"Tccaahh!" With an unintelligible snort of outrage, George Cowley threw his copy of The London Times across the room. A small creak recalled him to himself, and he gave the presumptuously-opening office door a fulminating glare. When the Controller of CI5 got that look on his face, even strong men had been known to quail, therefore, so did the two men entering. (Although `duck' may have been the more appropriate fowl...or was it `chicken'?) Either way...Bodie gulped, Doyle bleated, and they both blanched as they fell over each other trying to retreat through the door. A sharp command froze them in their tracks before things could get really messy.

"Bodie! Doyle! Get in here!" roared Cowley at full volume.

Disentangling themselves with some difficulty, the two top agents reluctantly reassembled themselves in front of their boss' desk. Ears still ringing from the full-throated bellow, it was some moments before the dazed agents realised they were being addressed.

"Eh? What you say?" queried Doyle intelligently.

Biting his tongue, Cowley raised his eyes to the ceiling, took a deep breath, and counted to twenty in Sudanese. Some days (most days), it was hard to remember that these two men were his supposed best team. The very thought made him a little depressed...and a lot nauseous.

"I said," he repeated with strained courtesy, "sit down!" Another bellow.

Wincing, Bodie and Doyle immediately plopped into two straight back chairs and pasted on attentive expressions. Cowley was grateful for the charade.

"Trouble, sir?" Bodie asked solicitously.

"Aye, I guess some might call it that, 3.7! Have ye no been reading the papers, mon?! " The thick Scottish brogue was another danger sign.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged panicky glances.

Easily reading the look, Cowley decided he had better tone down his anger before outright hysteria developed. "In the past eighteen days, no less than seven public officials have been assaulted," he stated crisply. "Although the method of attack has been the same, so far we have no other common denominator."

Visibly relaxing, Doyle questioned, "What was the M.O., sir?"

There was a sudden silence as Cowley reconsidered his decision to give this particular op to these particular agents. He had a sinking feeling he was going to live to regret it. If only there was some other way... But there wasn't. In order to catch this diabolical maniac, they had to use the best resources available. Unfortunately, this time, that meant utilising Bodie and Doyle.

Becoming aware of quizzical looks, the Controller took a deep breath and plunged into the deep end. "Each victim..." he hesitated, equivocating. How to put it?

"Each victim," he began again, "had been...de-zipped."

"De-zipped?" Bodie was completely bewildered.

"Aye, and with a photographer conveniently to hand. It's disgraceful, completely disgraceful!"

Taking pity on his partner's confusion--and conveniently ignoring his own--Doyle suggested briskly, "Perhaps it would be best if you began at the beginnin', sir. For Bodie's sake."

Long acquaintance with the ex-merc had made the smaller man impervious to Bodie's outraged glares.

Cowley took a moment to send a fervent plea heavenward. "Since you feel it's necessary, 4.5," he conceded sarcastically.

"Eighteen days ago, Sir Peter P. Otamus was found wandering aimlessly in Regent's Park at 0530. The last anyone had seen of him was 0110, when he had left a business associate's home. Sir Peter's Mercedes was only parked a little way down the road. Apparently he never made it as the vehicle was still there the next morning."

"Was he badly hurt, sir?" Bodie asked interestedly.

"No." It was the moment of truth. "The constable noted no obvious bruises or other injuries, but of course he was thoroughly examined by his private

physician later that morning. Sir Peter was, however, slightly incoherent and appeared to be quite dazed. The only notable finding," continued the Scot determinedly, "was that his...fly was open."

The last three words were said in a rush.

Before Bodie could get his lower jaw off the floor for a sarky come-back, Cowley went on. "The incident was discreetly hushed up, and no more thought was given to the matter...until that evening. On the front page of The London Times was a picture of Sir Peter--in all his...umm...glory.

"Naturally, questions were asked. The editor was reluctant to divulge the name of the photographer, but finally consented. The photographer, a longtime and well-respected freelancer, said a message had been left on his telephone answering device that very day, stating that if he was at such a place at such a time, there would be something well worth his time and trouble. The man was instantly suspicious, but being a veteran photojournalist, he felt compelled to investigate. He arrived in Regent's Park some twenty minutes before the constable had made his rounds. Plenty of time for several photographs to be taken."

Keeping his mouth straight with much effort, Bodie ignored the snorts and giggles emanating from his shaking partner. "Uh, that's ruddy awful, sir, but hardly CI5 business."

"Really, Bodie?" commented Cowley blandly. "Three days later, Lord Wal Eegator was discovered wandering, dazed and incoherent, at 0245 in St. James Park. Again, no obvious injuries. Again, the only noteworthy item was his unzipped trousers. The picture made the front page of, not only The London Times, but also The Daily Mirror and The Sun. Lord Eegator's solicitor published a statement that his client had been under extreme stress due to professional and marital problems.

"At two to three days intervals, all across greater London, members of the peerage have been found in partial dishabille in public parks. All of them were not injured, only dazed and with a slight case of shock. Each knew the other victims socially, but not intimately. There are no common professional or personal acquaintances. Each had vanished from a different section of London, at differing times of the evening. None of the seven recall the actual attack, or even being accosted on the street. Their doctors state the disorientation appears to stem from extreme sexual satiation."

It was at this point that Bodie could no longer contain himself. Sniggering helplessly, he rolled off his chair and collided with his chortling partner.

Praying for strength, Cowley let the merriment continue for several minutes before saying sharply, "I'm pleased you both find this so amusing."

Sobering quickly, the two agents climbed back onto their chairs. Doyle, for once, sat at attention, attempting to hide the wet spot on the front of his jeans. Bodie noticed, of course, and immediately convulsed again.

Shooting him a green-eyed glare, Doyle pointedly turned his back. "Sir?" he asked crisply, projecting a no-nonsense air.

Cowley wasn't fooled. "Save it, Doyle."

Bodie took in his partner's pout and downcast expression, and smirked. The smirk faded quickly, to be replaced by stunned disbelief.

"I want this pervert," Cowley stated coldly, "and you two are going to get him for me."

Now, it's true that Bodie and Doyle had the reputation for being slightly dense--thicker than thermo-concrete, was how Murphy had once described it. Everyone at CI5, from the lowly secretaries to all the field agents, knew that their success rate was based on one-fourth actual labour and three-fourths plain, old-fashioned luck. ("But why should they have all the luck?" a new trainee had once wailed. "Doesn't God protect fools and mental defectives?" Stuart had answered knowledgeably.)

However, this time it didn't take an Einstein to follow Cowley's train of thought.

An electric moment passed, then the Controller heaved a put-upon sigh as he realised he was back to square one. Bodie had gone white, his face blanker than normal (yes, it was possible); his lower lip trembled pathetically. His partner was not so discreet. Loud sobs echoed through the small office as the curly-haired man snuffled, snorted, and hyperventilated. It was at times like this that George Cowley wished he had taken his father's advice and followed him into the family business as purveyors of sheep nuts and tick dip. At least in that profession, the mutton-brains he encountered had a legitimate reason for being there.

"These histrionics will get you nowhere, 3.7, 4.5!" he snapped. "Now, pull

yourselves together and pay attention for once in your misbegotten lives!"

It seemed to take an eternity, but the men in front of him finally ceased their quivering and shaking. A fatalistic air settled about the two agents. Doyle considered uttering a quick prayer, but decided it wouldn't be too appropriate. Not only because he was a lapsed Catholic, but because the only prayer he could remember off the top of his head was the Last Rites. Bodie just gritted his teeth and consoled himself with various scenarios of revenge. How about something from Angola? Or maybe Biafra?

Sensing that he finally had their complete attention, the Scot continued his briefing. "You will not be alone out there. Murphy and Stuart have been working undercover on this for the past week. Unfortunately, our man has not taken the bait. It was decided to use someone more...suitable."

By the end of this short statement, Bodie and Doyle had recovered their usual aplomb and were unsuccessfully trying to control their preening and self-satisfied smirks.

The Controller grimaced. "As much as it pains me to admit it, you two may be the only hope we have of catching this one. Our man not only prefers the aristocrats, he also seems to prefer a certain...type...of man."

"What type is that, sir?" Bodie and Doyle chorused.

Pursing his lips puritanically, Cowley stared at a spot over Bodie's left

shoulder as he replied, "He seems to prefer well-baked banana nut bread."

Wincing internally, he watched with resigned acceptance as their smirks became almost incandescent. "Are you quite finished?" he asked wearily.

Toning down their smirks and self-satisfaction with some difficulty, Bodie and Doyle transferred their attention back to their boss.

"Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir," answered Bodie impudently.

"That's enough, Bodie!" Cowley said curtly. "I hope you will carry this unusual enthusiasm of yours onto the streets. Before you begin, however, I want you to go see Dr. Figbert Newton. He's our consulting psychiatrist on this case; he has interviewed all seven of the victims and feels he has a complete psychological profile of our man. Listen to him well, lads. It could be the break we've been needing. After that, hit the streets. Do what you have to do, but keep in touch by R/T. You will also be wired for sound, with back-up less than five minutes away." He fixed them both with a steely glare. "Remember, this is no joke. Seven peers of the realm have been assaulted and humiliated..."

"Not to mention getting the lay of their life," Bodie muttered sotto voce to Doyle.

Cowley pretended he hadn't heard. It was easier on his ulcers that way.

Chuckling at a whimsical thought, Cowley gave them a sudden beatific smile. They sobered immediately, both feeling slightly sick to their stomachs at the benign expression on the Controller's face.

"I know you won't let me down," he said blandly. "I'm sure neither of you wish to end up on page one of the papers, flapping in the breeze."

Bodie was thoroughly chastened...Doyle merely looked interested.

---

"The Old Man must be losin' it, mate," Doyle stated confidently. "I mean, look at this op! I can't believe..."

"You know Cowley." Bodie shrugged, glancing over at his partner as they waited for the street light to change. "Anything having to do with blackmail of public figures makes him antsy. Makes you wonder, donnit?"

"Don't mean that." Doyle dismissed his partner's observation with a toss of his curly head. "Green light," he announced, bracing himself quickly. It wasn't that Bodie's driving was anything less than exemplary; it was only that Doyle hadn't yet found a way to compensate for the G-forces inflicted. "As I was sayin'," he continued moments later, having gotten his breath back, "wasn't the blackmail bit that bothered me. What gets up me nose is that he waited almost three weeks before he decides to send in his most qualified team."

"Yeah," agreed Bodie. "Why the delay?" He paused, then very casually queried, "What've you been up to, sunshine?"

"Uh-uh, I haven't done anything lately!" denied Doyle indignantly, trying to remember if he'd been seen outside that club on Cleveland Street. "Why is it always my fault?"

"Because." Bodie bent a stern look upon his mate, conveniently forgetting he was in the middle of a roundabout. Neither man seemed to notice the screams of tortured brakes or the sudden rise in temperature left in their wake. "Who was it that tried to cut that deal with the prossie? Not me, mate!"

"Anybody could've made that mistake!" cried the smaller man. "How was I supposed to know she was a decoy from the Met?"

Their Controller had been less than pleased with him, to be sure.

In exchange for some information they'd needed on a case, Doyle had offered to personally demonstrate the triple-digit positions of the Kama Sutra, thus enabling the lady of the evening to better please her clients and increase her take-home pay. However, this piece of altruism had been conveniently overlooked by both the outraged arresting female constable and an apoplectic Cowley. If it hadn't been for Bodie's timely and supportive distraction (He had been endeavouring to demonstrate a bit of fancy shooting to a group of unsuspecting trainees. Unfortunately, his gun had gotten tangled in his holster and before the bullets had stopped flying, he had taken out, not only the hapless bunch of trainees, but had also put a passing Jaguar out of its misery.), Doyle might have ended up in Records for the rest of his life.

As it was, the Scot had declared them both persona non grata and, subsequently, packed them off to the Outer Hebrides to investigate the supposed sighting of Nazi submarines. It had taken them ten days to authoritatively put that rumour to rest, and they had returned to London filled with the justifiable pride of an op well done. The alarming rise in bullet-ridden carcasses of seals and pilot whales was not mentioned in their report.

Pouting, Doyle was about to continue in his own defence when he noticed where they were. "This is the place."

Unfortunately, he stupidly spoke the words before he had taken proper precautions. Thus, it was his own silly fault, maintained Bodie virtuously, that he had to physically separate himself from the panel air vent and radio. He knew better. Doyle contented himself with glowering at his partner and muttering dire imprecations under his breath as he followed in Bodie's wake, trying to shake the creases out of his body.

---

Dr. Fig Newton was not what the agents had been expecting. Upon reaching his office, they were immediately shown into his private chambers. Before they could do more than a cursory examination--open all his desk drawers, dump a few books off their shelves--the door opened again to admit the psychiatrist. Looking like a cross between Peter Lorre with a chronic headache and Boris Karloff with a hemorrhoid problem, the doctor shuffled in and gave them both an impartial surly stare. "Sit down, sit down," he instructed impatiently, his voice reminiscent of dry ball-bearings rolling together.

Inwardly flinching, Bodie and Doyle dropped into chairs and stared at the man before them. This was their expert on the sexual assaults? Doyle privately thought the man knew as much about sex as Quasimodo did. Still, the person they were chasing was a pervert...the doctor was probably quite knowledgeable about that.

Brightening, Doyle gave him his full attention.

"I gather Major Cowley has briefed you on this matter?" rasped the doctor, his porcine eyes flicking between them.

"Yessir," gulped Bodie. Clearing his throat, the dark-haired man went on in a more normal tone. "He said you had examined all the victims."

"He also said," put in Doyle, "that you felt you could identify this man psychologically. So tell us about him, Dr. Newton. Are all his gears meshin'?"

The man smiled slightly, this act giving him the look of a camel with gas.

"Quite a quaint way of putting it. Perhaps I should begin by giving you my findings from my interviews with his victims." Dr. Newton leant back in his chair, fixing a stoney anthropoidal stare on Doyle.

For his part, Bodie took a couple of deep breaths and did his best to become one with the furniture.

"Each of the gentlemen in question," began Newton, "were noted to be in a daze. Their physicians could find no reason for this state; there were no blows to the head or drugs in the bloodstream. So each doctor ordered comprehensive blood work on their individual patients. In each case, the only abnormal findings were residues of high levels of testosterone in the blood and an unusually low sperm count. There were also other indications of recent and...enthusiastic...sexual intercourse."

The two agents exchanged a sideways look.

"Oh, my," commented Doyle weakly, knowing his partner was wearing the same goofy grin. He tried to concentrate on the situation. "Uh...yeah. So what caused their shock, Doc? If they weren't hurt in any way...?"

"It appeared to have stemmed from the residue of their severe orgasmic high."

Newton ignored Bodie's audible aside of "I definitely have to meet this bloke!" and continued dryly, "Combined with the after-effects of hypnosis."

"Hypnosis?" Bodie wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.

Doyle was also scowling.

"Hypnosis," confirmed the psychiatrist. "Oh, they weren't completely under. It was more an easing of their inhibitions, coupled with a post-suggestion."

"What was the suggestion?"

"None of the victims can give us a description of their assailant, or how they were abducted. They can, and do, tell us that they remember being in a large, brightly lit room which is conservatively decorated. Three victims recall a telephone call being made in their presence to the various newspapers, but not

feeling concerned by it. When questioned about their abductor, however, everyone of them just smile and say "God knows!" They can't be budged on that. I've tried hypnosis myself, along with various drugs to relax them, but the original post-hypnotic suggestion is too strong."

"So it's useless to interview any of `em," sighed Doyle.

Bodie sighed, too, although for a different reason. He had rather looked forward to interviewing all of those rich men. At tea-time, of course. The aristocracy were invariably polite and always served a splendid tea. "So what sort of bloke are we looking for, cookie?" he asked, his wistful thoughts still on chocolate biscuits and custard tarts.

"I am not a cookie!" snapped Newton. "I am a psychiatrist!"

"Sure you are," soothed Doyle, giving his partner a warning look.

Bodie sniffed eloquently, and crossing his arms over his chest, stared at the wall, his natural pout deepening.

One last glare at the ex-merc, then Dr. Newton ostentatiously turned his back to him and swiveled to face the smaller man. "Based on the data I have accumulated, I believe the man you are looking for is a man who cares nothing for the normal conventions of society. Indeed, his flagrant way of publicly humiliating his victims shows a deep-seated obsession to flaunt established public and sexual decency, not to mention a complete absolution of societal mores."

"Eh?" Listening despite himself, Bodie now felt adrift in a sea of psycho-babble.

"He means, the bloke gets his kicks from first blowin' `em off, then showin' `em off," Doyle explained succinctly.

"Oh."

Newton was looking at Doyle with a great deal of respect. "Exactly. The hypnotic spell, of course, serves a two-fold purpose. It not only traps his victims, it makes them susceptible to his wishes. Since he always plants a post-hypnotic amnesia, he must mean to keep doing these dreadful things. The men involved are quite unable to name their attacker; so, unless he is caught in the act, I am very much afraid this man will never be captured."

---

This isn't so bad after all, mused Bodie, fingering the expensive topcoat he was sporting. Being bait for this pervert did have a few perks: Wearing tailor-made clothes, eating in the best restaurants, and driving a flash car went a long way toward easing his misgivings about the whole affair. Sauntering slowly through Piccadilly, Bodie felt his satisfaction rising. He looked good, and he knew it; his smirk broadcasted that conclusion to all around him. Smugly noting the envious and lascivious looks directed his way, the dark-haired man paused for a moment to look in a shop window, brushing a microscopic speck of dust from his shoulder.

An unwelcome thought filtered through his preening, and his smile wobbled.

Should he really be so happy he was looking this fine? A handsome, obviously aristocratic fellow alone on the streets after midnight...it was a recipe for disaster of the worst sort. Abruptly feeling the crazed red eyes of the stalker boring into him, Bodie hurried to the nearest street lamp. A casual onlooker might have called it a dead run, but the agent was in no mood to quibble.

Securely planted under the bright beam, Bodie extracted his R/T. "3.7 to 6.2. Any action your way, Murph?" Crossing his fingers, Bodie prayed...hard.

A flash of static, then Murphy's voice. "Not on your life, mate; the West End's dead tonight. Andrew Lloyd Webber must be on holiday."

Swallowing, Bodie tried for a nonchalant tone. "What about Stuart? Belgravia's usually hopping this time of night."

His spirits dropping, Bodie listened to the chuckle coming from his R/T. "Not for Stuart, it isn't. It appears walking from flat to motor, and back again, made someone suspicious. Last time he tried it, he was nicked. Cowley's down at the local factory now, bailing him out on a charge of Loitering With Intent. The Old Man is not happy."

"So what else is new?" laughed Bodie weakly, his stomach churning. "Well, best of luck to you, mate." Signing off, he then called his partner.

No answer.

He tried again. "3.7 to 4.5. Come in, Doyle."

Dead silence.

Trying to quail the rising disquiet, Bodie tried once more. "C'mon, Doyle! Where are you, mate?"

A slight noise. "Right here."

Bodie felt his hackles rise. His partner's voice was deeper and huskier than normal and he was panting. "What's wrong, sunshine?" he asked anxiously. "Are you all right? Is something up?"

This time, when Doyle replied, his voice and breathing were back to normal. "Of course something's up, you pillock! You know what goes on in these places after dark!" The curly-haired agent had drawn the midnight stroll through Hyde Park. "My god, I dinnit know some of those positions were possible!"

He had obviously been keeping alert--checking out all the shadows and bushes.

Making a disgusted face, Bodie snapped, "Nice to know you're working! At least your other head is!"

"Don't be crude. Anything happenin' your way?" Doyle was sounding distracted again.

"Will you keep your beady little green eyes closed for just a few minutes?" pleaded Bodie.

"OK, OK," came the sullen reply. "No need to get your knickers in a twist. I take it everythin's quiet your end?"

"At the moment." Bodie looked around nervously. Even at this late hour,

Piccadilly was never totally deserted. He watched the pedestrians and passing vehicles for several minutes, then continued, "I've got a funny feeling, though."

"Funny feelin', is it?" Doyle drawled sarcastically. "Indigestion, more like. Told you not to eat the entire pastry cart, but, as usual, you wouldn't listen."

Irritation setting in, Bodie shot back, "Well excuse me for bothering you! By all means, go back to furthering your education. God knows your birds don't wish to remain missionaries the rest of their lives!" He flipped the R/T off, cutting short the outraged roar. Muttering under his breath, Bodie turned and promptly cannoned into someone.

"So sorry," he apologised, re-focusing. He helped the other man to his feet, brushing at his coat.

The man gave a little laugh. "No harm done, my friend." His voice was soft, gentle, yet strangely powerful.

Gazing into mesmerising brown eyes, Bodie knew he was lost.

Dang! was his last conscious thought.

---

The insistent beeping of the R/T pierced the quiet night air. Doyle gave it a scathing look and debated the wisdom of answering. It was probably just Bodie again, whining about being bored. Giving a regretful sigh, he turned away from the grove of trees he had been perusing and put away his night-vision binoculars. He leant against the statue of Pan as he keyed open his R/T. "Yeah, Doyle here."

"Get over to Prince of Wales Hospital. Now." Cowley's voice brooked no arguments.

Doyle felt himself tense. "Another?"

"Yes."

"On me way."

---

The squealing of rubber on tarmac broke into Cowley's furious thoughts.

"Doyle's here," Murphy reported unnecessarily.

"Indeed," the Controller said neutrally, eyeing the well-dressed, but disheveled, whirlwind tearing up the corridor.

"Who is it this time?" panted Doyle. "Did we catch him? Where's Bodie?"

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, Murphy blurted out, "I'd best check in with HQ." and fled.

"Wot's with him?" Doyle stared in bewilderment after his rapidly retreating colleague.

"A sudden back problem, I should think," the Scot said dryly. "Now, as to your questions: No, we did not catch the perpetrator; we are in the dark as much as ever. As for Bodie..." Cowley paused briefly, then inclined his head, indicating the Casualty Ward. "He's in there."

Doyle glanced briefly at the doors to the Treatment Wards, then turned back to his boss, puzzled. "Huh? Why's he in...?" His voice trailed off. Jade eyes

widening in comprehension, Doyle swung around to gape at the double doors, then back at Cowley. "You mean... He never...? Bodie was the...?" Incapable of completing the thought, yet alone a sentence, Doyle fell silent. After several long minutes of heavy breathing and rapidly blinking eyes, Doyle found his voice. "Oops."

Closely observing him, Cowley gave an inaudible sigh. "Oops, indeed."

Pacing agitatedly back and forth, Doyle ran his hand through his hair, dislodging a leaf and several twigs. "But how did it happen? Bodie was wired, with back-up only a few minutes away! How could...?" He stopped and glared at his Controller. "Who screwed up? Was it Murphy?"

"No one `screwed' up," Cowley said coolly. "Stop screeching and pay attention."

Throwing himself into a chair, Doyle slouched down, staring frigidly at his employer.

"That's better." Cowley seated himself across from his pouting agent. "Now--McCabe and Lucas heard Bodie check in with you and Murphy. The bug was operating excellently. The next sounds they heard were a muffled grunt and a dull thud, then Bodie apologising to some person. Lucas said it sounded as if Bodie had accidentally knocked someone over. A man laughed and replied. There were some moments of silence--McCabe originally thought that Bodie had walked on--when, suddenly, the same stranger's voice said, "You know what to do." There was a crunching noise, then the bug stopped transmitting. When they arrived at Bodie's location, he was nowhere to be seen. His R/T was sitting against a street lamp, and the bug had been smashed."

"But..." Doyle glanced at his watch. "That was four hours ago!" he protested. "Why wasn't I told before now?"

"What could you have done?" Cowley asked mercilessly. Besides, he thought in exasperation, I had enough to do without having to deal with your inevitable hysterics as well!

"Was...was there a photographer?" the lithe agent asked angrily. If someone's goin' to be makin' money off Bodie's privates, I deserve a cut... One look at the Scot's face was enough. "Fuck."

"Not only was there a photographer present," Cowley replied acidly, "but as we arrived, we found Bodie amicably discussing camera angles, fisheyes, and lighting with the man! He was complaining about there not being enough light for a good picture, and was volunteering to pose for a re-shoot. Damn fool offered the use of the CI5 Photo Lab before we could shove him into a car!" The Controller was so furious he was practically spitting.

An awkward silence fell. When he judged it safe enough to speak without losing his head, Doyle thought to ask, "How is he?"

Cowley stood and strode over to the double doors, pushing one open. "Listen for yourself."

Doyle came to stand beside the other man and cocked an ear. At first, all he could hear was an indistinguishable murmuring and the faint sound of a phone ringing. Then, suddenly, he heard it...a low humming coming from one of the treatment cubicles. Gasping, Doyle turned his head and met his boss' eyes. A look of horror came over his round face as the humming stopped and Bodie started singing...off-key: "If you want my body, and you think it's sexy..."

---

Mid-afternoon, and Cowley was once again on the phone, trying to explain away the latest fiasco to yet another Minister. Thankfully, a combination of D notices and imaginative terrorist threats had kept the press muzzled, but word had leaked out, nonetheless, and now CI5 was the laughingstock from MI6 all the way down to the local snitch on the street corner.

Bodie was going to die...Cowley had promised himself this.

Slamming the handset into the receiver, Cowley stalked out of his office. If he didn't calm down, the next time the phone rang, he would pitch it out the

window. Turning a corner, he spied a familiar backside heading out the front door.

"Doyle!" he roared. "Where the bloody hell do you think you're going?"

By the time the windows had stopped rattling and the dust had settled, Doyle had turned around and taken a few steps back inside. "'M goin' home," he announced ingenuously. "Need me sleep, I do, if `m gonna get this bloke tonight."

Cowley stared at the younger man. It's finally happened--the lad's yarn has completely slipped both his knitting needles. Never at a loss for words for long, the Scot recovered quickly. "Oh? You seem very sure of that."

"I am." The round face was set, jade eyes purposeful. "You'll see. Finally figured this guy out, and I've got a plan. Just wait for me signal and then come runnin'." Doyle turned back to the door. "You'll see," he repeated as he left.

Cowley was left standing in an empty corridor, jaw hanging and a sick feeling growing in his stomach.

---

"What are we doing here?" complained a very wet and chilled Anson.

"Tailing Doyle," an equally wet and chilled Jax replied laconically.

The Barbadian should have been thoroughly warmed by the heated glare thrown his way, but he seemed completely unaffected.

"No shit, Sherlock," the blond shot back sarcastically. "But what makes the Old Man so certain this creep is going to be out tonight? He's never hit two nights in a row before. And Doyle? Let's face it, the only way he would be aristocratic material is from the wrong side of the blanket."

"You could be right." The black agent shrugged unconcernedly. "But, you and I both know he's got the royal lines in the place it counts the most."

Disgruntled, Anson shut his mouth over his automatic reply.

They had been tailing their fellow operative for over two hours through a

misting rain and gradually deepening fog. Doyle had set a casual path, wandering apparently aimlessly from his starting point outside a fashionable pub in Belgravia. Anson's scepticism seemed to be well-founded, for all of the infrequent passersby appeared more intent on getting out of the chilly night air than in accosting a lone man.

The R/T in Jax's hand abruptly came to life; a stranger's melodious voice echoing clearly. "Not a night fit for man nor beast, is it?"

"Not really, no." Doyle's laugh was light and easy. "But I like it, so what does that make me?"

"A man who knows his own mind, my friend," was the laughing reply.

The sudden silence from the R/T was more chilling than the night.

Then, incredibly, a burst of vicious cursing. "What the fuck...? You stupid bastard!"

Frantically, Anson keyed his own R/T as he and Jax raced toward their embattled colleague. "Corner of Portman Square and Cavendish. Hurry!"

The two CI5 men rounded a corner at full speed. In the distance, speedily getting louder, they could hear the wail of a police siren and the scream of tyres. As they cleared a yew hedge, a bizarre sight greeted them.

Doyle was backed up against a concrete wall, his arms slack at his sides. A dark figure loomed over him, mouthing obscenities at the top of his lungs as his hands struggled with something. He seemed to suddenly hear the approaching sirens, for his head jerked up and he took off...right into the arms of Lucas and McCabe who had just appeared around the other corner.

The dark street came alive with the headlamps of multiple cars; the quiet was shattered by the sirens, screeching of brakes, and the slamming of doors. As Jax and Anson drew even with the stricken Doyle, Cowley popped out of a still-moving car.

It was finally over.

---

Bodie leant back against his pillow, lasering a hot glare across the room. The object of his ire, George Cowley, just smiled blandly. The door opened and Ray Doyle entered, breaking the tension-filled silence.

"What's happenin'?" he asked blankly, gazing from one to the other.

A minuscule smile lifted one corner of Cowley's mouth. "Your partner," he reported evenly, "is displeased with us."

Bodie's snort shook the room. "Displeased!? Hell, no, mate; more like I'm bloody furious!"

"What I'd do now?" whined the hapless Doyle, raising his eyes to heaven.

That set Bodie off. "Do? Do?! You over-permed, underweight, mental midget... Where do you get off setting yourself up like that? Huh? You ever stop to think what might've happened? What could've gone wrong? All that bloke needed was ten seconds and, whoosh, your banana's hanging from the tree! What if Jax and Anson hadn't been right around the corner? You would've been number nine, mate, easy as pie!"

"Nah," dismissed Doyle expansively. "Never happen, sunshine. Besides, Jax and Anson weren't right around the corner...closer off to three streets away, I reckon."

Bodie's jaw dropped to the bed with a creak. Smiling widely, Cowley leant against the wall and enjoyed his spectator status.

"You...? Uh...? Three!?" stuttered Bodie, getting his jaw working again.

"Yeah. Dinnit want `em too close, did I? Might've scared the perp off."

"But how?" The glazed look in the cobalt eyes was indicative of a brain spinning its wheels. "I mean, that guy's hands were like greased lightening!"

"Never had a chance, mate," Doyle said sunnily. "An' he's in a cell now, won't ever be doin' that to anyone again."

Sighing, Cowley eased away from the wall and walked over to the door. "Be that as it may, lad, we still might have trouble making the charges stick. As he is an American on the run, his government has first crack at him...and he's wanted on several very serious charges. We may have to extradite him."

"Just who is this guy?" Bodie wondered, as his partner stood himself in a corner and seethed loudly.

"What's the matter, Bodie?" Cowley asked in quiet amusement. "Didn't you have a chance to get properly introduced?" He went on, ignoring both the blushing glare and the muffled giggle from the corner. "He is Jack B. Cook, a former tele-evangelist from the southeastern United States. It seems Mr. Cook is wanted for not only fleecing his flock of several million dollars, but also for offering to show several of his altar boys his personal path to Brotherly Love."

"A tele-evangelist," mulled Doyle. "Well, that explains his voice and eyes.

Those blokes are used to hypnotisin' their congregation--it keeps `em comin' back for more."

"Yeah, and it also explains those quick hands...from dipping into people's pockets," added Bodie. His words recalled an earlier mystery, and he turned bemused eyes on his partner. "I still don't see how you were able to keep that guy in one spot long enough for our lads to get there. I mean, you weren't fighting him, were you?"

"Nah. Just like you--one look in those eyes--and I was a goner," said Doyle, shaking his head ruefully.

"Then how?" persisted Bodie.

"Easy enough." Doyle's smug smirk rivaled Bodie's best shot. "With these." A flick of the wrist flung back his jacket.

Bodie found himself staring at the crotch of Doyle's tackiest pair of jeans...his absolutely favourite pair of Levi's Button Fly, 501 jeans.

"Aye, lad: Jack the Zipper has been button-holed," stated Cowley. "For once, Doyle actually used his head." Opening the door, he started out, then turned around to say,

"The one on his shoulders, I mean."

-- THE END --

March 1994
Originally published in London by Night, 1994