doyle. See to it first thing in the morning. That must tell us who our murderer is, and what the motive is for killing these particular men." She actually smiled.

Doyle blinked as Bodie and Cowley stared at him; he had no recollection of speaking aloud, but since everyone was looking at him, he must have.

"And you must help him, Bodie. See that he gets no trouble from, what is his name, Willis? If you encounter interference, you will tell Mr. Cowley. If need be I will take care of it myself." There was just the slightest hint of warmth in her tone, though what it meant he had no idea. "As for you, sir, I fear you must personally defuse the menacing situation we are facing. At first light you must go to the morgue where these poor men lay and see to it that their rest is not disturbed. Then, at dusk all of you shall report here and take me to the murder sites. We shall proceed from there. For now though, you three must take your rest. There is room here, and little enough time. Find bed spaces now and sleep. Dawn comes soon enough for you, I fear."

---

Bodie and Doyle fell out together upon the great bed in the corner without further ado. They lifted the covers and shook the dust off, then crawled right in, too exhausted to care about anything else. Food would have to wait until morning. The lady and Cowley retreated to the other chamber just beyond. She pointed to a smaller bed in that room, then opened a door to yet another space. Cowley did not follow her gaze there.

"You are a wise man, Mr. Cowley. Sleep well. The sun will rouse you here soon. See to your needs and those of your men by day. I will meet you here at sunset." Then she was gone.

Echoing in his mind for several minutes were her detailed instructions on how the MI6 men and Stuart were to be disposed of in the morning, that their rest might not be disturbed. They were not far from what he had expected. But he could not keep his eyes open for long. The instructions sunk deeply in whilst he slept. All that stayed at the level of the surface was his surprise at how sweetly Doyle and Bodie were sleeping in each other's arms in the bed beyond.

---

No trace of that tender intimacy survived the first cold rays of a bleak dawn, Cowley noted with some relief. As she had predicted, all three awoke with a start, chilled, rumpled and hungry. He decided that hot food, warm showers and a quick change of clothing took precedence over all else, and directed Bodie thus once in the car.

"Find the time to pack a bag or two today, lads. We'll be staying in these accommodations until everything is in order. I have Stuart's last report with me; that may save you some steps, though I can't say that anything jumped out at me when I read it. I was as shocked as any at his death."

"Perhaps he himself didn't understand the significance of something he'd heard or seen," Doyle suggested. "Something that his killer didn't want to wait for him to piece together. Still, if the pieces are there..."

"But how did the killer even know that Stuart was assigned to the murders? Seems to me that suggests either an inside job or a security leak, " Bodie opined.

Cowley shook his head. "I hate to bring it up in the light of day, but you might as well hear this directly from me now. Normally I'd agree with you, Bodie, but how did Madame Genet know what Doyle was thinking last night? How did she tell me without words what I must do this morning? You're not stupid; you must know she has been brought over to help in this case because... because of what she is. She is what the other one is. You know that."

Silence. The car's wheels turned wetly on the damp pavement, grey with the first signs of day. It was Doyle who finally could stand it no more. "I can't accept that," he offered, not belligerently. "Can you, Bodie? Believe what's being suggested here? You don't believe in anything without evidence, you said. What evidence is there?"

Bodie shifted uncomfortably. "Evidence. Where's Stuart's blood, then? I don't understand any of this, but it doesn't hurt to keep an open mind, does it? What might help us sir, is if you could tell us something more about Madame Genet. Brought over at the request of the Queen for this case... has her own little old digs at the Tower... what connection is there between her and the Crown? Surely, that might give answer to some of Doyle's misgivings about this business."

"I can't say, 3.7. I truly can't; it isn't permitted. Either she must tell you herself, or you must draw your own conclusions based on what you see and hear. Of course, you will keep all of it to yourself in either case." Cowley considered the instructions he had received for this morning. "What I can do is take you with me to the morgue, show you what must be done, let you see that for yourself. Then we'll tackle MI6 and Willis together. Best I can do, lads."

---

No one had anything of consequence to add since they'd consumed a hasty breakfast on the road and stopped briefly at Headquarters to perform their ablutions and change. The morgue was empty at this very early hour. They followed Cowley's lead back into a private holding area apart from the rest of the facility. He picked up a suitcase at the very entrance to the room that had apparently been left for him and motioned them along.

Once inside it became apparent that this was a morgue within a morgue. The four corpses they had come to view lay side by side, covered only with white sheets. Their investigations had evidently been concluded, but no move had been made to place the bodies back into refrigeration. Yet, there was little stench other than the usual chemical odours of such places. Oddly enough, it was hard to tell which was the earliest corpse versus the latest. Neither man commented on that.

Doyle might make light of Hammer films, but he had seen damned near all of them as a kid. He had a pretty good idea what happened next and his own queasiness appalled him. Just the thought... he brought himself up short. If the Cow could do it, and Bodie could stand there at ease, so could he. It was bound to be ugly, but he'd seen worse. At least these poor bastards wouldn't feel a thing.

He hoped. Suddenly, he was not really sure.

Cowley pulled back the sheets from all four. They lay like some odd brotherhood in death, ghastly pale, identical tears in each bloodless throat. He motioned his agents closer and opened the suitcase. Four wooden stakes and a mallet lay within, along with a surgical hacksaw and four bulbs of garlic.

Doyle gasped despite himself. "Is this really necessary? Surely, they've been all hacked up from the autopsies. That ought to be enough."

"Not quite, Doyle. The autopsies were specifically designed to determine the cause of death and rule out other factors. Since the causes were fairly evident, no removal of internal organs was necessary."

Bodie examined the nearest corpse. "You did already mention that drugs and such were ruled out with laboratory work. So they did look hard enough to be quite sure..."

"They did. Right, let's get this over with." Cowley positioned the first stake over the heart of the nearest corpse, took steady aim, and drew back on the mallet. A second later it sank in halfway, then, with the next stroke, all the way through. Between the two blows came a gurgling scream that went through Doyle and left him shaking.

"Oh, Jesus, he was still alive!"

Bodie stared at him with a cold eye. "With all his blood gone and half his throat exposed to daylight for a week? Don't be so daft." Exasperated, he took the next stake out of the kit himself and held it in place so that Cowley could swing with both hands. It made the next one faster, though no quieter.

Doyle knew he should try to help, as Bodie was, but could barely hold himself in place. The urge to flee this dreadful scene and never return was all consuming.

Bodie swung the mallet himself on the next one, powerful, economical in motion. It was over before silence returned to the room. There was but one left to do. It was Stuart. The other two men were looking at him, eyes grim, demanding. He could not... he could not...

He stared at Stuart before him. There was not the slightest sign of life. No colour, no blood, no pulse. He touched the shoulder nearest him and looked directly into the deepest part of the wound. Colder than winter ground, the edges of the wound were stiff and raw. There was no way the man he had fought beside could still be here, frozen in this battered clay. Whatever Stuart had been was long gone. It had to be.

Still, his hands shook as he took the mallet from Bodie's hand. His partner silently offered to hold the stake in place, but Doyle grasped it as well. He feared to miss and hit Bodie with a glancing blow. This way, he would have to steady his nerves to do the job properly. Really, it wasn't as if he was killing someone. Not like pulling a trigger on a living, breathing human being, which he'd done often enough.

He pulled back and struck once with all his might.

At first he thought that not hearing another horrible scream was a boon. Then he saw Stuart's face. The eyes were open, sane, warm, alive. They probed right into his and smiled. The lips moved with the faintest of whispers. "Ta, mate." Then the eyes glazed over once more, this time in true death. The features relaxed and froze in place again. Doyle dropped the mallet nervelessly to the ground even as it rose up to meet him, to envelop him in welcome darkness.

He came to on the floor, curled in the warmth and safety of Bodie's arms. They had never felt so strong, so secure. He trembled, then gradually got up the nerve to meet his partner's eyes. So, he was a right prat, but after all, this sort of thing didn't happen every day, did it?

Bodie's deep blue gaze was warm with concern. "Lay still a minute, old son. No need to go anywhere just yet." His arms tightened reassuringly around Doyle's middle, pressing his face back into the curve of his neck.

The grating sound in the background made Doyle suddenly realise why Bodie was being so solicitous. Cowley was still busy.

They waited on the floor together until Cowley turned, his sleeves rolled up, to wash his hands at the sink. He'd laid the hacksaw off in a corner of the room and the mallet inside the suitcase. Their sheets neatly covered the dead men. An electric light bulb swung aimlessly from the ceiling. Everything was in order once more.

It was surreal. But, no dammit, he'd seen it. It was real. It was just... real. And there was no point in going on about it like a Victorian virgin dashing through a darkened castle with her candle flickering and her nightie flowing. He might as well get up and stop making an ass of himself before Bodie refused to ever let him live it down. At least the good news was that neither Bodie nor Cowley could ever tell anyone about it either.

"It's a bit early in the day, but I'd say we've earned a wee dram later. Come on, let's get out of here." Cowley actually helped him to his feet. "It's all right, lad. The first time is quite difficult, no matter what anyone says, or thinks they believe."

"First time?" Bodie's face was shuttered now, but his eyes never left his Controller's. "You've seen this before."

"Aye, lad. You think I read the Sunday lessons for nothing? It was during the war, in Eastern Europe. Once you know a thing is possible, well, it changes everything, doesn't it? Some things you never forget." He turned away. "Still, it's best not spoken of these days. Let's go."

Cowley drove, leaving the back seat to them. It was time to pay a visit to MI6, then back to Headquarters. There was still much to be set into motion. First, the funeral arrangements for these unfortunate men. Their families would be given a polite fiction, and a proper send-off. Nonetheless, cremation would be insisted upon. Communicable disease, or some such excuse.

The day's initial cloudiness had given way to a gloriously clear blue sky. That lifted Bodie's spirits considerably. A blue sky, fresh, clear air, the swell of the Thames; these were the things he'd never had trouble comprehending. He didn't need, or care for, weighty explanations for the natural world his senses brought to him. What passed for magic in one generation was bound to be exploited by the next. He'd seen Uzis in the hands of tribesmen whose fathers had hunted with bows and arrows. All that mattered was how he dealt with what he could see. And he'd seen right off that Madame Genet was not like anyone he'd ever encountered. This morning's little demonstration had clinched it. It didn't mean he had to accept the standard, orthodox explanation for such events; it just meant that there was no point in denying the events themselves. He wasn't about to join Cowley's church, but he sure as hell would take whatever advice the old man could give on how to fight these creatures. He'd leave Doyle to examine the philosophical permutations of their situation.

He glanced over at his still pale partner. The bionic golly had taken it hard; wouldn't do for him to go off the deep end and join a monastery after this was over. Bodie reached over and impulsively squeezed a bony knee. "You okay?"

Mysterious green eyes that always reminded him of a prowling backyard tom's met his. They were hooded, deep in thought, but reacting to his concern. "Yeah, I guess." He brushed back a stray auburn curl from his forehead. "Still can't believe it; it's so fuckin' fantastic, y'know?"

"You could say that; threw me, it did."

"Did it? You stood there, so dammed cool and precise, like you'd just finished reading the sections in the training manual on it." Doyle strove to keep his tone light, but Bodie was not fooled.

"Habit, I suppose. When in doubt, act as if you know what to do. The fiction becomes the fact. First law of soldiery. Fake it until you make it. Never let them see your weak points. They might be on the other side someday, and remember them."

Bodie shared his unwritten mercenary code with no one as a rule. Doyle stared intently, then murmured, "But you show me things sometimes. Like now, about yourself." His voice almost sounded pleading.

Like a raw recruit looking for reassurance. Bodie grinned. The poor sod really was shaken up. "Course I do. You're me mate. Whole other thing, you see. You already know how perfect I am, so there's no harm in reminding you at times that I am still only human."

As expected, Doyle snorted.

---

Chapter Two

MI6 was in a state of siege. An untrained observer could have seen that there was something amiss. Gone was the cheerful bustle, the calm orderliness typical of a large government office building in the morning. There were too many security personnel in the hallways. People were quiet, tense, scurrying about with minimal interaction. Too many eyes followed their movements as they made their way down the corridor towards the office of the MI6 Controller.

Far too many eyes followed them in. Cowley refrained from cursing under his breath. He'd never thought of Willis as a coward, but this sort of nonsense got right up his nose. The man ought to be out and about, seeking answers, following leads, not cowering behind his desk, waiting for Cowley to clean his doorstep for him. It was disgraceful.

Too preoccupied to even pick up on Cowley's annoyance, Willis ushered them right in after his secretary announced them. A hasty sideways glance at Bodie was the only acknowledgement he gave of the last time they'd all met. There was nothing on Bodie's smooth features to give any indication that Willis even existed, much less that this man had tried to frame him for murder and kill him. Cowley's humour returned; if Bodie could present Willis with a placid demeanour, so could he.

"Gentlemen?" He indicated seats for all. "I've compiled a list of everything that Stuart looked at while he was here. Terribly sorry about that business. He was a good man. Family?"

"Taken care of," Cowley replied shortly. "I must take the liberty of making arrangements for your men too. They must all be cremated."

Doyle made himself handy by reaching for the folder on Willis' desk. "May I?"

"Please." His attention was fixed on Cowley. "Cremated. By order of..."

"The Home Secretary, and if need be, the Prime Minister."

Willis' mouth opened, then shut again without sound. "Then it is... as serious as that."

"I'm afraid so."

"There's no doubt?"

"None. I made sure of it myself this morning."

The man's face greyed visibly. His eyes closed for a moment, then opened. "I've seen many strange things in my time, but I never expected to have to deal with anything like this."

It was on the tip of Cowley's tongue to point out that Willis was, in fact, not dealing with anything. He bit it back. That was none of his concern. He needed this man's co-operation. "Indeed. Few have. It would be problematic enough if we had a rogue stalking citizens at random through our streets at night. For a security agency to be so targeted is unheard of. Still, that must certainly be our best lead. Whoever this is must have some connection to your department. And since the murdered men were not recently assigned together, nor were they apparently targets of convenience, we must begin where Stuart left off. I've read his latest report, dated two days ago. He'd examined the bodies, but was at a loss to explain what had happened to them. Has anything more recent than that come to light, something that had him excited?"

"He'd requested a computer search with some specific parameters listed on Tuesday. I er... was hesitant at the time to fill the request, as you might well imagine. We discussed it, and I'd told him I would give him my answer in a day or so. I'd planned on clearing it with the Minister first, you see."

Cowley sighed. "So he did suspect what we are dealing with? And you were unsure how far your authority extended to disclose anything further?"

"Exactly. He'd requested a list of people that might have died at the hands of MI6, either directly or indirectly, in the past five years; here at home or abroad, who might have had some connection to East Germany, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Romania, Yugoslavia or Hungary. A tall order, considering the scope of his request. Nearly the entire Warsaw Pact. Quite a lot to investigate."

"But narrowed, surely, by cross-referencing that list with the involvement of the dead agents. He was right on, of course. We'll need that data as quickly as possible. How soon can you have it available?"

Willis hesitated, but only for a moment. "I don't need to tell you what a fiasco it would be for this sort of information to reach the light of day. We are, after all, essentially at war with those governments. You might as well ask for the names of all the former Nazi sympathisers amongst the nobility."

The Controller of CI5 chuckled. "I already have that list. Of course, I appreciate your concern for national security, and needless to say, I share it, or else the Minister would not have entrusted this investigation to me. You understand, however, that formal police detection is a task better suited to my lot. At this point we can't be sure if a hostile government is behind this or not. We must assume that is at least a likelihood."

"Which brings us to our next avenue of investigation," Bodie cut in smoothly. "Why Stuart was killed by the same party or parties responsible for the deaths of your men. How many people here knew what he was doing?"

"Myself, my secretary, the lead investigator within our own department, perhaps a few others, but not many. He'd only just started working with Davison last week."

"Where's Davison now?" Doyle asked, waving the folder he'd been perusing. "According to this, they'd already checked out two of the victims' most recent assignments and were planning on interviewing in regards to the third death. Seems they were looking internally. The first victim, one John Leeds, was on duty at the time, staking out a possible KGB agent when he got it. No one should have even known he was there. His body was found by the stake out relief in the morning."

Willis nodded. "It was logical to conclude after he was found that his death was related to the assignment he was on. Not that it made any sense. Routine surveillance work and all that. Still, it was the only explanation. We continued to tail the KGB man and picked him up right on schedule. He never even knew he was under suspicion, much less that someone had been killed while watching him. If the killings are related to the Eastern Bloc, it's not someone who gives a damn about KGB activity, one way or the other."

"And then the next man, Walter Campbell, was on holiday. Coming back from shopping at Harrods. Hadn't been on active service for over a week. Probably knew nothing about Leeds' death. And there was no reason for anyone to even know what his location was. So how did our killer find out? Was someone tailing him?"

Cowley pursed his lips. "And so, Stuart and Davison were gearing up to check out the third fellow's death, eh? Then Stuart gets it. I'd say we'd better have a talk with Davison sooner rather than later. Where is he?"

Willis pushed the intercom button on his desk. At the return beep, he parlayed their request for Davison to join them post-haste. "He did know about Stuart's murder last evening, of course. We all did. We talked briefly about it and I suggested he gather his notes on the case as quickly as possible, since I was fairly sure the Minister would do what he did. I'm surprised he hasn't been by with them already."

"Has anyone seen him since last night?" Bodie wanted to know.

"I don't know." Willis got back on the intercom with more urgency. After a few minutes it became clear that he had not been seen yet in the building this morning. He rang the man's phone number, but received no answer.

"What's his address?" Cowley demanded. "We need to speak with him at once."

Back in the car, Cowley reviewed the folder from Willis while Bodie drove. "He might be trying to continue the investigation on his own, or might have already started to look into the third victim, one Peter Jenks, as scheduled. But why not show up this morning and turn over what he knew?"

Since the answer was obvious, no one said it aloud. What Doyle did ask of no one in particular was whether Willis could be trusted to clean house thoroughly in the event that there was an internal leak. That reply was obvious as well, and likewise went unanswered.

They pulled up to the address given them in Chelsea with a distinct sense of foreboding. Davison's house had a garage and in its driveway a car stood parked. Either he'd merely stayed home for reasons of his own and chose not to answer the phone, or...

Doyle sprinted around to the back as Bodie and Cowley took their time getting up the front steps to the door. There was no sign of activity within. The shrill ring of the doorbell brought no response, nor did a succession of loud knocks. Estimating that Doyle had had enough time to cover the back, Bodie slipped the first lock and made short work of the second with a master key. There was still a chain to deal with, but a swift kick settled that. They were in.

He knew better than to underestimate Cowley, but Bodie still wished it were Doyle at his side, covering his moves with their perfect attunement. His gun drawn, he made his way cautiously from side to side, watching for even a hint of motion, a warning sound, a flash of something untoward. Cowley stayed right with him, equally prepared. They covered the entire main floor without incident; Cowley met Doyle at the back as Bodie prepared to check the second floor. There was no cellar to concern themselves with.

Doyle caught up and covered Bodie's ascent, spot by spot. Still, nothing marred the house's eerie quiet. By the time Bodie had reached the top of the landing, Doyle's gut senses were turning sour.

They found him lying face down upon his own rumpled bed, his body nude and still wet from his morning shower. Someone had blown the back of his head off.

"Well, at least it was no bloody vampire this time!" Doyle erupted after they'd combed the room and the rest of the second floor. "I can even manage to figure out how he got in. Nothing supernatural either." He gestured to a broken window on the ground floor, by the kitchen."

"Indeed, 4.5. Can you also come up with a reason why the man had no warning? Why didn't his alarm system alert him or MI6 that a break-in was in progress?" Cowley inspected the shards of glass as if they held the answer, but his eyes glittered.

Doyle leaned against the kitchen table and re-holstered his gun. "God damn it to hell. Someone had to turn off the system at the source."

"MI6. Sounds like we're due for another visit there after we bag this lot. Damn, and here I was, hoping for a decent lunch." Bodie chimed in. "So our vampire has an accomplice or two who are equally deadly by day. Double agents, from the look of things. Well then, what did Davison know that he wasn't supposed to tell us?"

"That's for you to find out. Stay here and comb this place thoroughly. I'll have Murphy take a look at his desk and files at his office. We'll meet back at Headquarters as soon as you're both through."

"And you, sir?"

Cowley grimaced as at a sudden taste in his mouth. "I'm afraid my appetite for lunch will have already been spoiled by having to stare at Willis again. This time, with the Minister. Call me with any news."

---

Lunch was a hurried affair; a few egg rolls and mixed fried rice from a Chinese take-away, and tea. The flat where Davison died revealed nothing save the essentials of his death. If he had had any papers with him, they were long gone. Murphy had drawn a similar blank at his office. All they had were the notes Willis had handed to them that morning. The other agent sorted through them as they ate.

"So, we need to take up where Stuart and Davison left off. The untidy murder of one Peter Jenks." Bodie turned a chair around and straddled it, laying his chin on the back under his hands. "All we know is that he was found not far from a pub he frequented, near his flat. He'd been seen in the pub earlier, was reported to have left about six. Might be that someone in the pub would have noticed a stranger that night. Suppose we ought to check it out."

Cowley entered the mess room and shook his head. "You'll need your wits about you tonight, Bodie. You too Doyle. We'll be up all hours with Madame Genet." He sat on the chair Bodie had relinquished to him without a sound. "Two teams is what we'll need. One for the daylight investigation, one for working with Madame. No point in running everyone into the ground trying to do both at this point. Murphy, you'll head the daylight team; pick at least two available personnel to help you with the legwork. Certainly, Jenks' death needs looking into. But our assassins have tipped their hand by having to move quickly. They couldn't wait for nightfall to finish off Davison. Therefore..."

"Therefore, this is an operation," Murphy speculated. "Some foreign agency is behind this, no matter who they're using to do what. A mole in MI6 had to discover whatever it was that Davison and Stuart knew or were about to find out, then finger them to his mob. Their regular operator killed Stuart." He stopped to wince. "Assuming you can call that regular. But then they had to bring in backup to finish off Davison long before sundown. The mole must have had access to the security system wired to Davison's flat; he disengaged it so that it gave no warning."

"And that is their weak spot. Find the mole, then identify the agency, and finally locate the vampire." Doyle concluded.

"Or vice versa," Bodie added. "Locate the vampire and unravel it all from that end."

"Precisely, 3.7. We need to be at both ends. Murphy and his team will see to the mole. You and Doyle will be working directly with Madame Genet. Get home, pack your bags and return to the Tower. With any luck, you'll manage a few hours sleep before she awakens."

"And you, sir?"

Cowley sighed. "I must be there when she rises. She'll be expecting it. But I need to move proactively too. With all these deaths, it's hard to stay ahead, but we must. Who is their next intended victim, and why? Would you, if you were a powerful, hostile organisation, waste such a lethal weapon on mere field agents?"

"Willis." Bodie and Doyle spoke together.

"Willis," Cowley concurred. "It's the only move that makes sense."

"But why kill these other men at all, then? Merely serves to warn him."

Cowley tapped his forehead abstractedly. "Perhaps that was the price of getting the vampire's co-operation. After all, the laws of men or political concerns as a rule do not bind these creatures. They have no need to be. This one must be young in their world, possibly seeking revenge for its own death. If this foreign agency somehow got wind of what had happened to it, and offered it a partnership..."

"Kill your enemies with our help, in exchange for killing ours." Murphy summarised.

Bodie grinned. "What is it the Women's Libbers like to say? 'The personal is the political'."

"Which also implies that our friend Willis is not being entirely forthcoming with us, doesn't it? Does he know who's out to get him or not?" Doyle demanded.

"Certainly it looked this morning as though he believes himself to be a target. But, no, I don't think he does know who's behind it. Not yet." Cowley straightened in his chair. "Off with you two. I'll meet you at the Tower at six."

By the time they'd returned to the Tower, the afternoon tours were in full swing. It was oddly reassuring to see the old castle in its more familiar mode. Large mobs of foreign visitors gathered like children around the scarlet clad Yeoman Warders, as those venerable guides boomed forth with the gory details of the many royal executions that the Tower had seen.

Bodie and Doyle slipped past the crowds, unseen, and quickly found their way to the foot of the stairs they'd taken the night before. A young Yeoman Warder stood guard there, with a very modern pistol tucked neatly out of sight. He perused their identity cards, then added.

"I've been told to expect you, gentlemen. I hope you'll find everything in order upstairs. The Constable wishes to see to your needs in any way possible. With your permission, dinner will arrive at five thirty. He understands you'll be out and about by nightfall, but please feel free to take all your meals here as our guests."

The Constable was apparently determined to maintain the Tower's reputation for royal hospitality. The well lit, aired out, thoroughly cleaned apartments they entered bore little resemblance to the dank rooms they had vacated at dawn.

Battery lamps and Victorian furniture had been moved in, with comfortable sofas and chairs, a dresser for clothing, and an armoire. The ancient bed was still there, but its linens had been replaced and augmented with thoroughly modern pillows and duvets. Most of the other medieval furnishings had been neatly tucked away. Hitherto unseen windows opened to the courtyard below. It was unexpectedly beautiful.

The adjoining room Cowley had slept in had likewise been transformed. An ornate Victorian desk stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by substantial chairs, writing materials, and more lamps. It had been set up as the command centre. A newly installed telephone line snaked along the walls as well.

The last room beyond remained shut off. Neither man commented on it; they simply returned to their share of the quarters.

"We must be the most exciting thing that's happened here since the Constable took office. Bet he loves all this." Bodie lost no time in putting away his belongings and stretching out on the bed.

"Probably the most exciting thing that's happened in the Tower since Rudolph Hess. Wonder if he got nice digs too."

Doyle puttered briefly, then examined a note left on the dresser. "Says there's a modern bath and toilet on the floor below." He showed Bodie the hand drawn map. "X marks the spot; guess they won't be sending any comely maidens to empty our chamber pots, then. Pity. I was looking forward to that."

"Content yourself with a real dinner, my son. They're going to feed us, man, what more can you ask for?"

"Feed, feed, feed. That all you ever think of? You'd not make a bad vampire, yourself."

Their bantering continued, as Doyle settled in beside his partner, but not for long. Both were only too happy to take whatever brief hours of rest were allotted to them. By the time they accommodated themselves to each other in bed, they were nearly asleep.

All at once, Bodie felt Doyle stiffen beside him. "What now? Miss your Pooh bear?"

A jade green glare deigned to respond to such rot. Instead, Doyle proposed another question. "And once she's up and about, who gets to, er, feed her? Us? Is that why Cowley sent us back early?"

"Now you're being paranoid. He needs us."

"He needs her more."

Bodie sighed. "I don't know what provisions he's made for her, but I sincerely doubt if they include us being her main course. Now shut up and go to sleep. Besides, they'll wake us before she's up and about."

"So? Think us being awake would make a difference to her?"

Exasperated, the larger man climbed out of the bed.

"Where are you going?" Doyle demanded.

For answer, Bodie went over to his clothes and retrieved a small object from his pocket. As he returned to the bed, Doyle saw what it was: a slender dagger with a silver hilt in the shape of a cross. Bodie plopped down next to his partner and unsheathed the blade for his inspection. The blade was finely carved dark wood. He pulled Doyle close in next to him on their sides, until his chest cradled Doyle's back, his arms encircled him, and the blade nestled in Bodie's right fist guarded Doyle's chest. "Now are you satisfied?" He squeezed lightly.

"Where the hell did you get that thing?"

"Cowley."

"What? How come you get one and not me?"

"He only had one. Now shut up before you annoy Madame."

A small sound came from the general direction of his partner in reply, but Bodie was too tired to decipher it. A few minutes later he was asleep.

Tired as he was, sleep did not come as quickly to Doyle. Something about the scent, the nearness of his partner, his unspoken promise to protect Doyle, left him vaguely unsettled. They'd been together a good bit longer than most and he had no doubts about their friendship. But this seemed like something more to him and he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

He knew Bodie loved him as the merc loved no other. That had been obvious to him for some time. He had never really explored or expressed how he felt in return. Now, in the late afternoon quiet, he wondered why it was suddenly so important to even think about it. Was it because of the way she looked at Bodie last night? Or the way Bodie seemed to instinctively trust her despite the great danger she represented?

Stupid crud, he thought at his sleeping partner. Cowley's right. Can't you see it's you needs protecting? Luckily for you, you've got me at your back. And your heart. Won't let that French wolf bitch get near either one.

Then Doyle slept.

---

Chapter Three

George Cowley rubbed his eyes. They were bleary with fatigue and not likely to get much better as the evening wore on. At least his afternoon meeting with Willis and the Minister had gone better than expected. Both men had taken his concerns very seriously, especially Willis. He was rendering Murphy all the assistance he could ask for in locating the mole. Still, Cowley was uneasy. He liked Murphy quite a bit and worried over his safety. Oh, he could look after himself well enough by day; so could Stuart. Sundown was another story. The mole undoubtedly knew what was up by now, and might well have already passed word to his organisation to target CI5's men.

Sufficient was his concern that he called Murphy on his R/T and had the team come back to Headquarters for the night. No one was going to be going off alone in the dark while this investigation was on.

Including him. Cowley was not vain but he knew his worth. He arranged for an escort with the Metropolitan Police and thanked them as they ferried him first to one location, then dropped him off at his final destination. The sun had already dropped its dying rays into the western sky; soon, its reflected light would likewise fade. The air was growing colder.

The light and heat emanating from their quarters were both unexpected and welcome. As was the fully laden table his two best agents sat before.

"Here you go, sir. Saved you some, not that that was difficult. The Constable knows how to put out quite a spread, he does. Roast lamb, potatoes, a nice salad, even a good burgundy. Seems they'll do us breakfast as well, come mornings."

Bodie's cheeriness was mildly contagious and the aroma of the food irresistible. He sat and helped himself, taking note of the altered surroundings. "He does know how to impress his guests. Very cosy."

"Even had a telephone installed. Hope Madame doesn't mind the redecorating. From what I could gather from the lads here, nothing had changed in these rooms since the reign of King John, if you can believe it." Doyle's eyes never left his face.

"I do believe it, and no, I don't mind the new look at all. Quite pleasant. I'm glad you've been made comfortable." Three pairs of startled eyes turned to the woman standing in the doorway. Cowley made to rise, but she forestalled him. "No, sir. Sit and eat. You've taken no rest today," she rebuked mildly. "Take it now. These young men-at-arms can tell me what has transpired since this morning."

Doyle had already risen to give the lady his seat, taking careful note of her appearance. She was indefinably younger than she'd seemed the previous night, nor was it a trick of clothing or makeup. Her dark eyes were as hypnotically powerful as before, her pale skin translucent. She was unquestionably beautiful. Her natural coldness and hauteur diminished somewhat when she spoke to Cowley. Despite himself, Doyle liked that. He took it upon himself to brief her up to the point where they had separated from the Controller.

By that time, Cowley had done justice to a good portion of his meal and was able to take up what little remained of the narrative. "And so, we've got every agent accounted for, under wraps, and not one left alone. Willis too."

"Our own as well, sir?" Bodie enquired. He too was fond of Murphy.

"Yes indeed. Our lads were off the street by sundown and bunkered in at HQ. They should be safe enough until morning."

The lady nodded her approval. "This traitor, the mole as you call him, does he know about me, do you think?"

The Controller shook his head, smiling. "Only myself, these men and Murphy, the Constable, and the Minister know anything at all. Neither Willis nor anyone else at either squad has heard about you. Of course, Their Majesties, since they called upon you, have the most thorough knowledge."

"That will change after tonight," she replied soberly. "In order to draw the other one out, I must make my presence known. A challenge must be issued. I had not anticipated there being mortal accomplices who might stalk me by day. I shall reply upon you to guard my rest, Sir George."

His face actually pinked slightly, much to the secret amusement of his agents. "Merely Mr. Cowley, Madame. I have never been knighted."

"A foolish formality from a different age, sir. The function is all, and the function you fill for me here is every inch that of a man I have been accustomed to calling 'sir.' Considerably more so than those who receive such titles these days for writing silly love songs. Bear with my old fashioned manners, I pray you."

He bowed gravely. "Madame, the honour is mine. Your rest will be as secure as it is possible for us to arrange."

He got up stiffly; his men realised that his leg was acting up due to fatigue. "I have been remiss in my manners. I have something for you, Madame."

She smiled. "I know. I was in no hurry. Thank you, sir." He retrieved a small leather satchel and handed it to her as Bodie and Doyle exchanged glances. No one said a word as she retreated back to her room. "I shall return in a moment. Please find us several horses. I assume you can ride?"

"Horses?" Even Cowley was taken aback.

"I hate automobiles. And for what I must see and sense and send forth, a horse is more suitable."

He bowed again slightly. "As you wish, Madame. There are stables on these grounds. It should not prove difficult to arrange." He did not add that his leg might preclude his accompanying her. He'd once loved to ride, as a young man, but it had been a long time since it had been tolerable for more than the briefest of occasions. Instead, he made the necessary phone call and poured himself a stiff drink from the bottle left by the Constable's men.

When she re-emerged from her room, her eyes were thoughtful. "May I have a word with you in private, Sir George? I believe we are almost ready, but there is one thing we must take care of." She picked up his empty glass and filled it, taking it with her as he followed without comment.

"Horses? In the middle of downtown London at dusk? She wasn't joking when she said they'd know all about her after tonight. Christ, what a target!" Doyle fumed.

"What target? She has nothing to fear from them by night, any of them, I suspect. Nor do we, so long as we're in her presence."

"Think so? What, their agents can't shoot at us after dark? Not allowed?"

"Unlikely they'll be out and about. Can you imagine they trust their own vampire all that much? We'll be safe enough, sunshine. Madame knows what she's doing, I'll wager."

"You..." Whatever Doyle might have gone on to say was mercifully cut short by Cowley's re-emergence with Madame Genet at his side. Sufficient was the change in their Controller that it knocked his other line of thought clear out of Doyle's head. He was carrying the empty Scotch glass carelessly, his hands steady, his eyes bright and clear. No trace of either pain or fatigue remained in his demeanour. He looked younger, stronger.

"Ready, lads?" He assisted Madame with her cloak, then, without waiting for a reply, followed her out and down the stairs. There was a bounce to his step Doyle had never seen.

It took but a few minutes for their mounts to be readied. The Constable himself saw to it. The sky was dark now, though faint traces of light lingered briefly in the west. The horses were fine beasts, and ordinarily Doyle enjoyed riding. But tonight he felt an odd tingling up his spine. The scene was somehow disturbing, unearthly, as though a much older London that slept by day was now awaiting them, perhaps with unpleasant surprises. Cowley took the lead past the opened gates, with the lady at his side.

"Any particular direction, Madame?" her escort asked. "Perhaps we could start at the site of the latest murder. It's not far from here; just a few blocks over to Watling Street."

She nodded her approval and they were off.

They passed along Cannon Street in the early evening gloom. What pedestrians there were seemed to take scant notice of them. Fortunately, the weekend was upon them, so the usual dense financial traffic was at a minimum. Madame Genet looked this way and that, evidently enjoying the sights. Doyle had to admit it was a novel experience to view the City this way. He was comfortable enough in his boots, jeans and jumper beneath his leather jacket, but he doubted if his fashionably attired partner was equally warm. As for Cowley in his thin business suit...

Well, he had to admit, the old man worried him, but for an entirely different reason than that. He was altogether too spry, not to mention nearly ebullient as he showed off the sights to his companion and commented upon them. She was dressed in black, as usual, but loose fitting wool trousers covered her boots and her cloak draped her upper half quite warmly. Not that he supposed she needed the protection. Merely looking at her gave him goose bumps.

They arrived at the Bow Lane site within a few minutes. It was still cordoned off with yellow tape, though all other signs of the horror there had long disappeared. At least to the naked eye. The lady dismounted and went directly to the spot where Stuart's body had lain. She stood motionless for some seconds, eyes shut. Doyle had the impression she was listening to something at first, then saw the tip of her nose quiver ever so slightly. It hit him that she was concentrating on some elusive scent too subtle for any human nose. No sooner had that occurred to him than he realised what Bodie had already tried to tell him; she could have heard everything they'd said, back at the Tower.

Then again, if Cowley was right, she could probably hear what they were thinking as well. He couldn't help but wonder what the range of her abilities were, quite as if she was some deadly long-range rifle here for his inspection. Would the other one be equally endowed? He wondered how to ask without angering her.

She turned and looked right through him, leaving him as shaken as before. Clear as his own thoughts, perhaps even more distinct, came her answer. The other one is very young and has had no formal rearing by one of our kind. She has no idea what she can do yet, which is well for you, else you would have already met her.

"Her?"

Bodie and Cowley stared at him.

She spoke aloud too. "Indeed. Our range of suspects can be narrowed a bit. A woman who favours Continental perfume, that much is sure."

"That will narrow it down." Cowley immediately lifted his R/T and transmitted the news to Murphy at HQ. "Anything else, Madame?"

She shook her head and remounted. "Not here. Let us move on. Perhaps one of the other murder scenes will hold more clues."

Cowley consulted his notes. "Closest to our present location would be the place where the first man, John Leeds, was killed. He was engaged in a routine surveillance operation in a flat in Islington, near City University."

They turned north on Bow Lane, then west, up Newgate Street. It was not far in miles, but the lady was in no hurry. She seemed to be directly imbibing the City with all her senses. Traffic slowly curled around them, yet she paid it no mind. As before, Cowley attempted a running commentary, showing her what had changed since the war.

She smiled at one point. "You really ought to thank the Germans for... what do the Americans call it? Urban renewal? I've never seen London so clean and well ordered."

"There was a price." Cowley's voice was strained. "Most of the City churches had to be rebuilt. We nearly lost St. Paul's. The East End has yet to recover. Paris was luckier by far."

"Perhaps. Paris suffered in its own way. You were not occupied." She did not belabour the point. Beneath its modern trappings, it was an ancient argument and they both knew it.

Islington bore no resemblance to what it looked like before the war, which was the thrust of her earlier comment. It had been a well-known slum in the first half of the century, and was only now being rebuilt in clean, though sombre brick multi storey flats. One of those buildings was still empty. The party dismounted and tied their horses to a gate in the back yard. Bodie unlocked the door and pulled out his torch. They ascended the stairs with him and Doyle in the lead, their guns drawn purely by force of habit. Cowley did not dissuade them. It was as well they kept their edges honed. If it amused Madame Genet, well at least she could not fault their caution.

Nor did she. She waited with all due patience for them to sweep the place and determine it to be empty, though she surely knew that already. Nor did she waste the time spent, Cowley realised. She was sensing intently every step of the way up the stairs.

Once they reached the vacant flat where Leeds had watched and waited, her concentration intensified further. She wandered from wall to wall touching blankly at times, as if blind. But her eyes were unclosed and blazed into absorbed interest at unseen details. Doyle shuddered; there was something about her every move now that said, 'Not human.' Had he any true doubts left, they would have gone.

"Her hair is dark, fairly long. Her scent is becoming more and more apparent to me, now that I can isolate it from the host of others on Bow Lane. I can identify her by it now quite easily, not that I need it to know what she is." She turned. "The only question now is where she is. Let us go. I must try to call her. If nothing else, I may get a sense of her direction."

"Where to, Madame?"

She pondered a minute. "I should like to complete our night's work at Tyburn. Are there any other murder sites along the way?"

Bodie pulled out a list from his jacket pocket. "Peter Jenks was the third man killed. He was found outside a pub he frequented, near his flat in Bloomsbury. It's along the way to, er, Tyburn."

No one mentioned that Tyburn's gallows had been moved to Newgate Prison two centuries ago. All that remained of that infamous place of execution was a plaque on Bayswater Road. The site was now home to the Marble Arch, the splendid entrance to Hyde Park. The ancient Tyburn River itself, that still fed into the Thames, was now completely underground. The city had grown above it.

They rode to Bloomsbury in near silence. Jenks' flat was off the Tottenham Court Road, not far from the YMCA. It was a pretty enough neighbourhood, but no one remarked on it. Bodie referred to his notes and led them directly to the scene, no longer cordoned off. She did not dismount this time; there seemed to be little need. After a brief moment's inspection, they moved westward once more.

They no longer tarried to view the sights, though there were plenty to be had. Once known as Tyburn Road, Oxford Street was now a major east-west thoroughfare, as modern as any in the world. Traffic here was heavier than in the City, befitting its more varied role. It had been London's premiere shopping street for over a century. Cabs whizzed by them, and at least one curious bobby had approached, wondering at their odd mode of travel, especially at night. Cowley headed him off with a flash of his identity card without breaking their pace.

It was nearly midnight and the wind had turned bitter by the time they reached the site of old Tyburn gallows. The park was immensely dark and quiet after the bustle of Oxford Street. Doyle stood in his stirrups to stretch and twist. He liked riding well enough, but five straight hours in the saddle was a bit much, even for him. Bodie was beginning to look equally uncomfortable.

"You boys." Madame sounded quite amused. "When I was your age, I rode from here to Jerusalem. You two couldn't have kept up with me by the time I crossed the Pyrenees, half a century later. And you are supposed to be in top shape. Really."

Both men flushed and sat still. Cowley said nothing at all, but smiled. His lack of distress had already occurred to them both, though neither commented on it. It didn't bear thinking about, at least yet. They waited.

Taking pity on them, she dismounted and signalled them to follow her. Doyle found it was pure heaven to be back on the ground; he followed with only mild curiosity as to what was to transpire next. She clearly had a plan of action, even though no one else knew what it was.

It occurred to him that he'd become as pliant in his attitude toward her as he'd thought Bodie was earlier. It brought him up short, though no one seemed to notice. Was it some subtle influence of hers, or merely the normal effect of close proximity? He wasn't sure.

His attention was diverted by a far more dramatic incident a second later. Sheltered by the great trees of the empty park, horses in hand, deep in solitude, the lady stopped. She howled.

The sound was beyond adjectives. No dog could have duplicated it, though a huge timber wolf in the wild might have come close. It sang of strength and loneliness, of desolation and remorse in a way that broke one's heart. It pierced every nerve cell in his body, from his toes, up his spine, to the crown of his head. It was well the shock of it held him still, else he might have drawn his gun out of habit. Bodie instinctively moved closer to him, but Doyle was too awed to attempt a snide remark. Even Cowley looked taken aback.

She waited, motionless in the dark. For what, they dared not ask. Moments passed, then, from what direction they could not rightly say, came the response. It was distant, but had the same mournful lupine character. There was not the depth and range of personality and experience in it that they'd heard up close, but its raw power was still frightening. No one doubted whom they had heard.

The lady howled again; this time there was more than a hint of threat in the air, though the sound was still sonorous. The reply, for such it clearly was, reeked of fear and defiance even to their untrained ears. This time Doyle thought its direction was southerly from the park, though the hovering trees might have obscured it.

A third time Madame Genet raised her unholy voice. This time only silence answered her. She waited for long minutes, then shook her head. "The little fool. I might have been able to save her, but she will not have it. Alas, only true death will stop her quest for justice."

"Justice?" Cowley responded, looking pained. Her remark had obviously disturbed him.

"What is justice to some may appear to be mere vengeance to others. She believes herself to have been greatly wronged, and does not much care for this existence. She will avenge herself, then die quite happily. That makes her particularly dangerous. She has not hunted yet tonight. I have frightened her a bit, so I doubt if she will. But of course, tomorrow night, hunger will overcome her caution. We must be ready; she will seek to accomplish her goal as quickly as possible. Are you sure you know who her ultimate victim is?"

Cowley nodded. "We believe it is Willis, the head of MI6. He is already under heavy guard. All the other MI6 and CI5 agents will likewise be guarding each other's backs. Any clue as to who she is?"

"No, but of perhaps more importance is where she is."

Bodie asked, almost demurely, "Did her answer come from south of the park, fairly close by?"

"Indeed, yes. Very close. She is not more than two miles from here, nearly due south. But her lair will not be easily discovered; I doubt if she will go there tonight, lest I find it. By dawn she will return to it, but I must also go to my resting-place then. In any case, I cannot sense her once she is asleep in her native soil. I will try to give you an idea of where to look, but it will not be an easy matter. She is not completely helpless by day. You must remember that."

"One of the men was killed near Harrods, in that general direction. Would it do any good to go there, do you think?" Doyle wondered.

"Certainly, it is worth a look. There is little else we can do tonight. Let us go."

Doyle led the way through the darkened park, along the Ring, to the other side. They emerged onto Kensington Road and took side streets down past Brompton Road, where Walter Campbell had been discovered. It was a remarkably well lit and heavily trafficked area, even so late on a weekend. They encountered a few stares on their journey. Madame paid them no heed at all; she was clearly preoccupied with sensing her quarry. Several times she stopped and turned in her saddle, covering the night with a keen gaze.

"She was very close to this place when she answered. It is this area your people must concentrate upon in the morning." She shook her head, as if to clear it. "Very close."

They inspected the last murder scene with little comment, then remounted and turned east towards the Tower. Doyle was half hoping the lady would take pity on them and choose a more modern means of transport for the return trip, but that was not to be. The party rode along in silence back up Brompton Road to Hyde Park Corner, where once more she stopped and sniffed like a great hunting dog. "Very close," she repeated, muttering. "But not here now."

They picked up the pace and cantered along Constitution Hill to the Mall, passing Buckingham Palace. Despite their haste, she did slow to take in Charing Cross and Trafalgar Square, then followed the Victoria Embankment back into the City. From that point it was a scant two miles to the Tower gates. Doyle could barely contain his joy. Visions of a hot bowl of soup and tea to comfort his numb fingers tantalised him, though he doubted if anything was going to make his sore bum feel better any time soon.

It was close to four when the guards opened the gates for them once more. Another man hastily emerged to take the reins of their mounts, and then they were free to return to their quarters. The lady stopped and spoke low to Cowley, who then signalled to one of the guards, but neither Bodie nor Doyle paid it any mind. They were both too bone weary, though neither dared show it. Madame's earlier criticism of their endurance still stung. They waited stolidly for her and Cowley to ascend, then trudged up behind them.

A fire had been kept going in their quarters and the warmth felt heavenly. They crowded around the desk in the centre room as Cowley opened a detailed map of London and traced out their route for Madame Genet. She studied it intently, then fingered particular spots of interest. The area she was most taken by was their last stop, close to Harrods.

Her next question surprised them. "Why did Stuart think the person was of Eastern European origin?"

Cowley shrugged. "Probably because most people think of vampires as originating from that area. Count Dracula, and all that."

"There's also the connection to MI6; he simply assumed it had to be a person who had connections to the Warsaw Pact nations," Doyle added.

She snorted. "Well, his reasoning left much to be desired, but his intuition was probably correct. Isn't this area here the embassy section of London?"

They all peered over her shoulder. Bodie ventured a question in answer to hers. "Madame, is it true that she must rest upon her native soil? And if so, do embassies count as native soil?"

Her smile was so warm it filled the room. "Quite so, on both counts. You have a location in mind?"

His finger traced a path parallel to her own. "The East German Embassy is right here, at Belgrave Square. Does that appear to be the general area you heard her from?"

"Very, very near. I cannot be completely positive, but she could not have been more than a few blocks off, in any case. Ah, here's your soup, gentlemen. Sit and relax whilst I study this further. Do you have a close-up map of this area, Sir George?"

He did, and produced it as Bodie and Doyle set up to eat in the other room. The table was laid for three, but Cowley seemed disinterested. Bodie took the time to worry about the older man; he'd been in the saddle every second as long as they. Nor had he rested during the day, as they had. He ladled some soup into a bowl and took it to him as he conversed with Madame Genet. She however, waved them both away and nearly commanded Cowley to eat. He demurred no longer, and sat beside his lads with spoon in hand.

"Here's tea, sir. Bloody marvellous, if you ask me. I was desperate for something like this." He might have added that part of the pleasure was no longer sitting astride a horse, but even a comfy chair did not ease his aching thighs and rump. He prayed there would be time for him to take a hot bath.

Cowley merely grunted, turning his attention to his soup.

---

It was not really that odd for them to be retiring at dawn. They'd done their share of all night stakeouts together. With Cowley too, for that matter. What seemed strange was the 'tag team' approach they were taking. It worried Bodie that Murphy and his crew would be searching the area around Belgrave Square without them. Of course he trusted the chap and had confidence in him, but still... Something kept nagging at the back of his mind. It teased him with a vague sense of something seen but not noticed, or sensed but not understood. Perhaps Madame Genet, whoever she was, felt it too. She took the maps back into her own room as they sky lightened. He did not forget her warning that neither she nor the other one was helpless by day. And he'd seen for himself what they could do.

His lower back, rump and thighs were killing him, and he knew without self-pity that it would only worsen with sleep. A shower helped some, and Doyle had given him some aspirin, but his muscles would still stiffen during the day. He said as much as he collapsed nearly nude onto the bed.

Doyle sat beside him, towelling his damp locks, looking equally miserable. "What we need is a team of Swedish masseuses who don't mind getting quite personal down there. Not that I think I could do more than say 'thank you' in this state." His eyes brightened with a sudden thought. "Think you could do it? Massage me, I mean. We could take turns; do us both good."

Bodie turned onto his side and considered his partner's query. They'd showered and slept together often enough, used the latrine side by side for years. Bandaged each other up, fed each other, put up with Macklin together. The notion of receiving such treatment certainly appealed. "Why not? Toss you for who goes first. Mind, the second chap will be the luckier, since he'll just get to sleep after."

"Fair enough." Doyle leaned over to where his jeans lay and retrieved a coin from his pocket. "Heads."

It was tails. Both men stripped down completely by unspoken consent. Bodie stretched out wordlessly onto his belly and let his thighs fall apart. True, he'd have to stay awake to do Doyle, but at least he'd be feeling better sooner. Doyle rummaged through his bag and pulled out some massage oil, then knelt between Bodie's legs. The satiny coolness of it against his lower back was a delight; he groaned in deep appreciation as Ray's fingers nimbly worked it in.

"You keep making noises like that, and Cowley'll think we're having it off in here," Doyle warned.

"Dammed if I care right now. Don't stop." Bodie closed his eyes and luxuriated in the kneading pressure being exerted upon his lower back. Gradually, his partner's hands moved lower, against the taut muscles of his sore buttocks. God, that's wonderful. Uninhibited sounds of pure satisfaction kept bubbling up from deep in his throat, despite Doyle's earlier comment.

Those comforting hands slowly worked their way in between Bodie's aching thighs, brushing ever so lightly against his balls. Good thing it was Ray doing this; he didn't think he could've let another man get so close. Not since Africa had he... He tried to close his mind on that thought as he had in the past, but today it wasn't that easy. It somehow merged with sudden awareness of how much pleasure he was getting from the working of Ray's hands. Yes, it was pleasure, and sexual at that. He didn't kid himself. Time for this to end, before he embarrassed himself and his partner. Reluctantly, he shifted, pulling away.

"Ta, that's enough, mate."

Doyle sat back on his heels. "You sure? How about the front of your thighs? Mine are killing me. Turn over."

He couldn't find a good excuse not to. Ray would be suspicious if he demurred too strongly. Luckily, things were not yet at the stage where they were obvious. He did as he was told, watching his partner's features as he turned. Normally they were mobile, expressive, eye-catching, but right now they were shuttered, telling nothing. His hands smoothed Bodie's inner thighs, from groin to mid knee, then outward over their front muscles.

It was heaven. It was torture. He dared not lower his guard too much, yet those hands demanded that he relax, go with them, let them soothe him. He closed his eyes in concentration, trying to perceive only the relief, not the arousal. It half worked, keeping him from making a huge display of himself, but another man would surely notice the tightening of his balls, the lengthening and thickening of his cock. God, what if Ray got offended? The man had temper enough for the two of them some days. That thought succeeded where control had failed. He managed to endure the sweet torment without incident, but there was no danger of his falling asleep.

"My turn, sunshine." Doyle slipped over Bodie's leg and lay prone, his arms above his head. Bodie stretched for a moment, then took up his position between his partner's legs. Now he could allow himself to relax. After all, Ray couldn't see him. He squirted some oil into his palms and warmed it, eyeing Doyle's pink, round bum. Even an out and out homophobe would have to admit this was a pretty sight.

He started at the lower back, as Doyle had with him, but before too long his hands had crept down onto that tempting mass of flesh. Its texture was a nice surprise. Redheads could have coarse, dry skin at times, but not his Ray. It was buttery soft, inviting him to put his lips down and taste. He resisted the urge, of course, but its intensity was shocking. This was a new development in his friendship with the man before him. That Doyle had engaged his emotions as well as his loyalty was no surprise. He deserved every bit of all that, had earned Bodie's trust time and time again. But this... Bodie tried to blank his mind. Tried to only see form and shape, as if he was in a museum doing nothing more than admiring a sculpture. It didn't work. Some Pandora's box had opened inside him, not to be so easily closed and forgotten. His hands now ached to touch more intimately.

Nor was Ray much help. He was easily as vocal in his pleasure as Bodie had been earlier, if not more so. Plus, he squirmed. Back and forth, to and fro, he moved his hips in rhythm to Bodie's massage like some exotic dancer intent on turning on a roomful of strangers. Or a man making love to a woman under him.

That image almost undid his control. Bodie carefully repositioned his fingers lower, over the back of Doyle's thighs and began to work again. That sufficed for a while, but then it was time to massage their insides. He forced his hands not to tremble as his knuckles brushed the soft down of Doyle's scrotum.

Did Doyle enjoy this as he had? Did he dare think about it? Bodie looked at the other man's back in sudden wonderment. It distracted him enough to enable him to complete the rubdown. Well, true his partner was writhing like a cat in heat, but then, that was Ray. Feline sensuality was something he exuded like musk. Women adored it. They could just tell from the way he moved what a great lay he would be. That didn't mean he was as indiscriminate as a cat. Didn't mean he would or ever could want Bodie. Nothing said that.

He sat back, silently signalling Doyle to turn, but the other man sank deeply into the bed, emitting a loud sigh. "Thanks. That's enough."

"Thought your front thighs were killing you."

"I'm too knackered. See you later." In a minute or so, his breathing had deepened, his limbs at rest.

Bodie arose ever so quietly, so as not to disturb him, but he'd barely gotten off the bed before Doyle opened one inquisitive green eye. "Where're you going?"

"The loo. Back in a flash." He turned and fled without another word.

---

When Doyle awoke, his partner lay beside him, dark lashes fanning down over his cheeks in a veil. There was no telling when he'd returned to bed. His features, so strained before, now were slack and peaceful in sleep. Doyle studied them, as if they were not someone's that he'd spent the better part of five years in the company of. As if he'd never rightly seen them before.

He knew perfectly well what had happened to Bodie. Could sense it in every move his partner made. Nor had he made it easy for him. He just let it go on and on, his complaisance a tease, a come-on. He flushed. Doyle was nothing if not honest, sometimes brutally so. He hadn't started out with the intention of turning his partner on, but the heady power of it was irresistible.

He could make Bodie want him.

Now, it was one thing to play with a man's heart; quite another to fool with a man's balls. Having both, he knew with certainty just how much trouble he could get them both into. It was imperative that he understand what the devil he was about, why he had allowed things to come to such a pass between them.

What he didn't need to comprehend was Bodie. No, indeed. The bloke loved him, wanted him, trusted him completely. And had painfully demonstrated just how much Doyle could trust him.

The real question was, how much could Doyle trust himself?

He'd become aroused too. Did he really want Bodie? Or was he merely infatuated with the knowledge that he could be so desired? He'd never had sex with a man, nor had he ever had any inclination to, though he'd received his fair share of invitations over the years. They had been a source of amusement, nothing more. But now...

He looked over the sleeping man. Of course he knew Bodie was an attractive man. All dark power and sleek muscle. He was magnificent in his smooth-skinned nakedness. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, big hands that were surprisingly gentle... Doyle stirred at the memory of their touch. Yes, Bodie was beautiful. Could he overcome a lifetime of inhibitions and respond to that male beauty fully? Should he?

Women loved Bodie's sugary tongue, his visage all smiles, promising fun. Somehow he conveyed a heady combination of spicy danger and warm safety to even the most wary. He'd watched the masterful pick ups often enough. But Bodie last night was a different man. Brooding, barely controlled, remote... Yet gentle in spite of it all. A man who stood at the edge of falling in love.

It was tremendously exciting to be the object of such intense emotion. Beyond that, he could decide nothing. There would have to be time to think about it later. He got out of the bed.

For now he desperately needed a nice hot bath. His lower limbs ached every inch as much as he'd expected them to, and he could only pray that She Who Must Be Endured had had enough of riding through London town.

One hot tub full later, Doyle felt not only his arse, but also his brain unwind. Idly soaking, his attention wandered to the continuing mystery of Madame Genet. He could sneer at her in her absence, but her raw potency in person never failed to slap him down to size in short order. It was irritating, to put it mildly, the way his skin turned to goose bumps when she looked at him. No, looked through him. He must be as transparent as glass to her, since she only did it to him. Bodie and Cowley seemed not as affected. But then, she didn't need to keep them in line, did she?

He wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

So, who was she? A former English queen from the looks of things, born in France, but which one? Most of them seemed to be from France. What had she said last night about going to Jerusalem and crossing the Pyrenees fifty years later? There couldn't be many who fit that bill, now could there? Then there was the reference to King John she had not denied. It was possible that her given name really was Eleanor, but it was a fairly common royal name. Then there was her surname, Genet. Short for Plantagenet? That had been a royal dynasty for nearly five centuries. He'd studied art in school, but history had not been one of his favourite subjects. Betty could find out for him, though he wasn't sure if he could keep it from Cowley. It would take some manoeuvring, but he was determined to find out for sure.

She couldn't be... who he thought she was. Eleanor of Aquitaine. A notoriously beautiful woman straight out of legend, tough as steel; a warrior queen, who in an age of great knights, easily held her own. Spouse to Henry II, mother of Richard the Lion-Hearted. And John, the wicked younger brother. He squirmed inside, for what reason he did not know, and turned his attention to the other problem at hand.

As for the one they sought, an equally uneasy sensation crept through his nerves, though he dared not give it voice, lest it become true. How many East German women who'd died at the hands of MI6 did he know of, after all? Only one, and there was no real reason to suppose it was her. Certainly, there was no cause to mention any of his misgivings at this point to Bodie. He had enough on his mind.

On the other hand, Marikka Schuman had died in England. And had been buried here. And knew who had killed her.

And loved Bodie. Doyle shivered, despite the heat of the water. Cowley was nearly always ahead of him, which meant it was no accident that they were on this case and not another. And Cowley was genuinely fond of Bodie. Where would he be safer than at the side of Madame Genet?

The old devil! He and Madame were a likely couple, indeed. Now, what trap were they setting?

---

Chapter Four

They might have been an old married couple, sitting as they did, on either side of the desk. But only one was having tea. Dusk had settled around them. Bodie and Doyle were in the next room, devouring another fine meal courtesy of the Tower staff. This time, Cowley did not join them. He wasn't hungry.

"Your laddie thinks he has things figured out now," she observed with amusement in her voice. "Who I am, who she is, and what you've been up to. Too bad he hasn't taken some of that restless cerebral energy and decided what to do about Bodie."

At that he looked up. As Doyle matured and settled down, he would someday be a logical choice to succeed him. This he'd known for some time, despite Bodie being his emotional favourite of the pair. It did not surprise him that Doyle had followed his own reasoning. But what did she mean about Bodie?

Then he remembered. The other morning, the way they'd slept. His unease, that he'd quickly, too quickly, thrust aside. He had not been wrong, after all, to be uneasy. She saw it too.

"Yes. But there is really no cause for alarm, you know. It does not change who they are, or what they are capable of. You, of all people, should know that, Sir George."

He bowed his head. How foolish, really, to think that anything could be kept from her. "I do know. But nonetheless, it complicates things considerably. We are not as tolerant now as your great court was, Your Grace. If they are discovered..."

"They won't be. You'll see to that," she replied confidently. "You must teach them, of course, and that won't be easy for you. But you will do it. It will be all right."

He smiled back. "And what if he does succeed in confirming your identity?"

She shrugged. "It is not that important to me, now that I have met you, my lord. As you have known, he is the best choice for your position. Doubtless, he would have had to be told in any case."

He nodded. "And his notion about the other's identity? Do you think he is correct? I had thought as much, but it is only a surmise, after all."

"His intuition is a powerful tool he really ought to be encouraged to develop. I suspect that the level of discomfort the thought brought to him is indicative of its probability. He is very protective of Bodie, and any true threat will eat away at him until he confronts it. Yes, I think it may well be her. Of course, proving our suspicions is not as simple as voicing them. We must take great care in how we use our young friend Bodie. He may be the key, if we are right."

"And Willis?"

"She will probably try for him tonight. If she is clever she will reverse her usual pattern of attacking at dusk, and strike after midnight instead, when men's minds are clouded by fatigue, and their guard is down. I personally would wait until near dawn for the same reasons, but I doubt if she is that bold yet. She needs her shelter far more than I do, being so young. What a pity."

"You tried to give her a way out last night. If she had taken you up on your offer, would you have protected her? Even from me? She did kill Stuart, after all."

She patted his hand. "Why trouble yourself, my lord? We shall never know."

---

To Bodie and Doyle's unparalleled delight, Madame consented to riding in a car over to Headquarters in Whitehall. Given that it was pouring rain, the decision was particularly welcome. It helped that it was no mere car, but one of the Queen's Rolls Royces's kept at the Tower for her use. Their stiffness also may have had a hand in convincing her, though Doyle doubted it. He could walk, hiding his pain well enough, but he knew there'd be no chance of him running a foot race and catching anyone faster than Cowley.

Thinking of Cowley, his earlier disquiet returned. The old man had not eaten with them and looked entirely too comfortable. It bore watching, though he hadn't the slightest idea what to do about it. It was bad enough having to worry about Bodie without adding Cowley to the list.

They met with Murphy and his team in one of the briefing rooms. As per orders, they'd vacated MI6 and got in just before sundown. The offices were heavily guarded, though not so noticeable as it had been at MI6 the other day. The other team carefully displayed their best party manners to Madame Genet, who likewise was cordial, though not especially forthcoming.

Murphy took the ball. "We've had no leads whatsoever in locating the mole, though we've managed to eliminate some suspects at present. Whoever it is, is apparently well placed, which is worrisome. Willis is concerned, but not tremendously helpful. He had no idea how the security system in Davison's flat could be circumvented. It took a bit of convincing to show him that it had to be an inside job, else the man would have been warned."

Cowley tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. It was not what he had wanted to hear. "Any luck in following Jenks' trail the night of his murder?"

Susan jumped in. "Some. Thanks to your call last night, we were able to jog a few memories at the pub he stopped at. There was a foreign woman there that night; at least two people remarked upon her accent. It sounded German to them. She left minutes after he did. We brought them in and did our best to get a composite sketch of her. As you reported, she does indeed have longish dark brown hair. Fairly tall for a lady, slender..." Her voice trailed off as she took in Madame Genet, then picked up. "Very pretty, as far as they could tell. Wore sunglasses and a hat."

Madame apparently could not resist. "My German is abysmal, my accent purely French. Besides, I have an alibi. I was in France at the time."

"And you are much lovelier, I might add," Murphy attempted.

Bodie kept his face straight. Doyle didn't even try.

A chastened Susan produced the composite with a flourish. This time, Bodie's face did change. So did Doyle's.

"You know her?" She guessed.

Bodie looked up at Cowley, speaking to him alone. "Perhaps. I can't be sure. I can't... It's her style of dress, her look, if you will. But the picture itself could be any woman her age and general appearance."

The Controller nodded. "We shall have to make sure. Have we a list generated from this description and cross-referenced to MI6 files of terminations? Better still, does it match any of the names of our victims in terms of assignments?"

"In part," Jax replied. "We'd narrowed our list of MI6 terminations down to about twenty names, based on age and sex. Then we tried having the computer cross it with the three MI6 men. Two of them hadn't left Britain in the past three years, so then we looked at only those that would have been encountered here, at home. We wound up with ten names. Here they are."

Cowley put on his glasses and perused the list. He was fully aware of how much thought and effort had gone into the simple white page before him. More, he appreciated what it would do to the dark man standing silently at his elbow.

One of the names was Marikka Schuman.

Knowing it was a possibility had not prepared Doyle for the walled-in hurt his partner exuded, at least to him. It sliced right in, leaving him defenceless, save for anger. Bodie pulled in behind closed eyes.

"We can't assume anything about this. Do we know where these unfortunate women are buried?" asked the lady. "For if we do not, we must find out at once. Before dawn, if possible. If we can find photographs of these ten, then perhaps the people in that pub might also be more able to help in her identification."

"We've been working on that," Murphy said. "Fortunately, MI6 kept those files and we were able to obtain permission to acquire them first thing in the morning. We should have all their photos by nine. Of course, we already have Marikka Schuman's, since she was an actress. As for where they are all buried..." he shook his head. "I honestly don't know. It might be in their files, though I don't see why it would be. More likely, we'll have to go through the coroner's records. The bodies all had to be investigated, since they were unnatural deaths. Then they had to be released to someone for burial. Usually a funeral home. These funeral homes will then have records of where and when the actual interments took place. We can comb the coroner's records tonight, but I doubt if we can get anything from the funeral homes until tomorrow."

"Surely she won't be there," Doyle demurred. "If she is a foreigner, as we believe, then she must have already moved her hiding place to one where she can rest on her native soil."

Cowley nodded. "True, but then we'll know for certain who we are looking for. Whoever's grave is empty."

"And who will be watching for whoever it is in the meantime?" Bodie asked acidly. "What about the search teams around Belgrave Square? Did they find anything?"

Susan shook her head. "That area has been combed through. Lots of small mid-priced hotels on the side streets. Our people were on it all day and turned up nothing."

"She isn't going to sit about tonight, waiting for us to do our homework," he warned.

"Indeed she is not," Cowley agreed. "Murphy, MI6 can earn their keep too. I'll call Willis and have his people search those files now. If they can, they should inform us of the burial locations. At the least, I want those photos well before dawn. They can also spend the night searching the coroner's records if the locations are not on file. No point in the lot of them sitting on their rumps while we run ours into the ground."

He turned to Bodie. "You're right, 3.7. She'll be hunting tonight. We think she'll go after Willis. I want you and Doyle to get over there and..."

Betty came to the door and interrupted. "Excuse me, sir. We have an emergency in progress at Controller Willis' office. The call just came through for backup. There are at least two men down."

"Damn! She didn't wait."

Madame shrugged. "She kept to her original pattern after all. Which means she will not succeed, since his troops are fresh and were expecting her, armed with the weapons you gave them. Still, we must go. Where is MI6 headquarters? I shall meet you there."

Cowley pointed it out on the wall map without a word. It was but a few blocks away. The lady took her leave; Murphy and his team followed her movements with disbelieving eyes. She simply went over to the window, opened it, and leapt out. Cowley gave them no time to think about it.

"Well, are you going to sit there all night? Let's go!"

---

The scene at MI6 was utter carnage. Unlike her earlier murders, the vampire had not tidied up out of hunger. Blood was everywhere; the entire hallway where she'd broken through was covered with it. Three MI6 men lay virtually dismembered, in the midst of it all. The five surviving guards were in a state of shock.

Bodie had never seen anything like it. Not in Africa, not even after bombings in Northern Ireland. Those dismemberments were random, scattered, and not viciously purposeful as these were. The woman he had once known and loved could never have been capable of this. He was sure of it.

Despite her raging, she had not broken through the line of defenders, and had been forced back out into the night. Sharpened wooden staves and arrows embedded in the walls bore testimony to the fury of the battle. Garlic cloves added their pungency to the ghastly scene. Half-empty flasks of holy water and broken crosses lay scattered upon the floor.

It was a tableau worthy of Bruegel's hell, Doyle reflected. One that Madame Genet chose to eschew. Perhaps it was all the garlic. Willis was babbling off in a corner to Cowley, nearly hysterical. Bodie stood frozen in place, his normally pale complexion utterly ashen. Susan and the others were doing no better. Murphy went off to a loo to throw up, crossing himself along the way.

Madame met them outside. "She has fled, nor can I detect a trace of her now. She must have left as soon as they called us. We must take Willis and his people to a place of safety. We may not be so fortunate twice."

"But where?" Doyle demanded, incensed by what he had seen. "She can pull the bloody walls down if she has a mind to, it seems."

"Not the walls of a church." Her quiet answer stunned him into silence.

"Westminster Abbey," Cowley muttered. "It's the closest to Whitehall. We have to round everybody up and get them there under guard. Any other thoughts?"

"She will not attack so long as I am with all of you. Or if she does, so much the better for us. Obtain conveyances and move these poor souls at once, Sir George. I will guard them until they get there. Once inside, they will be beyond her reach."

Luckily, most of the office workers at MI6 had departed for the evening already. Those that had remained were either guarding Willis or working at his direction. It didn't take long for the dozen or so left to be taken away, leaving the corridors eerily empty.

"Once I am finished escorting these people, we must search this place for those files," Madame continued outside. "We have to discover her resting place as quickly as possible. She has gotten completely out of control."

"Doyle and I can stay here and start looking," Bodie offered.

"No." Her tone was sharp, decisive, leaving Cowley no room but to acquiesce. "She is rabid. There's no telling what she will attack next. I can't protect all of London at the same time, but I certainly can keep you lads safe. All of you are to stay by my side at all times. Especially you, Bodie." As he opened his mouth to speak, she forestalled him. "And you damned well know why."

It took less than an hour to deliver MI6's controller to Westminster along with his mob. A few CI5 agents were summoned to stand watch also, though from the inside of the sacred grounds. Murphy and his cohorts were beat and hungry, but there was no time for such indulgence now. They all tromped back to MI6 headquarters under Madame Genet's watchful eye. To Doyle it had the fantastical appearance of a gaggle of geese obediently following a hawk.

Cowley had brought two MI6 secretaries back with them. They were shaky, but sufficiently recovered to assist in their file retrieval. Even Madame joined in the hunt. He'd also asked Betty to join them.

Betty arrived, armed with her own notes and a large cardboard box stuffed with take away fish, chips, and mushy peas. The day team descended upon said larder with heartfelt gratitude. It wasn't sleep, but it would do for now. The MI6 women showed them where to make tea.

"That was very thoughtful of you, mistress, but you must take care too. No one is safe now. We must all stay together after dark," the lady explained. "Until this is over."

Bodie and Doyle searched steadily while their colleagues took a breather long enough to eat. "Did anyone get a good description of their assailant from those guards?' Bodie asked of no one in particular. "Perhaps a security camera picked her up. We might be able to identify her from that."

"Useless, even if we had," Madame responded absently as she riffled through a file cabinet. "A vampire attacking wouldn't exactly match a photograph of her during her life. I'm sure they'd be happy to tell you all about her red eyes and her long teeth, but that won't help us find her. As for the video camera, that may be useful, but the same problem applies. She will have been moving very fast once she entered. It's certainly worth looking into, but don't be surprised if all you see is a blur."

Susan swallowed a morsel the wrong way and needed Jax to thump on her back. Her eyes flew from Bodie to Doyle to Cowley to Madame, but once recovered she said nothing.

Several hours and hundreds of files later, nine of the ten in question had been located. Marikka Schuman's refused to turn up, despite continued effort.

"The mole?" Doyle hated to say it out loud, but it only made sense, after all. Bodie must be thinking it too.

"Maybe. Maybe a ruse to throw us off the real trail. In any ca