Free time was not easily come by for Ray Doyle, and extended periods of it usually had a negating factor in the form of an injury to be recovered from. On this particular occasion, it was a flesh-wound in his upper left arm and concussion.

He was at the stage of repair when the headaches had gone for good, the new-healed scar itched infernally, and the damaged muscles had not quite knitted together sufficiently to please CI5's medical officer. Or Cowley. Maximum efficiency and maximum fitness. George Cowley would not settle for anything less in his operatives.

So Doyle had at least another week of twiddling his thumbs and performing meaningless callisthenics to tighten up his left arm. When he wasn't dismantling, cleaning, and tuning up a Norton grass-track motorcycle that had been the love of his life longer than any girl.

Whistling through his teeth, Doyle scratched absently at his injury, and reached for a new gasket set still sealed in its heat-shrunk polythene. He was sitting cross-legged in the small yard of his garden-flat, surrounded by the Norton's innards, and CI5 was, for a while, very far from his thoughts. The skeleton of the machine, minus both wheels, leaned against the far wall. In direct proportion to the cleanliness of the motorcycle's components, Doyle and his clothing were oil-streaked and rank. His hair, due to his habit of raking fingers through it, hung over his forehead in heavy, soiled, curls.

It was an unpleasing apparition, but Cowley did not hesitate as he pushed open the unlocked gate. The dourness of his expression, however, said it all.

"Good afternoon."

"'Afternoon, sir." Doyle spared him a swift glance before attacking the gasket set. The polythene was tougher than it looked.

"Have you ever considered philately as a hobby?" Cowley remarked, avoiding the scattered machinery with the distaste of a cat avoiding puddles. Doyle grinned, teeth very white in his blackened face.

"Used to, when I was a kid," he said, rubbing the back of his wrist across an itch on his eyebrow, redistributing some of the dirt. "Until my brother's dog ate all my hinges. So I fed him the stamps and album to go with 'em, and he sicked the lot up on Alex's bed."

"I see." Cowley's expression deepened. "Clean yourself up and change into something from the more respectable end of your wardrobe. You've got ten minutes. I'll wait in my car."



Nine minutes later, the passenger door opened, and Doyle slid into the Rover. He was resplendent in green shirt and tie, beige slacks and tweed jacket; face clean and shaven, hair still damp from shampoo and shower.

"I'm back on duty, sir?" he asked. His voice was casual, noncommittal, but the tension of eagerness and anticipation lay under the facade. Cowley permitted himself a half-smile.

"Aye, in a manner of speaking," he said. "You don't play golf, do you?"

"Uh, no."

"You're going to learn."

"Yes, sir," said Doyle, and the powerful car moved away from the kerb.

Doyle asked no questions, though they burned on his tongue, and Cowley vouchsafed no information. The hour-long drive was conducted in silence, broken only once as Cowley turned into the lodge-gates of a very exclusive country club.

"Are we followed?"

"No, sir." Question and answer were unnecessary, but like Doyle's waiting silence, it was part of a kind of ritual.

Other than mundane conversion with several club members met along the way, little was said between them until they had walked away from the club-house and had reached a deserted green.

Cowley drove down the fairway towards the distant flag, dropped the club into the bag slung over Doyle's shoulder, and said;

"Valery Andreivitch Torvenski."

If Doyle was surprised, it did not show beyond a slight twitch of his brows. But the coiled-spring tension increased.

"We're going for him?"

"I am going for him," Cowley corrected. "Or rather, I intend that he should come to me. How much do you know about him?"

"One of the KGB's top men, specialises in turning influential people, mainly operates in the States. C.I.A. haven't got him yet."

"He's a dangerous, damaging man, is Torvenski," Cowley said. "He's cost this country some good men, let alone America. And Lord knows who he's turned that we don't know about. Yet. So I think it's about time he turned me."

"Yes, sir." Doyle did not blink. "The money angle isn't going to be enough with him, not with your past record, so --"

" -- it's blackmail," Cowley finished for him.

"And Comrade Valery uses the dirtier kind. Have you dug up a steamy and sordid skeleton from your past, sir?"

Cowley's glance would have frozen milk-bottles on doorsteps.

"Why does that sound like something Bodie might have said?" he demanded.

"Great minds think alike?" Doyle said, unwisely.

"Aye. How does it go on -- 'and fools never differ'. A little more apt, perhaps. The skeleton is not in my past, 4.5, it's in the immediate future. I want to pick your brains -- which of my operatives would you consider suitable as the other party in a blackmailable liaison?"

"Operatives?" Doyle queried. "That's limiting."

"Maybe. But it's necessary. I won't involve anyone who can't take care of themselves."

"Yeah, point taken. Sort of lets out the Home Sec's wife." In spite of the facetiousness, he was frowning thoughtfully, and Cowley did not press for a more sensible answer.

They walked in silence down the fairway, the slanting rays of the cool, autumn sun throwing their shadows ahead of them, the younger man automatically shortening his stride to accommodate his companion's slower, limping pace.

"A viable and effective lever lets out our girls, as well," Doyle said at last. "And to be really feasible, bars most of the men."

"On what grounds?" Cowley asked, intrigued.

"Age, appearance and personality," he replied. "I'd've thought that someone like you would go for either the mid-teens, or early to middle twenties, looking for youth, fitness, good looks, and a personality and intelligence that matches your own. Don't think CI5 can supply all that in one package."

"So who do you suggest as a makeshift?" Cowley's accents were plummy, and it occurred to Doyle that he could have just jeopardized his next pay-rise, and any leave due to him for the next twelve months. But The Old Man had asked…

"Roy Bennett's right for the age and looks, but I doubt if he's got the experience to fake and stick to the situation. Bodie could do it, but he's over the age limit even if he doesn't look it. Gerry Harper's a good possibility, he should be flexible enough. Or Mark Goddard." Doyle paused, then nodded. "Goddard would get my vote, with Harper or Bodie as runner-up."

Cowley nodded. His own thinking had gone along much the same lines, with one notable exception.

"You've not put yourself on the list," he said.

"Too old," Doyle said, "by a good six years."

"I'll stretch a point."

His agent looked at him, exasperation and respect mingled on the mismatched features.

"You'd already made up your mind," he sighed.

"Yes. This is more than a top security operation, 4.5. The Home Secretary is aware of it, but apart from the two of us, that's all. And no one else will be told. Including Bodie. Torvenski is too big a fish to take chances with."

"Okay, sir."

"It will be a long term job, run in tandem with other operations and viable twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. As far as the Department is concerned, they will no doubt put down my increased attention to you as a wish to groom a possible successor -- at first. Well, that is the basis. The finer details can be worked out at a later stage, when you are back to work. Do you play chess?"

"Uh, yes, sir."

"Good. We'll be spending a lot of time in each other's company, and it could become tedious. I'll take a wood for this shot, Doyle."



Back at his flat, after caddying for nine holes, and a meal that fitted the elegant surroundings of the Burnham Hall Country and Sports Club, Doyle was able to let out his held-back amazement. He took off his jacket, dropped it over the back of the couch and stood in the middle of the room, a widening grin on his face. In spite of the time-lapse, he was still mentally reeling.

"Bloody hell," he said aloud. (Trust the old goat to come up with a lulu. Torvenski!) Then his expression changed to mild outrage. (Why me, for God's sake? Do I look like a bloody fairy?) On the other hand, Cowley obviously had enough confidence in him to pick him out of the herd for this one, and that was quite an ego-boost. (Grooming his successor? Christ!) And he couldn't tell Bodie any of it, which was a tragedy. He'd give a month's pay to see his face -- in fact the whole set-up was guaranteed to appeal to his partner's vicious sense of humour, and that was reason enough to keep him in the dark. Bodie would find it hard to respond to the developing situation in a genuine manner. If it came to that, could he? Acting the part of Cowley's boyfriend was going to be bloody difficult. How the hell was he supposed to react in that kind of arrangement -- and how were they going to fake something like that to a degree that would fool an agent of Torvenski's calibre? Probably the old man had it already worked out. "Bloody hell," he said again. And then he wondered what Bodie's reaction would be when it dawned on him that he, Doyle, had suddenly become as queer as a nine quid note, and was having it off with Cowley, of all people.

Laughing like a drain, he went up to the bedroom to change back into his oiled-up work-clothes. There was the interrupted work to be completed on his bike.

---

The week did not pass quickly. Doyle's impatience to be back at work surprised no one, least of all Bodie. Who, being Bodie, did his damnedest to aggravate his partner's temper with snide remarks and speculations. That he failed was not through lack of honest effort, rather it was Doyle's preoccupation with thoughts of his own, thoughts he did not share with the other half of his unit.

To his intense relief, the doctor pronounced him fit for active duty, and Bodie unsuccessfully hid his own satisfaction behind a grumbling monologue of complaint, the main theme being the need to break in his team-mate all over again after so long a time lazing around.

"It was me that broke you in, sunshine," Doyle snorted. "I was in this mob before you, remember."

"Which proves nothing," Bodie countered, pleased at having finally won a retort from him. "A flatfoot, you were. Just a bloody copper. I on the other hand--"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. A poor-man's James Bond is what you were. And are. All mouth and trousers," Doyle cut back. It was an old argument, and one that did not pall for either of them. "I've collared nutters like you in my time, and put 'em behind bars."

"Listen, mate, I am unique," Bodie grinned. "Totally and completely--"

"'Course you are," Doyle agreed, straight-faced. "All the rest were smothered at birth. A zoo is where you belong --"

"Where I belong?" he exclaimed, voice rising. Then, "Yes, maybe you're right. Where else are they going to put you when you're too decrepit for CI5 but with the other laughing hyenas. Don't worry, old son. I'll see you're okay. I'll volunteer to be your keeper. After all, what are partners for?"

"God knows. I've yet to find out what you're for. You're not even bloody decorative."

"Doyle. Bodie." The chill voice stopped them in their tracks. "When you have finished re-establishing your relationship, I want to see you both in my office. At your mutual convenience, of course." They turned to meet Cowley's cold eyes. "The ritual is concluded? Good. In there."

Trailing in his wake like a pair of delinquent schoolboys, they entered the office, Bodie automatically standing at parade-rest, Doyle in a semi-slouch in front of the desk.

Cowley sat down, steepled his fingers and studied his operatives.

"Thefts from hotel rooms, and house-breaking," he said. "Gold and silver jewellery and ornaments are all that's taken. Plate is left behind. Electronic security systems are circumvented with knowledge and precision. It's a pattern that has become apparent over the last six months, and so far none of the items stolen have shown up, nor even been whispered about on various grapevines. What does that suggest to you?"

"Cached and/or smuggled out," Doyle said promptly. Cowley nodded.

"But," said Bodie, "that's routine police business. Isn't it?"

"On the surface, yes. However, a recent hotel robbery netted an antique set of necklace, brooch, bracelet and ear-rings in gold and sapphires, from the wife of an official in the Bulgarian Embassy. Unfortunately for her, the jewels belong to the State, and she was not with her husband at the time."

"Beautiful!" Bodie snickered. "The decadent West gets to 'em every time."

"Is she in a position to be useful to us, sir?" Doyle asked.

"No. Not at the moment. The situation is this; her husband is being cultivated by MI6, and he is beginning to sway. He does not know of his wife's current indiscretion, and both MI6 and Irina Makova are anxious that he should not find out. Since she was supposed to have been taking the jewels in for cleaning and a clasp-repair, but chose to spend part of the afternoon with her lover first, we have provided her with a receipt from Cartier's to back her cover."

Bodie's grin widened.

"Who's the other feller?" he asked. "Is he useful?"

"No. He has a very menial post in the same Embassy. The lady wishes the return of the jewellery, and is ready to sign a pact with the Devil if necessary to obtain them -- she does not know of MI6's interest in her husband. Our task is to locate and recover the things before her husband and the Ambassador discover the where and how of their loss. She has already been warned in the past that further extramarital carelessness on her part will result in her husband's immediate demotion and return to Bulgaria. Neither of them would welcome that."

"I'll bet," Bodie cackled, and collected sour looks from his superior and his partner.

"What leads do we have?" Doyle wanted to know.

"Very few. Scotland Yard has established a possible link between similar crimes and one Colin Connors. They investigated him as a matter of routine two months ago and drew a blank. But a young man resembling him was seen in the hotel lobby that day. So we start with him. Or rather, with his sister." He placed photographs in front of them, and Bodie whistled appreciatively. Doyle straightened out his slouch and took interest. "They are a twin. Lucy Connors is the younger by some twenty minutes." For form's sake, the agents spared a glance at Connors, but their main concentration was given to the girl. Her beauty was enough to justify their somewhat unprofessional bias. "She works for 'Pegasus', a fashion shop in Oxford Street," Cowley went on. "She and her brother are very close, but she appears to have no part in, nor knowledge of, his illegal activities. I want that checked out. Either way, we can possibly get to him through her. Bodie."

"Sir."

"Observe and make contact. Gain her confidence."

"Yes, sir." His swift enthusiasm got a scowl from Doyle. Trust Bodie to land a plum job like that.

"Don't get carried away, sunshine," he snapped. "CI5 won't pay up on a breach of promise or paternity suit against you."

"That's enough," Cowley barked. "4.5, Connors is your pigeon. He drives a van for Fenners Laundry during the day, and works some evenings for West End Taxis. He's twenty-four, and as far as the police can find out, seems as virtuous as a practising Quaker. He neither smokes nor drinks, belongs to no political party, is engaged to a rather plain girl he appears to adore. He is also a popular and hard-working employee, a dutiful and affectionate son. In short, a model citizen."

"Too bloody good," Doyle grunted.

"Aye. Perhaps. Police opinion, official and unofficial, is divided. Connors' link is a previous employment with S.H.S. -- Safe House Systems, a firm specializing in electronic security. They made him redundant, along with four others, eight months ago. S.H.S had installed the systems in three of the houses robbed, so naturally their staff, present and recently redundant, were questioned. He had a cast-iron alibi, thanks to his sister. But on several occasions, a young man answering his description has been seen on hotel premises at about the times of the robberies; again, his alibi held. Fenners Laundry deals with one of the hotels, but not with the Park View, where Irina Makova spent the afternoon. That theft was particularly audacious. The thief just walked in while Kuranin was taking a shower. Irina was half-asleep, and says she assumed it was her lover in a white bathrobe. By the time she realized her mistake, and that it was a stranger in a white coat, he was out of the room with thirty thousand pounds worth of gold. The intruder was tall and fair-haired, a description that fits Connors as well as Kuranin, and wore a knee-length white coat. Connors wears a white overall with Fenners monogram on the breast pocket when on his rounds."

"Cheeky bastard," Bodie drawled, admiration in his voice. "But --"

"But --" Doyle cut in, "if it was him, and unless it was pure serendipity, how did he know where she'd be, and what she'd have with her? Has she used West End Taxis?"

"I was going to say that," his partner complained.

"She has, more than once. 4.5, I want to know all his contacts, customers, casual acquaintances, friends and work-mates, past and present. Then we'll see how they tie in with what Bodie can learn from the girl. I may put you in undercover at either the Laundry or the Taxis. In the meantime, keep in close touch with each other, and remember that we are not out to arrest a gang, but to recover one set of jewels in the fastest possible time. Cartier's have quoted a delivery date of three weeks from now, so we must locate and retrieve before then."

"Yes, sir." A duet, one voice bright and crisp, the other little more than a growl.

"On your way, 3.7," Cowley said. "Doyle, one of Connors' friends at the Laundry has a record -- petty theft --" as the door closed behind Bodie. "It might be a lead. His name's Nick Jennings. As for Torvenski," he continued without a pause, "we will begin the operation tonight. If you have made other arrangements, cancel them. Burnham Hall has an indoor and outdoor pistol range you may well find interesting. In a few weeks, I'll arrange your membership."

"Yes, sir," Doyle said, somewhat weakly.

"And while we are supposedly off-duty, we will be on first-name basis. Maintain the 'civil servant' facade at the Hall, they've not much of an idea of the nature of our work."

"What else do they do there, sir? Apart from golf and pistol shooting?"

"Rifles, fencing, swimming, squash, tennis, judo, karate," Cowley said. "There is also a small but excellent stable and plenty of space to either hack or ride the several cross-country courses laid out. There are gymnasiums, saunas and a solarium, and a team of masseurs. Membership is by recommendation and subscription only."

"How long," said Doyle wistfully, "can we spin out this job? And do I retain my membership when it's over?"

"The operation lasts as long as it takes to hook and land Torvenski, and no, you do not retain your membership. Because I have no intention of paying it for you, and you cannot afford it since, per annum, it is more than your salary -- including dubiously gained expenses."

"I was afraid you'd say that," he sighed. "I'll enjoy it while I can, then. Connors hasn't got any form?"

"None at all. Not even a parking ticket. He's been questioned, but the identification is 75% positive from the Park View. I don't want him alarmed, Doyle."

"Sir." It was a dismissal, and he made for the door. Then paused. "Uh, what about tonight? I mean, what time and where --"

"I'll pick you up at your apartment at seven-thirty. On your way, 4.5."

Doyle bit back a facetious remark, thinking -- correctly -- that Cowley would not appreciate it, and took himself off.

---

'If you have made other arrangements, cancel them'. It so happened that he had made plans for the evening -- a double-date with Bodie and two Defence secretaries. The girls had dated them before, were used to last-minute cancellations from either or both, and Bodie would not cavil at the prospect of entertaining the pair of them. But Doyle had been looking forward to the evening, and the attraction of nailing Valery Torvenski began to fade in the resentment of handing Bodie a ménage a trois on a plate. Besides, without committing himself in any way, he was fond of Jenny. She had made his convalescence positively enjoyable with cordon bleu cooking and other home comforts. The Burnham Hall Country Club was poor compensation for a disrupted sex-life, he decided, while Bodie, the jammy sod, not only ended up with his girl as well as Anna, but could seduce Lucy Connors on expenses. There was no justice in the world.

Bodie's car was gone by the time he reached the garage -- probably breaking traffic regulations getting to Oxford Street, if he knew his partner. His mood worsened.

Once clear of Whitehall, Doyle thumbed on the r/t.

"3.7, 4.5 to 3.7. Come in."

"Go ahead, 4.5," came the reply. "'Pegasus' has a men's department -- shall I buy you a pressie, Raymond? Socks? Hankies? A tie, perhaps?"

"Sod off," Doyle suggested. "For God's sake don't over-play it. She could be a shy young virgin, so don't scare her with the caveman tactics."

"At 24, looking like she does? I should be so lucky," Bodie said cheerfully. "Anyhow, virginity is a very over-rated commodity, old son. And my tactics are geared for the girl and the occasion. Where's your first stop?"

"Fenners Laundry. I'm going to find out where his local is, who he hangs around with."

"He doesn't drink," Bodie reminded him.

"I know that!" he snapped. "Neither does Harry in the Armoury, but that doesn't stop him being captain of the Swans darts team, does it?"

"What the hell's got up your nose?" knowing exactly. "Thought you'd be pleased to be back at work."

"I am!" he hissed. "Bloody delighted. Until ten minutes ago." Bodie's crow of laughter came over the radio loud and clear.

"Serves you right for not being suave and debonair and incredibly good-looking, like me," he said. "Never mind, Ray, I'll tell you all about it."

"Pillock," said Doyle, and cut off the r/t.

---

Doyle found an ideal vantage point from which to watch Fenners' rear entrance on the first lever of a multi-storey car-park. With his Escort nosed up to the open-work concrete walling, he had a clear view of the bays, the vans and their drivers, with little chance of being spotted himself. Connors was easily identified, even without the benefit of the field glasses, but opportunity put Jennings into his reach first.

A morose, white-coated figure with name-badge above the monogram, slouched out of the Laundry's loading bay and across the road to a snack-bar. Doyle dropped the field-glasses and scooped up the r/t, switched it on.

"4.5 to Control. Am following up a lead and maintaining radio silence. Inform 3.7 if he calls in, advise I will contact him."

"Acknowledged, 4.5" Impersonal and efficient, the girl's reply came through faint static, and he closed the channel, tucking the r/t out of sight behind the sun visor.

The snack bar was reasonable full, and, cup of coffee and cheese sandwich in his hands, Doyle's advance on Jennings' table was not out of place.

"This seat free, mate?" he said. Startled out of a reverie that seemed to have little to do with page 3 of the Sun, Jennings looked up from the newspaper with a jerk.

"Uh, yeah. Help yourself," he muttered. There was an old bruise fading on his cheekbone, a look of baffled misery and resentment on his face, marring what would otherwise be aggressively handsome features. But the jaw was too stubborn for real strength, Doyle noticed.

He did not attempt to intrude on Jennings' silence until he'd eaten his sandwich, drank most of his coffer; then,

"'Ere," he said. "You work with that mob across the road?"

"Yeah," the young man nodded. "I'm a despatch clerk. Why?"

"Any jobs going over there?"

"Dunno. Doing what?"

"Anything. Used to work for a wholesale grocer, driving trucks. Got made redundant last month."

"Well, there's no harm in tryin', I suppose. You want to see Old Man Fenner -- steer clear of the son, he's a miserable bastard, wouldn't give you the time of day, but the boss is all right."

Once he'd had got him talking, Jennings was easy to draw out and steer along the required lines, and what he had to say about Connors was informative. Nor did Doyle have to dig to obtain it. Sensing a sympathetic ear, Jennings was only too eager to get his grievances off his chest. Doyle let him ramble on, putting in the odd word here and there, until Jennings suddenly realized the passage of time, and that his coffee-break should have ended five minutes before.

The CI5 agent returned to his car, and contacted Control. Bodie hadn't called in, which meant he was still on watch at 'Pegasus'. Or should have been. But he did not answer his radio.

As if he had extra-sensory perception, Doyle knew exactly what his partner was doing. Chatting up a girl whose beauty and charm leaped out of a photograph to fill body and mind with the pleasant warmth of speculative lust.

"Bodie!" He gripped the r/t as if it was the absent man's throat, and shook it. "Bodie! Answer, damn you!" Hatred, loathing and total contempt were in his voice, twisting his features to a vicious mask. "Bodie!"

"3.7." Crisp but breathless, the reply finally came through. "Where's the fire?"

"You bloody-minded crud! Where the hell have you been? You're supposed to be on watch!"

"I was. Am." Injured innocence oozed from the r/t. "'Observe and make contact', that's what Cowley said -- and I've been doing both." Smugness replaced the virtue, and Doyle could see in his mind's eye the expression that went with it; smirking complacence. His loathing reached new depths.

"Bloody-Cowley!" he snarled. "Since when were you so bloody-well keen on obeying instructions to the letter? Next time you're going to be buggerin' off --"

"Sour grapes!" Bodie warbled. "Just because I got the contact bit -- Raymond, you are a poor loser."

"Listen --"

"You should see her, mate. Oh, boy. That photo doesn't do her justice -- she should sue. Moves like a dancer -- and the perfume she wears --"

"Bodie --" Doyle took a deep breath and controlled the urge to speak his mind forcibly and at great length. "Don't let your enthusiasm for your work lead you astray," he said instead, wondering if he could get away with not passing on one or two details he'd found out. "Is she biting, or is she intelligent?"

"She's biting." The smugness was still there. "Which only goes to prove that she is not only a very bright girl, but has excellent taste as well. I'm taking her to lunch tomorrow."

"I hope," said Doyle, prayerfully, "you get ptomaine poisoning." The only response that got was a snicker. Professionalism warred with personal inclination, and after a struggle, won. "Pay attention, 3.7," he snapped, deliberately borrowing a Cowley-phrase and razor-sharp tone. "I've made contact with an ex-mate of Connors, Nick Jennings. He works at the same place, in the despatch office. They used to be good friends until Jennings met and fell for Lucy. He's got a record, and Connors didn't approve of his sister mixing with low types like that."

"I see. It's okay to be pally with one, but you don't let your sister marry one, that's it?"

"More or less, though I doubt if either of them had marriage in mind. Anyhow, Connors warned him off, and when he refused to take the hint, he floored him. Told him he'd castrate him with a boot if he caught him near Lucy again. Jennings believes him, says he's not the first guy that's been discouraged, either. Connors is very protective of his sister's virtue, and has a very chancy temper. So you'd better watch it."

"He wouldn't object to a respectable civil servant, would he?" Bodie chuckled.

"Why not? I would, mate," Doyle said. "I'd bloody-well discourage you if I thought any of my sisters were daft enough to fancy you."

"I think I'd make you a very good brother-in-law," he retorted. "And your sisters are lookers, every one of 'em."

"But unavailable. They've got more sense than to fall for you, sunshine, and they're all married."

"Cathy isn't."

"Having divorced one bastard, she's not going to go for another one, is she? Besides, she's thirteen years older than you. All my sisters are older than you."

"I won't state the obvious about older women. You've got nieces, Raymond, who are also stunners -- Sally and Elizabeth -- and I haven't forgotten the way they cornered me under the mistletoe last Christmas--"

"I'll see you in hell, first. Pack it in, Bodie. Apart from her address, what else did you learn from the girl?"

"Nothing. She doesn't strike me as grieving for a lost lover, though. Okay, my part of the operation is working well, so I can leave Lucy until tomorrow. Who do you want checked out?"

"S.H.S.," Doyle said. "Find out who his mates were, and if he still goes around with them. See if anyone else got involved with Lucy and was warned off."

"Right. A man with a grudge is talkative. You'll be where?"

"Investigating his locals. The Vine near Fenners, and the De Vaux Arms in Battersea. Keep Control informed, Bodie."

"Up yours," came the cheerful response, and the transmission was cut.

---

Six o'clock saw Doyle back in his flat, several Police and MI6 files dropped on his desk. He fixed himself a quick snack, made a pot of coffee, and dialled Bodie's number. The phone rang some time before it was answered.

"Did I get you out of the bath?" Doyle grinned.

"Yes, sod you. What's up?"

"I can't make it tonight."

"What? Why not? Don't tell me the Old Man's called you out on a job?"

"No, it's nothing like that. Just something that's come up unexpectedly, and I can't get out of it."

"Oh. That's a bugger. Have you phoned Jenny?"

"No, I'd promised her this night out. Will you make excuses for me? Tell her duty calls, even if it hasn't."

"You want me to lie for you, Raymond?" Bodie demanded virtuously. His indignation had lasted about five seconds.

"Yes," said Doyle.

"Okay. No problem. But you'll owe me."

"Like hell I will. You'll owe me, mate. A free run with two girls? Of course, if you think you can't cope, I'll ring her up and --"

"Did I say that?" Bodie interrupted. "Don't worry, Ray, I'll take care of her. She won't even notice you're not there. See you tomorrow -- the bath's getting cold and I'm dripping all over the carpet."

"Yeah," said Doyle. "Have a good time." His answer was a degenerate chuckle, and he slammed the phone down.

---

When Cowley arrived at 7.30 on the dot, Doyle was waiting, showered, shaved, and wearing the casually expensive outfit he'd worn a week ago. Cowley gave him a raking glance and a nod of approval.

"There'll be some people there this evening that I want you to get on good terms with. It will smooth your passage through the Committee if you can count them among your co-sponsors. One of them is the Captain of the Pistol Team, and since he is always trying to up-grade the team's standard, Tuck should view the advent of an ex-Met marksman as a gift from the Gods."

"Okay, sir. I'll do my best."

"I'm sure you will. Here," holding out the Rover's keys. "You're driving, Ray."

He took them, a rueful smile on this mouth. Then he looked Cowley straight in the eye.

"George," he said, "I challenge you. Whatever hand-gun you name at whatever range."

"Done," said Cowley promptly. "The stake? Loser pays for the meal and drinks?"

"No stake. The honour of victory."

"Afraid you won't be able to afford it, boy?" Cowley smiled. "You're right, you couldn't. Come on. Or are you intending to stand there all night?" and led the way out to the car. "I see you've been reading the files," he said, fastening his seat belt. "Does anything tie in?"

"Could be. Bodie has found a Frank Hoskins at S.H.S. who had a run-in with Connors over his sister. He said Connors' special mates were Pete Elland and Tony Styles. Elland was made redundant at the same time, but Styles is still with them. All three were field engineers, dealing with the installation and maintenance of the systems. Styles still is. Elland is a regular in the De Vaux Arms, and his bed-sit's only about five minutes away from Connors'. And Connors lives roughly the same distance from Lucy, all in Battersea."

"Good. Here's some details you won't have discovered. Ten weeks ago Lucy's flat-mate was arrested and convicted on a drugs charge -- Lucy herself was not implicated. The girl claims the drugs were planted."

"They always do," Doyle said.

"By Colin Connors."

"What? Why?"

"She said he wanted her out of the flat. She'd offered Lucy some marijuana at a party, and Connors got to hear of it."

"So he framed her and had her put away," Doyle said softly. "A vindictive bastard, this virtuous, spotless youth."

"It would appear so. Talk to her tomorrow -- Pattie Anderson. She's in Holloway. I've made the appointment. But we are not after him, Ray, except as a means to an end. I want the jewellery."

"But if we've got enough on him to hand him over to the Met --"

"No. Those jewels cannot be implicated in any crime, nor mentioned in any official report or court case. Him we can pick up at any time, but we have only three weeks to get them back."

"Okay," he sighed. "But it goes against the grain. The more I hear about this model citizen, the less I like him."

"Once a policeman, always a policeman?" Cowley murmured. "Patience, Ray. We'll give him enough rope, and when he's tangled himself up, you can have him."

"I'll hold you to that." Then, "Wonder how involved the sister is?"

"Impossible to say. He is so fiercely protective of her, it seems likely she isn't, but Bodie will find out either way."

"Yeah," he said, a sour note in his voice. "If he leaves himself enough energy. I had to back out of a double-date tonight."

Cowley made brief sound that could have been a snort of amusement or of disapproval.

"No doubt you'll make up for lost time once we've dealt with Torvenski."

"I'll do my damnedest," Doyle said. "How long have you been a member of this club, s-George?"

"A considerable number of years. Certainly long enough to be in a position of some privilege. I always had a feeling it would prove useful one day."

Doyle shook his head, a gesture of admiration rather than denial, but he did not comment.

"Who else do I have to get the right side of?" he said instead.

"William, the barman; John Mellors, squash and back-gammon fanatic; Rob Tuck, accounts himself a first-class all-rounder with firearms; Mitch Hendricks, an ex-MI6 man like myself, and a retired diplomat. He has a heart condition, so avoids active sports, but plays a vicious game of chess. He is probably the only one who might have an idea of what CI5 is about, but won't trouble his head to think about it. Chess, M.C.C, and the Test Matches are the only things he's interested in. The rest of the world can go hang for all he'd care -- as long as it did it quietly and didn't interfere with the cricket. Once, Ray, a long time ago, Mitch was a very dangerous man."

"I always wondered what happened to old agents," Doyle said, and Cowley chuckled.

"Mitch is a model to us all," he said. "He's lost little of his shrewdness, just rarely bothers to use it. Tuck, on the other hand," and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of the various individuals he would be meeting. Doyle interrupted with questions, comments and any restraint caused by the easy informality expected of him rapidly faded. Using Cowley's Christian name no longer felt, or sounded, stilted, awkward, not to say presumptuous, and by the time he turned the big car in the sweeping drive of Burnham Hall, he was relaxed, at ease, and anticipating a good evening. As Cowley pointed out, they were, to all intents and purposes, off-duty, and since he wasn't paying for any of it, he may as well get the most out of it. That was a philosophy that Doyle was in agreement with, all along the line.

"Okay," he grinned. "Lie back and think of England?" he added.

"If necessary, yes," Cowley cut back. "Try and curb your natural facetiousness, that is all I ask. Park over there, under the yew tree."

---

And it was quite an evening; lack of female company notwithstanding, Doyle had not spent a more congenial and enjoyable time for years. Hendricks, resembling a dissolute and obese caricature of Sir Anthony Eden, had squinted at him over a chessboard, and demanded to know what position he fielded in, what number bat he was, did he bowl, and what did he think of the current Australian Tour.

"I don't play cricket, sir," he'd said. The first and major hurdle -- he couldn't pretend an interest in a sport he did not follow.

"What?" The bloodhound eyes had bulged a trifle. "What do you do, then?"

"Shoot," he replied succinctly. "Handguns mainly, though I'm pretty fair with a rifle, longbow and cross-bow. Squash. Boxing. Judo. Karate. Kendo --"

"Whoa back. Bloody-natured young savage. Has to be one of your boys, George. No team sports at all?"

"Basketball?" Doyle had offered.

"Imported rubbish. D'you play chess?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, that's something in your favour, I suppose. George, you'd better introduce him to Rob. Kindred spirits, by the sound of it."

The most important seal of approval. After that, Tuck was a pushover. Cowley and he had had their challenge match, and, very much on his mettle, Doyle had won. But the margin had been close. It was some time since he'd gone in for the strict formalities of target-shooting, and he was moderately pleased with himself. So too was Rob Tuck, an eagle-eyed spectator. He had pounced on Doyle with the enthusiasm of a large dog on a bone, and towed him away to the Club's Gun Room while Cowley returned to the lounge and Hendricks.

It was Tuck rather than Cowley who took him round on a detailed tour of Burnham Hall's facilities, introducing him to members and staff as a soon-to-be member of the pistol team. Most people wanted to know his job, but on hearing 'Home Office', enquired no further.

After a leisurely meal, the rest of the evening was spent between the lounge and the snooker room, and Doyle received something of a shock when a quietly amused Scottish drawl told him it was almost one o'clock. He'd seen little of Cowley; Tuck, Mellors, and several of the pistol team monopolising his attention. However, he was aware of his acceptance into that narrow and elitist group, an acceptance based initially on Cowley's introduction and Hendrick's approval, but ultimately on his skills and personality. The old-school-tie facade was just that.

One day, he told himself wistfully, as he reached his flat in the small hours, he'd be a bona fide member of that club, able to pay the fees -- one day. Or maybe he could get a job there -- range master -- martial arts instructor and coach --

Bodie, unshaven, heavy-eyed, and insufferably complacent, turned up on his doorstep at seven o'clock.

"What the hell?" Doyle snapped, letting him in.

"Just want to borrow your shower," his partner announced. "We ended up at Anna's place -- what's for breakfast?"

"You dumb crud! D'you think I'm going to feed you after you've spent half the night having it off with my girl?"

"Yes," said Bodie with simple faith, and disappeared up the stairs.

When he reappeared twenty minutes later, slightly damp and smelling of Doyle's aftershave, the only items of clothing that were his own were the light grey trousers and suede shoes. Everything else, Doyle guessed sourly, from underpants and socks to roll neck sweater and jacket, belonged to him. It was his own fault, he knew. He preferred shirts, sweaters and coats that fitted loosely over his light-boned frame, which meant they fitted his stockier partner as if they'd been made for him, a situation that Bodie exploited to the full. Of course, it cut both ways; in fact, he might need to borrow one of Bodie's dinner-suits and dress-shirts in the not too distant future. So he put eggs and bacon into the frying pan for him with only a token protest.

"What time are you seeing Lucy?" he asked.

"One. I'm going to have another chat with Hoskins before then. How about you?"

"Holloway. Lucy had a flat-mate. Seems like Connors shopped her with planted drugs."

"Yeah? Why?"

"Offering his sainted sister pot."

"Really? I like this boy, he's got style."

"That's what you call it, is it?"

"Don't tell me -- he offends your honest copper's soul," Bodie grinned. "Raymond, old son, sometimes you're as predictable as Pavlov's dogs. Jenny sends her love -- to quote her exact words; 'Tell Whatsisname I missed him.'"

"Lying sod."

"Would I lie to you?" soulfully. "Where's the tomato sauce?"

"In the cupboard beside you. My appointment at Holloway is at nine. As soon as I get through I'll contact you."

"Better make it via Control -- okay, don't say it. I'll log in as per The Book. Where did you go last night?"

"Out of London. Why?"

"We came by on the way back to Anna's to see if you were in. Your car was, but you weren't."

"That's right," said Doyle. "Pour me a coffee, will you? I've got post to open."

"Big secret, is it?"

"No. Book Club circular -- Access -- electricity bill -- letter from Meg in Hong Kong --"

"You are deliberately misunderstanding me," Bodie pointed out. "I have done my course in Every Boy's Guide to Interrogation, and received my length of rubber hose and steel toe-caps."

"Curiosity," said Doyle, "killed the cat. You intrude enough into my private life as it is."

"Who, me? Never!"

"Screwing my girl doesn't count, I suppose?"

"I seem to remember you and Anna getting extremely carried away on our last double-date. Would have taken tyre-levers and hydraulic jacks to separate you." Bodie countered, effectively side-tracked. And with any luck, Doyle reflected, he would not realize he'd been diverted for a while. However, show Bodie a mystery and then withhold information, and he would move heaven and earth to get to the bottom of it. It was, Doyle acknowledged, one of the traits that made him a good CI5 operative, and if played correctly, would suit Cowley's purpose to a T.

---

Pattie Anderson was small, plump, with curling dark hair that framed an attractive urchin-face, and she eyed Doyle with wary speculation as she sat down opposite him.

"You're a copper?" she demanded.

"No, Home Office," he smiled. "Name's Ray. Ray Doyle. I'd like to talk to you about Colin Connors."

"Oh, no," she said. "Not likely."

"You've claimed he framed you."

"I've made no official statement, and I won't," Pattie snapped.

"That suits me. I don't work within the official structure. Nothing you tell me will go into writing or appear in a law court. But it might help us to nail him on other counts. I need leads; names, faces, incidents -- and when I get him, he won't know what hit him."

She stared at him, then a slow smile parted her lips.

"I like the sound of that. As long as he never gets to hear about me."

"He won't."

"Okay, Ray. We can talk."

"Good girl. Tell me about him?"

"You've met him?"

"No. Not yet."

"He's two-faced. Hail-fellow-well-met, all-mates-together, as long as he can use you. If you cross him, though, he'll get even -- with interest. Takes his pound of flesh, as well, if you owe him, and then some."

"You crossed him," Doyle said softly. She pulled an expressive face.

"Yes, I suppose I did. And look where it got me. Shows what kind of fool I am, doesn't it?"

"Not necessarily. Do you smoke?" holding out a new packet.

"No," she said, and hesitated.

"Take it anyway. It's good currency in places like this."

"Yeah, I've already found that out." She tucked the cigarettes into her skirt pocket. "Pity you didn't bring chocolates instead."

"I'll bring some tomorrow. What kind?"

"Terry's All-Gold," she said promptly. "Or those Swiss liqueurs. For real?"

"For real. This is your second time in prison?"

"Yes. And my last. I swore I'd never end up in here again after last time. But thanks to him I got six months. With time off for good behaviour I could be out in a few months, but --" She broke off with a shrug. "No flat. No job --"

"You'll be okay," Doyle said. "I've got contacts, strings I can pull."

"Just get that bastard behind bars," she hissed, then her expression lightened into the mischievous smile again, "and send me chocolates, and we'll be quits."

"Okay, luv," he smiled back. "So tell me what happened? You've been done before for drugs?"

"Yes, for smoking pot. The last time, I got stoned in Hyde Park, and they picked me up. Haven't touched anything stronger -- coke, acid -- forget it. I've had the occasional smoke, though, but that's all. Lucy knew about it all, right from the start, so did Colin -- hell, she didn't have to take the other room in the flat."

"How did you get along with her?"

"Fine, I thought. She's a sweet kid." An interesting choice of words, Doyle noted. The files showed that Pattie was two years younger than Connors' sister. "We didn't quarrel, didn't argue that much, and didn't fight over boyfriends. Mind you," she continued, gazing at him through lowered lashes, "we didn't fancy the same kind of man."

"Did you double-date?"

"Oh, yes. Quite often. Even swopped dates sometimes."

"How did he frame you, and why?"

"Well, we'd had a party, some friends had brought a few joints, and we passed them round. It was nothing new. Lucy turned them down, as she usually did, and that was that. The next I heard of it was a month later when Colin turned up one evening when she was out. He told me to pack up and clear off. I had until the next evening to get out. I told him to get lost. I wasn't going anywhere. Damn it, the flat was in my name, and he wasn't my landlord! Anyhow, he turned nasty, started to threaten me, and when he came at me I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the carving knife. Colin Courageous decided discretion was the better part of valour, and hopped it. When Lucy got back, she didn't know anything about it -- said he was joking, and I was exaggerating. The next week Drugs Squad turned up, and found coke Sellotaped under the fridge, behind the side board, and under the carpet in my bedroom. Literally minutes before they arrive Colin phoned me, told me they were on their way, and why. Said that if I implicated him or Lucy in any way, he'd treat me to a vitriol face-pack when I got out of prison. I was so bloody furious when the cops came and found the stuff, I told 'em straight out who'd put it there. They didn't believe me, of course. Who would, with my record? By the time I had to make my formal statement I'd cooled down and was seeing sense. You're read it? I take full blame, didn't mention either of them except to stress Lucy wasn't involved, didn't know a blind thing about it."

"Has she visited you?"

"No. Colin won't let her. I've had letters, though. Do you want them?"

"If you don't mind."

"I'll swap 'em for chocolates."

"Done. Pattie, you said she usually refused pot."

"Yes."

"That implies she sometimes accepted it."

"Yes, she did. Once in a while, depending on the guy. It gives her quite a charge when she's with a fellah."

"A sexual charge?"

"Is there any other kind? Turns our little Lucy into a raving nympho," Pattie grinned. "Takes away all her inhibitions."

"Does Connors know?"

She shook her head.

"I very much doubt it. He'd probably lock her up in a nunnery if he did. Doesn't even like the idea of her going to bed with a man all that much. He's nearly as bad as a Victorian mother."

"Have you dated Connors?"

"Strewth, no. I don't like being on the receiving end of power-games in bed, thank you."

"Does he use drugs?"

"No way! He doesn't even drink! You know why, don't you?" She leaned across the table.

"No," he lied, leaning forward to invite the confidence. "Tell me?"

"Because he won't let go. He's afraid of being out of control, making a fool of himself, maybe giving someone else the whip hand. He's got to be the Big Boss Man, Mr. Popular, all the time."

"A psychiatric case, perhaps, but is he also a criminal one? That's what I want to know."

"Well, to be honest, I haven't a clue. The only things I know of are his threats with the vitriol, and buying coke to frame me."

"House-breaking, Pattie-luv. Thefts from hotel rooms. Gold. Silver. Jewellery."

"Strewth. Not exactly big-league stuff, is it?" she sniffed. "I'd've thought he'd go for the Crown Jewels at the least."

"I don't intend to give him a chance to graduate. His friends I know about, but it's his enemies I want to talk to. People with a grudge."

"Would you believe half of London?"

"Narrow it down, luv," he said. "You've been on the fringes with the drugs-scene, you know the average villain when you see him. Who of the anti-Connors lobby that you've come across has form?"

She sat in frowning silence for a while.

"Well, only one that I can think of," she said eventually. "Nick Jennings. He and Colin had a run-in over Lucy --"

"I know about him. No one else?"

"I mean, it's always blokes who've fallen for Lucy like a ton of bricks. Seems as if the moment they get serious, he gets rid of them for one reason or another. How far back do I go?"

"As far as necessary. Why?"

"There was a man, back in the beginning of the year. He was hopping mad about something -- came looking for Colin, was going to duff him up. He scared Lucy rigid, she had nightmares for a week. Apparently he'd followed her home, then walked in on us, wanting Colin. Said he'd done him out of a job, and he was going to get even. Told us to tell him he was after him. He was a bit of a crook, I think -- at least, that was the impression I got -- but we never heard any more of him, so I don't know if he found him or not."

"Who was he?" Doyle asked, cutting through the tangle of pronouns.

"Wilson? Wilkins? No, Wilcox. Jack Wilcox."

"My height, straight brown hair and a broken nose? Strong Cockney accent?"

"Yes, I think so. It was a long time ago. You know him?"

"Could be. Pattie, my love, you've been a gold-mine. Keep on thinking, and I'll see you tomorrow with some chocolates."

"Don't stand me up," she smiled. "Good hunting."

---

"Vitriol?" said Bodie. "Now, that is not neighbourly. Sonny Jim has just gone down in my estimation."

"Good." Doyle's smile was without amusement. "Because I am going to nail him." His partner's chuckle crackled over the r/t.

"Do I detect a certain vindictiveness, 4.5?" he drawled.

"Yes," said Doyle.

"Ah, but don't forget the Bulgarian sapphires."

"I won't. I can wait."

"A right little Hound of God, aren't we?" But Doyle was not disposed to be amused.

"Pack it in, Bodie," he snapped.

"Yessir. Does Cowley know about your crusade?"

"Of course he does," impatiently. "Connors is mine. I've got his word on it."

"You have?" His startlement was obvious, and Doyle smiled.

"I'm going to see if I can track down Jacko Wilcox. Enjoy your lunch-date."

"Oh, I will, mate."

---

There were those in the East End who remembered Detective Constable Doyle from both his Flying Squad and Drugs Squad days. He did not ask about Connors -- such questions sometimes seeped through the grapevine and got to the ears of the subject -- but Wilcox should be safe game. It didn't take him long to locate him; Wormwood Scrubs, serving time for housebreaking.

But when Doyle radioed in to report his morning's progress, he was ordered back to Whitehall to give it in person.

So, sitting in Cowley's office, unconsciously rubbing his left arm, Doyle gave a concise run-down of his findings.

"Very interesting. Is that injury troubling you?"

"Uh, no. Just itches," he said quickly. "The new skin pulls a bit sometimes. I'd like to have a chat with Jacko." He'd been on his way to Wormwood Scrubs when he'd been called in.

"Will he know you?"

"Yeah. I nicked him once, but he's not one to bear a professional grudge over a thing like that. He's been in and out of jail most of his life, has Jacko -- belongs to the school of thought that says he does his job, and the cops do theirs, and regardless of who loses out, there are no hard feelings. But he's annoyed by dirty deals, sell-outs and the like, and if Connors did cheat him in some way, he might shop him."

"Good. I'll organise a meeting." He looked at the hard, fiercely eager face across the desk, and smiled. "Got the scent in your nostrils, 3.7?"

"We're getting close to him, I know it."

"Give him the rope, remember, let him run on it for a while."

"Yes, sir. Do you want me to move in on Fenners? Or the taxis?"

"No. We'll see what Wilcox has to say first."

"Well, how about Bodie?"

"He can stay with Miss Connors. Hopefully he can meet her brother without arousing suspicions. I want to know what his instincts tell him."

"Takes a nutter to know a nutter," Doyle muttered under his breath.

"That," Cowley pointed out, "can reflect on you as well as Bodie. Go and see the M.O., have that arm checked again."

"What? But, sir--"

"That's an order, 4.5. Do it. Now. Then report back here. And don't make any plans for the weekend. You'll be spending most of it at the Hall."

The scowl lightened, but not by much, and Doyle left, indignation bristling like a porcupine's quills.

---

The Doctor had obviously received instructions by the time he reached the surgery-cum-medical unit, and the disgruntled agent was submitted to an examination more rigorous than the one that had got him back on duty.

It took a while to complete, and when he was finally allowed to leave, he found Bodie waiting outside in the corridor.

"What's up, then?" his other half demanded. "Fractured an eyelash?"

"Pack it in!" Doyle yelled, effectively startling him and several passers-by. "Nothing's up, sod it! That bloody witchdoctor checked me through from liver and lights to my bloody toenails!"

"Then why --"

"Don't ask me! I only bloody work here! Cowley got some bee in his bonnet just because this damned arm itched a bit, and I was railroaded down here so fast you'd think I had bubonic plague!"

"That's daft," Bodie said, puzzled. "New skin always itches."

"I know that!" Doyle raved. "So does bloody Cowley! So does that fuckin' doctor! All he did in the end was tell me not to scratch!"

"Well, at least you know now beyond a doubt that you're sound in wind and limb," Bodie pointed out.

"I knew that before!" It was another head-turning bellow, and Bodie towed the furious man into the conveniently near-by canteen.

"I hate to remind you," he said, pushing him into a chair, "but I'm the lunatic half of this team. Calm down."

"I am calm!"

"Yes, Ray. Anything you say, Ray."

"He must be off his rocker." This time it was muted to a growl. "What does he think I am? Made of Dresden china? Just because my bloody arm itched!" He raked at the injury angrily, and Bodie slapped his hand away.

"Don't scratch," he grinned. "Have a cup of coffee and cool off. Want something to eat?"

"No. How did you get on with Lucy?"

"Extremely well, of course. Got her eating out of my hand."

"Then she is simple. I got that impression from Pattie."

"Who? Oh, the framed junkie."

"She's not a junkie, and she was framed."

"I'm not arguing. How about Wilcox?"

"Nothing yet. He's in the Scrubs. Cowley's going through the channels. Did you mention Pattie to her?"

"Not directly, naturally. She was happy enough to chatter about her flat though. Didn't say anything about sharing it, either now or in the past."

"And Big Brother?"

"Every other sentence. Colin says this, Colin says that. Colin says the other."

"What is your considered, impersonal opinion of her?"

"She's charming, sweet-natured, and a child of very little brain," Bodie said cheerfully. "She knows what she's got and what she can do with it, but she'll never qualify for Mensa. She hasn't got much in the way of initiative, likes her decisions made for her, responds beautifully to masculine authority --"

"Just your type," Doyle interrupted.

"Yes," he agreed. "And yours. For a one-night-stand every now and then. Anything more than that, and I think her lack of conversation might pall. She hasn't got an idea of the real world -- 'sheltered' doesn't begin to describe it. Big Brother virtually arranges the whole of her life, and she's happy about it."

"Hmmm. What cover story did you give her?"

"The up-and-coming executive one -- Foreign Office."

"Good choice. In fact, it could be an idea to challenge Connors' authority. He might be spurred into something illegal."

"Like attempted murder, you mean?" Bodie grinned.

"No. More like intimidation and/or GBH," Doyle snapped. "When are you talking her out again?"

"Tomorrow night. A meal in a posh West End restaurant, a show or a film, or soft lights and sweet music and an early night if she plays her cards right."

"Not at your flat, mate. You'll never convince her it belongs to your F.O. whiz-kid. Looks more like a cross between an S.A.S doss-house and a Spartan barracks."

"Okay. Give us your key and --"

"Not bloody likely. You'll have to do some redecorating and designing -- unless Cowley'll let you use Safe-house 4."

"Hey, that's an idea! -- He'll never wear it."

"It's worth a try. Hang on here, and I'll be back. I've got to report to him anyway, so I'll see if I can swing it for you."

"But --" Bodie started, found himself talking to thin air, and stopped with a shrug. Cowley did not like using safe-houses for set-ups, but the expensively furnished mews cottage in Kensington would be a perfect setting for the seduction of Lucy Connors -- enough to sweep an impressionable girl off her feet and away from her brother's influence.

One cup of coffee and five digestive biscuits later, Doyle returned, a bounce to his stride and a cocky grin on his face.

"Catch," he said, tossing a pair of keys on a ring over the table. Bodie snatched them out of the air.

"You crafty sod! How the hell did you do it?"

"Mentioned vitriol a few times, and the urgency of givin' Irina her sapphires back, and speculated what Connors would do when he graduated to shotguns and security vans or banks."

"My God," Bodie said, admiration written large on his features. "What do you do for your next trick? Stick your head in his mouth?"

"To the shoulders, sunshine. Jacko's waiting at the Scrubs, want to come along?"

"Sure. Always keen to widen my education, I am."

"Yeah. He probably could teach you a thing or two, at that. But for God's sake, don't put his back up."

Bodie was outraged. His feelings were hurt, he said, and in retaliation he remembered Doyle's evasion on his activities the previous evening and began to dig. It got him nowhere, which only served to pass the time on the drive to Wormwood Scrubs, and to whet his curiosity to a razor-edge.

---

There were no introductions, and for three-quarters of an hour, Doyle and Wilcox talked over old times with friendly nostalgia. Bodie was bored, and made no secret of it, but his displeasure was ignored. Until Wilcox shot him an amused glance and said to Doyle,

"Who's yer 'appy friend?"

"Don't mind him, he's got girl-problems," Doyle said. "Or rather, a girlfriend brother-problem."

"Me 'eart bleeds for 'im," Wilcox grinned. "You should be stuck in 'ere, sunshine. Cure all yer problems, that would."

"No thanks," said Bodie. "I'd sooner see Connors put away. That would solve everybody's problems."

"Connors?" Wilcox' eyes fastened on the ex-policeman. "Mr. Doyle, me old mate, you wouldn't be settin' me up, would you?"

"Who, me? Perish the thought. But I wouldn't mind a friendly little chat about Colin Connors."

"Who's 'e?"

"You tell me, Jacko," Doyle said softly.

"Now, I'd 'eard you ain't a copper no more, Mr. Doyle," Wilcox lit another cigarette. The CI5 operative had brought in a hundred of them. Sobrianes. Bodie coughed loudly and pointedly. "So why would you be askin' me about Whatsisname?"

"Because he threatened to treat a pretty little girl to a facial with vitriol."

"Oh. A bit extreme, that. What did she do, fer Gawd's sake?"

"Offered his sister a joint."

Wilcox whistled and shook his head.

"That's not on," he said. "No wonder your mate's sweatin'."

"I," said Bodie with some asperity, "am not sweating."

"Never mind him," Doyle cut in before he could elaborate, "he can look after himself. I'm objecting to my girl being threatened. I want him for that, Jacko. Now. I've heard a whisper that he put one over on you with a job, round about the New Year. Why don't I even the score for both of us?"

"Mr. Doyle, even supposin' that whisper was 'alfway true, which it ain't, 'ow do I prevent this bloke -- Conroy? -- chuckin' the acid at me when I get out of 'ere?"

"Easy, sunshine. The way I'm going to get him, he isn't going to know who -- if anyone -- dropped him in it."

"Guaranteed?"

"Guaranteed."

"Yeah? What line of work you in, these days, then?"

"Crime prevention," Doyle said, "same as ever. Give him to me, Jacko. What job did he do you out of?"

"Me regular fixture. I worked for this bloke in the jewellery business, nickin' gold an' silver. Gawd knows 'ow Connors got to know about it, but 'e did. Went to me boss, 'e did, the cheeky sod, told 'im 'e wanted me job. 'Course, old Laurence told 'im 'e already 'ad a supplier, but then 'e said that if the kid could lift certain items from a certain 'ouse, the job was 'is. So the bastard did, an' I was kicked out on me ear. I went lookin' for 'im, didn't find 'im, cos the little pillock was layin' low -- 'e'd 'eard I was on his track. Any'ow, the next time I did a job, the cops were waitin' for me, weren't they. All too pat, that was. You 'ear things in 'ere, an' he's bin puttin' it around that 'e got me locked up."

"Connors is a newcomer, Jacko," Bodie said. "How come he did the job so smoothly?"

"Knew the security system, didn't 'e? Bleedin' whiz-kid. 'Im and 'is mate used to be in the business."

"Laurence was your fence?" from Doyle.

"Nah. 'E's an amateur. Name's Randolph Laurence, got one of them fancy shops, in Bloomsbury. All arty-craft, an' so bloody exclusive it makes yer teeth ache. It's called Samarkand. 'E says it's a jewellery workshop an' boutique, 'e's a regular gold-smif, see. Makes 'is own gold an' silver stuff, an' flogs it for three an' four figures prices. Gold an' silver is all 'e wants nicked."

"Don't tell me," Bodie whispered. "He melts it down and reworks it into his own designs..."

"Yeah, that's right."

Doyle made a strange sound in his throat.

"Where does Laurence keep the stuff before he melts it down?" he asked.

"Like I said, 'e's an amateur. In 'is 'ouse, in Windsor. Got a wall-safe in 'is library."

"Who does his security?"

"Electro-Guard. Got their latest gadgets, 'e 'as. Includin' an 'ot-line to the local nick."

"He must get stones as well, what happens to them?"

"'E re-cuts 'em, 'imself."

"Busy, isn't he?" Bodie muttered.

"Is Connors the only one working for him?"

"Yeah. 'Im an' 'is gang. There's three of 'em."

"Do you know their names?"

"Pete, an' Tony."

"That figures," Doyle said. "How long does he keep the stuff in his safe?"

"Hard to say. Until 'e needs more to work with, I suppose. Then he takes it in to 'is workshop and melts it down."

"It stays unbroken until then?" asked Bodie.

"Yeah. Usually. Why? Thought you wanted Connors?"

"I do," Doyle said. "I want enough to nail him good, with as much of the haul as possible."

"Yeah. While you're at it, why don't you feel Laurence's collar as well?" Wilcox suggested. "Business is business, but we 'ad an arrangement, an' 'e shouldn't 'ave dropped me like that."

"I'll see what I can do. Thanks, Jacko."

"Just don't involve me, Mr. Doyle. That's all."

"I won't."

"Jacko," said Bodie. "According to his sister, the sun shines out of Connors' backside. Ray's girl has been threatened with vitriol. What's your opinion of him? Unbiased, if you can manage it."

"I can manage it, mate," Wilcox snorted. "I already got 'is number before 'e elbowed me out. A bleedin' nutter, is what 'e is. Got an instinct about these things," tapping the side of his nose. "But no one ever listens to me. If 'e said acid to your bird, 'e meant it. 'E don't bluff."

"Thanks, Jacko," Doyle said again, and stood up. "D'you want us to keep you posted?"

"Not bloody likely. I don't want nothin' to do with it. But I'll get to 'ear, sooner or later. That'll suit me."

"Okay. See you around, old son."

"Not if I see you first, you won't."

Doyle gave him a grin, and followed Bodie out. But his expression changed to a frown as soon as the door of the interview room closed behind them.

"Bloody hell," Bodie whimpered, lengthening his stride to a near-run. "Melting down and recutting an international incident. Cowley'll have heart-failure."

"MI6 won't be too pleased, either," Doyle muttered. "Jesus! Took ten years off my life, that did."

"Well, at least we know where they should be. Better give his place the once-over."

"Yeah. As soon as possible. Like last week. You going to report in, or me?"

"You, mate!" Bodie said quickly. "You're the blue-eyed boy at the moment -- he'll probably hire me out as a traffic warden."

"Thanks, partner."

"Listen, if you can wheedle safe-house keys out of him, you can spring this on him without getting blasted out of your shoes. I'm not going to stick my neck out."

"That's what I like about you, Bodie. Your heart-warming loyalty."

"Yes. Endearing, aren't I?" he beamed. "Better strap yourself in tight, Raymond, I'm going to break the land-speed record to Windsor."

"Oh, Christ. That's all I need. Just don't get us arrested, or I'll kill you, and what Cowley'll do to y--"

"I don't need to know that. I've already had one severe shock today, another is superfluous to requirements. Y'know, we're going to have to do some burglaring before long."

"Yeah," Doyle agreed. "I wish to God there was some way of knowing they're still intact. But we can't go in until Cowley's got the security plan from Electro-Guard."

"Unless," said Bodie, "we take a chance."

"Not with an unknown safe, we don't, sunshine. Let alone a security net straight out of Star Wars. Electro-Guard goes in for infra-red, laser, heat-sensitive, pressure pads -- you name it, they do it."

Bodie was not so much impressed as indignant, but he did not voice it. Once clear of the prison gates, they sprinted for the car, and as Bodie sent the Capri accelerating away, Doyle reached for the mike.

Cowley's reaction could not be read from the momentary silence that followed Doyle's report, and the two operatives found themselves holding their breaths for some reason.

"It would appear," Cowley said finally, "that the odds are stacked against us."

"They usually are, sir." Doyle said. "Until we swing 'em the other way. If you can get the plans from Electro-Guard, and the safe-type, we can go in tonight."

"And if Laurence is at home, which is highly likely?"

"We deal with him," said Bodie, a cold finality in his voice that spoke more than the four prosaic words.

"A hood, a gag and nylon cord'll hold him." Doyle glared at his partner over the microphone. "And anyone who's with him." There was another silence. They could almost read Cowley's mind; a rushed job could be a botched job -- but time was against them, and CI5 operatives were supposed to be able to react efficiently to emergency situations --

"Very well," he said, and they discovered they'd been holding their breaths again, emptying their lungs in a double sigh, both pairs of eyes glittering with the beginnings of an adrenalin surge. "Check out the area. I'll do what's necessary from this end. I should have the plans by the time you get back."

"Yes, sir," said Doyle crisply. "4.5 out."

"There you are," said Bodie, as he replaced the mike on the clip. "The blue-eyed boy. What did I tell you? Keep it up, Ray, and you might be able to ask for that raise you've been on about for years -- and get it."

"If not promotion," he drawled, and settled back to enjoy Bodie's fast and skilful driving as the white car headed out of the city towards Windsor.

---

Laurence did not keep dogs, which was an advantage. The house and grounds presented enough problems without adding livestock to the list.

Leaving the black Rover 3000 parked unobtrusively in the lane at the rear of the Gables, Bodie and Doyle pulled black ski-hoods over their heads, black gloves on their hands, and tackled the eight-foot boundary wall. It was 1.35 am; they were armed, wore black, close-fitting clothing, had small haversacks strapped to their backs carrying various items of electronic gadgetry for circumventing the security network, plastic explosive for the safe, and they intended to be in and out again in less than thirty minutes. God willing.

There was a light behind the leaded panes that framed the front door, and a faint glow filtered through more leaded panes in the lounge windows from a narrow gap between heavy velvet curtains. Occasionally the light from the lounge blinked out as someone walked across.

Their plans, worked out in meticulous detail during the late afternoon and evening, covered all eventualities, and no discussion was required.

They got in through the back door. Laurence had put all his trust in electronic wizardry and Yale locks; hadn't bothered to fit old fashioned bolts.

Dvorjak's New World Symphony came muted from the lounge, but they didn't head straight for it. Moving like two silent, sable ghosts, they went through the big house checking rooms. All except the lounge were in darkness and empty.

Carefully, Bodie turned the handle and eased the door open. In the subdued light the top of a bald head showed over the back of a large leather armchair. Smoke rose from a cigar in an ashtray on the onyx coffee table, the column of blue swirling as draught from the opening door took it. The operatives slid into the room, any sounds they might have made swamped by the surging music. The only company Laurence had was them. Bodie drew his gun.

"Evenin'," said Doyle.

An expensive lead crystal goblet dropped to onyx and shattered. The pungency of brandy filled the warm air, covering the cigar's aroma. The bald head jerked round as if on strings, and pale eyes bulged at them from behind gold-framed spectacles, horror draining blood from the man's face.

"'Ope you don't 'ave an 'eart condition, mate," Doyle said cheerfully, his accent planted squarely within the sound of Bow bells. "Don't try an' be clever, an' my oppo won't get trigger-'appy."

"What do you want?" Laurence croaked.

"S'funny," Doyle observed. "They always say that, even on the telly. Word's got round, Mr. Laurence, that you keep some nice stuff in your safe, sometimes. We've just popped in to see if we can strike lucky. If we ain't, well, you got some choice antiques knockin' about in 'ere, an' there's always Samarkand, ain't there?"

While he was talking, Bodie was fastening the man's wrists together with nylon cord.

"Who told you about my safe?" Laurence's voice was working a little better.

"No one, me old mate. Just a question of bein' in the right places an' keepin' our ears pinned back. You know what kids are like these days -- can't keep their bleedin' traps shut to save their lives. Goin' to open it up for us, or do we have to use plastic?"

"Plastic?" the jeweller bleated.

"Yeah. As in explosive," Doyle explained. "We don't mind. But your neighbour's hear the bang, an' they might call the filth. You'd 'ave an 'ard job explainin' to them about the stuff we nicked, wouldn't you, Mr. L?"

"There's nothing in there, only papers."

"No kiddin'? then you won't mind openin' it up, willyer?"

"I --" Laurence began, then the bulky shoulders slumped. "All right. -- How the hell did you get in here?"

"Trade secret," Doyle chuckled. "After you."

---

They had struck lucky. Out of Laurence's safe came gold and silver pendants, chains, bracelets, rings, brooches, bowls, plates, serviette rings, and cups. Including the Bulgarian sapphires. They took the lot.

Laurence was escorted back to the lounge, replaced in his armchair, and his ankles were tied. Doyle added a few more loops and knots to the cords around the man's wrists, gave them an experimental tug.

"That should keep you busy for about 'half-an-hour, sunshine," he said. "Just don't break your dentures. Oh, yes. An' you better give your lads a lecture on shootin' off at the mouth. Evenin'."

They left the way they had come, retracing their steps and dismantling the various by-pass circuits as they went. They did not relax nor speak until they were in the black Rover and heading for London at a sedate pace.

"We should change our jobs," Bodie said. "What's the going market rate on this little package of goodies?"

"Not enough to be kicked out of the mob for," Doyle grinned.

Bodie chuckled, and stretched his stocky frame as much as the passenger-seat would allow. Which was quite a bit. He scrubbed his fingers through the short cap of hair, sweaty from the close-fitting fabric of the hood, and laughed again.

"Thought the poor bastard was going to shit himself," he drawled. "You did a nice job of dropping Connors in it, as well. Did I ever tell you about this devious and vindictive streak I sometimes see in you?"

"Yes," said Doyle."

"Thought I must have done." And decided to enliven the journey with a return to his interrogation. "Who is she, then?"

"What?"

"Not what, who. This date of yours you won't tell me about. Special, is she?"

"Nice weather for the time of year."

"At least you can tell me her name, can't you?" Bodie snapped, exasperated. "You're not usually so scared of competition -- share and share alike --"

"Not this time."

"Aha. That special, eh? Like Ann Whatsername?"

"Holly. No. Pack it in."

"Not bloody likely! What's so all-fired secret about your latest passion that -- got it!"

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes. Raymond, my dark horse, you've lost a marble or two and have got hooked on the kinky stuff. News of the World fodder, right? C'mon Ray, you can tell me, can't you? Takes a hell of lot to shock me, mate, I've seen it all. And I promise I won't laugh." He paused, but Doyle did not react. Eyes front, he was concentrating on his driving, face an expressionless mask. Bodie recommenced the attack. "Damages your image, does it?" solemnly, "I can see it all -- you in frilly lace panties, suspenders and silk stockings, her in black leather, spike heels, a whip, riding you hollow -- " Doyle's spontaneous hoot of laughter drowned the rest of it.

"Pack it in," he said again, grinning.

"Partners," said Bodie, hurt, "shouldn't have secrets from each other. Especially in our job."

"Partner you may be, but that doesn't give you a free run through my private life twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. We are not Siamese Twins. Right now, though, what you're doing is giving a bloody good imitation of a nagging wife. Do you want to check my lapels for the odd blonde hair, lipstick traces --"

"If I was your wife I'd divorce you. A blonde, is she?"

"Who?"

"Your date!"

"Did I say so?"

"You said blonde hair --"

"A generalization, and insignificant. Do you want me to help you move into the mews flat tomorrow or not?"

"Yes, of course --"

"Then shut up about it."

"Okay," he sighed. "How are you fixed for the weekend? We could set up a date with the girls Saturday evening."

"Can't."

"Friday, then."

"Can't. My weekend's booked up from Friday night on."

"With --" Bodie started, and collected a cold stare from green eyes. "Okay. When will you be free for a double date?"

"Don't know. Go ahead and arrange what suits you, but don't count me in yet."

"It all sounds too bloody hush-hush --" Bodie said, then cut off the sentence himself. "Ray," he said abruptly, "pull over a minute."

"Why? Can't it wait? Cross your legs."

"Want to talk. Seriously. No fooling around."

"Can't it wait?" he said again.

"No."

"The next lay-by, then. I'm not stopping here."

Five minutes later, Doyle turned the big car off the road, braked to a smooth halt. Bodie reached up and switched on the ceiling light, the better to watch his partner's face.

"Listen," he said. "Don't jump down my throat, but if someone was putting pressure on you through a girlfriend, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

"Sure, I would," Doyle said. "No one's pulling the old badger game on me, or trying to turn me. If they were, you'd be the first to know before I wade in and damage them. We'd both wade in and damage 'em."

"That's okay then," Bodie muttered lamely. "Looks like it's going to turn out to be your lace frillies after all. Bet you look cute."

Doyle smiled tolerantly. The depth of Bodie's brief concern was not lost on him, but he knew Bodie would not want it commented on.

"Seems to me you're the kinky one. I'd've never thought that up," he drawled.

"G'wan, admit it!" A sharp elbow dug into Doyle's ribs. "Tell all to Uncle Bodie. Confession is very good for the soul."

"You," said Doyle," are an aural voyeur. Get your cheap thrills from someone else, if you can't -- uh -- manufacture them first hand, so to speak."

"I'm not absolutely sure, but I think you've just implied something rather questionable about my sexual habits." Outraged virtue in Bodie's face and voice. It was one of his favorite expressions.

Doyle cackled.

"Don't fret, sunshine," he grinned. "I've seen you in action enough times. The only questionable thing about your sexual habits is pride in your ability."

"Nothing wrong with that. If you've got it, and I have, then -- okay, truce. What time are you coming around tomorrow? This morning?"

"Early. I'm seeing Pattie again sometime during the morning, and we'd better have you sorted out as soon as possible."

"Yeah." Bodie half-closed his eyes, sprawling relaxed in his seat. "Y'know, I could get very attached to a place like that," he sighed.

"Know what you mean," Doyle said quietly, Burnham Hall rising in his mind's eye. "Enjoy it while you've got it, Bodie."

"That is the whole philosophy of my life, Raymond," he announced, and was ambushed by a yawn. "Wake me up when we get there."

---

Cowley received the sapphires with no discernable emotion, of relief, or praise or censure, despite the fact that the jewellery had been recovered with ease and speed and a vast amount of the devil's own luck. All in a day's work. Laurence, he told them, had phoned no one after they'd left, not even Connors. It was possible he was still tied up in his chair, of course. None of them were grieved by the thought.

A short time after Cowley locked the haul in his safe, the two operatives were asleep in their respective beds, alarms unaltered. They would be up at six-thirty, ready to start on the safe house by seven.

---

Not that there was a lot to do. It was merely a question of shipping in Bodie's personal effects, stocking up the fridge and kitchen cupboards, and making sure the place had that lived-in look. Within a couple of hours it was done, and they sat down to second breakfasts satisfied with their morning's work so far. They ate in the kitchen-dinette, a modernistic creation in pine, ethnic tiles and gleaming chrome, with every labour-saving device available built into the fittings. The L-shaped lounge was rich in deep-piled carpeting, velvet floor-to-ceiling curtains and matching suite, a large sheepskin rug was spread in front of the open fireplace, and the room glowed in cream and gold and burnt-orange. Upstairs, the large bedroom was coloured in cream and gold alone, more sheepskin rugs sprawled about the floor around the king-size bed, and the pine bedroom suite reflected pale sunlight that seeped through windows framed in cream velvet curtains.

"Home, sweet home," was Bodie's verdict, and he let it be known that CI5 could have trouble evicting him from it at the end of the Connors case.

Doyle left him to memorize the layout of his new home, and departed for Holloway via Harrods. If he hadn't wanted the arrest and incarceration of Colin Connors so badly, Bodie's undeserved good fortune would have irked him far more than it did. As it was, Burnham Hall, Connors' eventual comeuppance and his partner's rabid curiosity were partial compensations. Though he'd have to be wary about that curiosity. He was well aware that Bodie would go to any lengths to find answers to questions that did not appear to have answers readily available, no matter how trivial they might be. That could well prove a problem.

In a drab interview room in Holloway, a large box of very expensive Swiss Liqueurs and another of All-gold were exchanged for half a dozen letters. Doyle also received a swift hug across the table from a delighted Pattie, and he felt a momentary pang of regret that he'd be walking out of her life when he left. He would have liked the chance to get to know her better. When she was out of prison, maybe she'd like help finding a job, a place to live, and someone to take her out on the town some evenings to get Holloway out of her system. Though, of course, that would be dependent on Torvenski being out of action, one way or another, unless he could persuade Cowley that he would still be dating girls, if only to camouflage their 'relationship'.

There was little of interest in the letters, save only that they underlined Bodie's reading of Lucy Connors' character. Cowley tapped the lilac sheets into a neat pile, put them into a folder.

"Good," he said. "We'll let the Connors stew quietly in their own juices for a while. Bodie can maintain contact and work out of house 4 at the same time. In fact his F.O. cover will be of use. I'm giving him escort duty on Sir Kevin Morant as of tomorrow. Also as of tomorrow, you'll wear shirt and tie as a matter of course. You'll be going with me to various high level meetings, spending more time away from field duty." That did not go down too well, he noticed.

"You're changing my coding, sir?" and there was a slight anxiety in Doyle's face and voice that had slipped past his control.

"I might," Cowley said. "Certainly you'll be in charge of a couple of operations." The anxiety was replaced by a glitter of anticipation, and Cowley smiled slightly. Ray Doyle was not without ambition.

---

"Lucy," Bodie murmured, burrowing his face in blonde hair spread over his pillow. Warm silken strands moved under his cheek as the girl stirred, and her perfume filled his head with sweet memories and promises. "Lucy."

"Mmmm?"

He gathered her close, lips exploring her ear and the curve of her throat, one hand caressing down to rediscover the soft plain of her belly and the gold curls below.

"It's half past six."

"Mmmm?" again, and she arched under his touch, thighs parting, her body awake before she was. He chuckled, forgetting what he was going to say for a while. More important at the moment was starting the new day the best way there was, in his book. Lucy was more than willing, welcoming his love-making with an avid, if sleepy delight.

He'd already found out on the previous Wednesday evening that she was no virgin -- neither was she experienced. However, after a weekend's intensive tuition from Bodie, plus her natural aptitude, Lucy Connors was learning that sex was far more of an art than she had originally thought, and was eager to learn more. As Bodie intended she should. He had guessed, correctly, that he was different from her usual run of boyfriends; older, sophisticated, world-wise -- and with the male strength and arrogance that worked on her more effectively than any fabled aphrodisiac. And by Monday, Lucy's infatuation was complete.

Bodie had shown her that her body had been half-asleep for years, had taken her to a depth of pleasure she'd not known before, had played on her like a concert pianist on a Steinway, and had taught her the many ways of pleasing in return. In short, Bodie was the new God in her heaven, and he knew it.

"Lucy," he whispered against her breast.

"Mmmm?"

"It's half past seven. Make up a cup of tea, love?"

Some girls would have laughed, found ways to distract him. Others would have told him to make it himself, or pushed him out of the bed to make it for both of them while they took over the bathroom for half an hour. Lucy, warm, sleepy and sated, slid out of his arms, wrapped his dressing-gown around her, and wandered down to the kitchen, happy to obey. She'd be cooking him breakfast as well, if Saturday and Sunday morning were anything to go by.

Bodie yawned and stretched, a smug and complacent grin on his face. Then he reached for the bedside phone, dialled a number. It was answered on the fourth ring.

"Yeah?" said a brisk voice.

"Good morning," Bodie warbled. "Have a good weekend?"

"Yeah. Great," Doyle said. "You?"

"Likewise. And I still am."

"Anna, Jenny, or Lucy? Or all three?"

"I am not greedy, and my job comes first," he said virtuously.

"I see. Jammy sod. I take it it wasn't much of a sacrifice on your part?"

"Dead right, old son. You ready to tell Uncle Bodie about her yet?"

"Get lost," Doyle chuckled. "Just be thankful you're getting plenty of job-satisfaction. See you around." And the connection clicked out. Bodie snickered, rolled out of bed and ambled into the bathroom. Job-satisfaction was a very gratifying thing. There were times when he thought he should be paying CI5 rather than them paying him. But underneath his complacency there was a thread of disquiet. It wasn't like Doyle to be so close-mouthed about his girlfriends, even when he was half-way serious about them. Except Ann Holly, and he nearly married her. Would have done if she hadn't run out on him. Stupid bitch.

With one side of his jaw shaved clean, Bodie paused. Was Doyle getting that involved again? He hoped not. Being in love to the point of contemplating marriage had not done much for his partner's general efficiency. It had interfered with that cold, clear thinking he'd always admired in Doyle, and, he remembered with a chill, had threatened their team-work.

However, looking back over the week, although he hadn't seen that much of him from Wednesday onwards, he could detect no change in Doyle. His chagrin at having to cancel the double date and at missing out on Lucy Connors was nothing out of the ordinary, and it wouldn't have been there if a serious love affair had entered his life. So, what was he left with? One statement that something had come up that Doyle couldn't get out of. And it wasn't a job.

Family problems?

He continued shaving, anxiety killed. That had to be it. And Doyle wouldn't be likely to discuss family problems with an outsider, even if he, Bodie had been made to feel part of the clan on the few occasions he'd met the Doyle tribe. It would be good for a laugh, though, to carry on the pretence of curiosity, to see if his more outrageous suggestions and probings could get under Ray's skin. They hadn't had a good scrap for months.

---

Nursemaiding Sir Kevin Morant was not Bodie's idea of fitting work for a CI5 agent of his calibre. He did not enjoy protection work unless there was a specific threat and imminent danger of a hit attempt. Sir Kevin was merely one of half a dozen officials who had attended a conference in Dublin, and subsequent rumours had hinted at a possible reprisal attack on the British attendees. That, in Bodie's not so humble opinion, was no justification for his presence in the F.O. as the man's supposed P.A. and bodyguard. His place was out there in the street-jungle, hunting. He was rather pleased with the analogy and it bolstered his good humour enough to get through the morning without too much visible effort. It could have been worse, of course. Sir Kevin was a decent bloke, and there were perks. Like lunch with Sir K. at his club. Since the club was also Cowley's, he was no stranger to it, but rarely had he eaten there. Sir Kevin dined there almost every week-day, and Bodie went with him.

It was inevitable, therefore, that he would meet his boss -- Bodie did not however, expect to see Doyle as well. Sitting at a table in his good suit and Bodie's dark brown tie, relaxed and at his ease in the company of Cowley and a Special Branch top-dog.

So he ambushed his partner in the cloakroom.

"Still the blue-eyed boy, I see," he drawled.

"Most like a jack-of-all-trades," Doyle said lightly, drying his hands. "I've got to take his place in a discussion group with Scotland Yard next week. He's off to a security conference."

"Discussion group?" Bodie echoed.

"Yeah." Doyle's face expressed his opinion. "'A meaningful exchange of theories, case-histories, future policy and procedural formats.'"

"Bloody hell," Bodie said.

"Quite. I wanted to go undercover on the Connors case, but he wouldn't wear it. But he may change his mind -- I'm working on it. How are you getting along with little Lucy?"

Bodie kissed his fingertips.

"Smooth as silk. She's a real raver, that girl -- fantastic. If your mysterious lady X is half as good, you'll be lucky."

"Huh." Doyle turned away, heading for the door. "Don't forget she's part of an operation, and could be an information source. Have you found out what she knows about her brother and his mates?"

"No, not yet, but --"

"Excuses, excuses. Maybe you're getting lax, Bodie." But there was no jibe in his voice. He was serious.

"Lax?" Bodie squawked, offended. "Listen --"

"Perhaps I better recommend you for a refresher course," his partner said thoughtfully. "You're putting on weight, as well. Can't have that, 3.7."

The cloakroom door was slammed on Bodie's charge and when he jerked it open he met the startled gaze of a retired general. By the time he had manoeuvred past the man's bulk, Doyle was back in his place at Cowley's table, and unassailable.

"You wait," Bodie muttered. "I'll --"

"Pardon?" said Sir Kevin.

"Nothing, sir. Just talking to myself. Insanity is one of the prerequisites of CI5." And for dessert he ordered Black Forest Gateau. Revenge, he decided would be as sweet.

---

Mid-week, Sir Kevin took a flying visit to Geneva, and his protection was taken over by the operative who watched him at the weekends. Cowley did not want his one contact with Lucy Connors out of the country. Bodie was hoping for a free day, but was disappointed. Summoned to the drab building off Whitehall, he found a few surprises waiting for him.

Cowley's latest secretary, a lovely, leggy, and highly efficient girl -- as were her predecessors -- was wearing an uncharacteristic frown.

"You'll get wrinkles," Bodie told her cheerfully. "Where's the Old Man? In the classroom?"

"What? No." Paula's thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

"Thought he was giving the young hopefuls their blow-by-blow lecture on A Real Case History, or, How CI5 Can Get Away With Almost Anything."

"No, Ray's taking it."

"Eh?" said Bodie, blankly. "Ray who?"

"Doyle, of course," impatiently. "How many Rays do we have, for heaven's sake?"

"Strewth." Which did not go anywhere near expressing his surprise. "What's up, then? The Cow's been called out?"

"No." Paula hesitated, then, in a rush, "he's going for a medical." The frown, he suddenly realized, was anxiety rather than displeasure. "The second one in three weeks," she blurted. "I -- I think something's wrong."

"His leg?" The obvious conclusion.

"I -- I don't know. For God's sake don't spread it around. I shouldn't have said anything, but -- I'm worried about the old b-bastard!" and groped for her handkerchief. She blew her nose with more vigour than gentility, and riffled through her shorthand notebook. "He'll be back in an hour," she said, in control again. "He said for you to wait."

"Oh," said Bodie. Still, if he had to mooch around anywhere kicking his heels, he'd sooner it was CI5 than the Foreign Office. So he took himself off to the canteen to drink coffee and make outrageous suggestions to the women behind the counter.

On the way there he poked his head round the door of one of the small lecture rooms. Doyle saw him, but did not break stride, continuing with his crisp, matter-of-fact rundown on the pictures showing on the screen behind him. Bodie gave him a malicious leer, and carried on to the canteen.

It was occupied by Don Campbell, who had joined CI5 the same time as himself. They'd gone through the initial training period in the same group, had similar backgrounds, and in those early months had become a formidable and unofficial team. Before Cowley had decreed otherwise, teaming both of them with ex-policemen. Now Campbell and Morgan were back at HQ after some weeks undercover in the North.

"Long time, no see," Bodie drawled, sitting opposite him. "How's life, old son?"

"Not so bad. Glad to be back, though."

"I'll bet. Where's Taff, then? Left the poor sod up there?"

"Out on assignment. I'm working the other half of it. Seems like we've missed out on some changes around here -- there's a hell of a lot of news to catch up on."

"No more than usual," Bodie shrugged. Campbell's rugged features showed surprise.

"Well, you're taking it cooler than I thought," he said. "Who's your new partner going to be?"

"What?"

"Oh, come on. Don't play the stone-face with me. The whisper that's going round about Doyle coming out of the field into admin."

"Rubbish," Bodie snapped, startled, hiding it under scowling anger. "A load of crap. Who told you that?"

"One of the girls said she'd heard Cowley talking on the phone to someone about the possibility of changing Doyle's coding -- sounded pretty vague, though, she said. Didn't the lad get himself shot recently?"

"Yes. A flesh-wound, that's all. He's been passed A1 fit."

"Well, he's certainly doing some stand-in work for The Cow. Some of the other guys are a bit peeved about it."

"Why, for Chrissakes?"

"They're older, higher-ranking, more experience, have been here longer," he said, listing them out on his fingers. Typically, it had taken Campbell only a few hours to glean all the news and the ramifications. "It looks like your oppo's bucking for promotion out of turn, and it's climbed a few noses."

"Not Ray. Drive him potty stuck in here most of the time," Bodie said curtly. "What do you think he jacked the Met for, eh?"

"That's what I'd've thought. But you never can tell, Bodie, my lad. And Ray's a bit of a dark horse at times. Unpredictable. Worse than you, in a way, because you don't expect it from him the way folk do from you."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, and it's making one or two of the Establishment sweat bricks. Mind you, Taff reckons it's a load of bullshit, but I don't know."

"Taff's right. Doyle is one half of a unit, and what one knows, the other knows." Angry and unsettled, he got to his feet and stalked out, Campbell's 'You sure of that, Bodie?' echoing uncomfortably in his ears.

His unease did not last long, and Doyle himself dispelled it. Bodie returned to the classroom as the new intake were trouping out, and he joined a disgruntled and frustrated Doyle at the front desk.

"Bloody Cowley," the smaller man snarled, shoving assorted notes and files into a folder. "He needn't think he can pull this stunt again. What the hell does he think I am? A field operative or a bloody university lecturer?"

"Gone to see the M.O., hasn't he?" Bodie asked, idly poking through a sliding stock of photographs and transparencies.

"Yeah. Get your paws off. How's it going with the Connors girl?"

"Fine. Been doing quite a bit of stand-by duty for the Old Man these days, I hear."

"Once or twice isn't quite a bit, but it is more than enough," Doyle growled. "I'm fed up with it. I want back on the street."

"Yeah, but if he changes your coding --"

"What?"

"There's a rumour going round you're being --"

"Not bloody likely!" Doyle exploded. "The only way he can justify that is if I'm passed unfit for active duty. And if he tries it he'll have a fight on his hands!"

"Hey, whoa back," Bodie drawled, eyebrows climbing. "You're over-reacting, mate. It's only a rumour."

"Yeah, well, it better stay that way," his partner snapped, and marched out, spine bristling with indignation.

Bodie chuckled, and followed him, lengthening his stride to catch up.

"You're not pushing for promotion, then?" making a joke of it.

"Nope. Bloody daft idea. Unless the pay's right," he added.

"Naturally." It became clear to Bodie that if Doyle was on the edge of a raise in status, then the impetus did not come from the man himself. Someone else was doing the pushing. "Hey, why don't we go out for a drink this evening? I'm not picking Lucy up until nine. That gives us time for a couple of quick halves."

For a second, he knew that Doyle was on the point of accepting. But then the untidy brown head was shaking.

"Thanks, but I can't make it tonight."

"Not even one quick half?" Bodie demanded incredulously. "A packet of crisps?"

"Some other time?" Green eyes flickered to his face, then away again.

"Raymond, this is beginning to get awfully monotonous," he announced.

"Bodie," snapped Doyle, mimicking his phrasing and intonation, "if the highlight of your social life is having a beer with me --"

"Doyle. Bodie." A crisp bark behind them inspired Bodie to feign a heart-attack. "In my office."

"Sir," said Doyle, obediently about-turning, "Colin Connors -- someone should be keeping an eye on him. If I go in on Fenners --"

"I'm sending Campbell in. Morgan's already with the taxis."

"What?" A yell of outrage, and Doyle pounced into the office on Cowley's heels as if he would like to take his boss by the throat and shake him.

But Cowley rounded on him with a ferocity that took Bodie, at least, by surprise.

"I am the Controller of CI5," he hissed, the sibilance more effective than a bellow. "And until I am forcibly removed from that post you will remember that 'Controller' means exactly that! I have already told you once you're not going inside on that case!"

(Another one over-reacting) Bodie thought, eyes wide under climbing brows. (Unless the M.O. had some bad news to deliver?) But Doyle was not giving ground, which Bodie found equally surprising.

"Connors is a time bomb," he said levelly, hard green eyes locked with a slate-blue gaze as cold as highland lochs.

"Aye, I know that. You don't charge at time bombs, Doyle. That can be as fatal as leaving it too late. You'll have your chance at him. When I say so, and how I say so." He was grim, obdurate, and dominant, and Doyle's eyes finally dropped.

"Yes, sir," he sighed. Not bitter, Bodie realized, but rueful, wryly amused at his own expense -- and then Bodie discovered he was holding his breath. Feeling somewhat foolish, he let it out in an unobtrusive sigh.

Cowley smiled, good humour restored by victory, and he delivered a light blow Doyle's shoulder.

"Patience, 4.5," he drawled, voice rich with amusement. "Only fools rush in, and that young man isn't going to graduate to the big time in the next few weeks, not with his copy-book blotted in Laurence's eyes."

"Unless he thinks he has to prove something." Doyle took the words out of Bodie's mouth.

"That's a possibility," Cowley conceded. "Even so, you will turn your attention to one Harold Skinner. Drugs Squad put him away for seven years for drug offences -- with remissions, he was out four months ago, and he's dealing again. All we have is a possible link with Brittany and the cross-channel ferries. Take Fletcher, Hayes, Bryce and Milwards, and mount an operation. There are the relevant files. I want him, his supplier, the source, and the transportation method." Doyle's expression lightened, while Bodie's jaw dropped, unhinged by three words -- 'mount an operation' -- Doyle did not seem at all amazed. He merely exchanged his folder for the batch of files.

"-- Bodie," Cowley snapped impatiently, and not for the first time, and his agent paid belated attention. "Start feeding Lucy Connors some snippets of information about a rich, well-placed relative of yours."

"The one in the country with the house full of Georgian gold and silver?" he said brightly. "Great Aunt Flora. An aged old maid -- life blighted by a youthful love affair --"

"That'll be enough." Cowley's expression was as effective on Bodie's facetiousness as paraquat on weeds. Unfortunately, it was also temporary. "Don't over-do it, 3.7"

"I dunno," Doyle snickered. "He could always sell it to Women's Own."

"You are a Philistine," Bodie told him. "Which house do I use, sir?"

"Mill Cottage, Henley-on-Thames," Cowley said. "Don't make your relative too far-fetched, we may have to produce her."

"Ah, yes. Tea and crumpets by the river," Bodie burbled happily. "Aunt Flora in chintz and old lace -- playing croquet --"

"Bodie!"

---

Out in the corridor, summarily evicted with his ears burning and his ego smarting under a broadside of Cowley's more lethal home-truths, Bodie elaborated upon his Great Aunt Flora.

"Poor old dear," he sighed mournfully. "The Family is quite concerned about her, you know."

"I can imagine," Doyle grinned.

"Oh, she's absolutely harmless, really. Takes high tea with the vicar -- very big in the W.I. -- her rhubarb chutney is devastating -- but she's a little behind the times. Still thinks we have an Empire -- and is convinced Wedgwood Benn is a dinner service --"

"Visit her regularly, do you?"

"Oh, yes. I am very dutiful. And she is very rich. Y'know, Ray, I see her as a frail, bent old lady, white haired, lavender and shawls -- sort of like Cowley, in drag."

There was a stunned silence of about five seconds, then Doyle collapsed against the wall, howling with laughter. Bodie was somewhat taken aback. He didn't think it was that funny. Still, it was nice to have one's wit appreciated.

---

The carriage clock on the mantel shelf told him it was a quarter to seven, and Bodie was forced to acknowledge that A, he was bored, and B, at a loose end. There was nothing on TV he wanted to see, nothing on the radio to listen to, no books he wanted to read, and he had more than two hours to kill before he met Lucy. A couple of pints with Doyle would have solved both problems, but that was out.

Or was it? If he couldn't nag Doyle to a pub he could get in some therapeutic needling, maybe even winkle information out of him. And it would all help to pass the time, if nothing else.

Shortly afterwards, he parked the Capri in front of Doyle's car, and played his usual fanfare on the doorbell, hunched into his collar against the rain. There was a pause before the intercom crackled.

"What the hell do you want?" demanded a weary and unsurprised voice.

"Just passing by," Bodie said. "Can't I come in? It's bloody wet out here."

"Come on, then," a disgruntled mutter, and the door release clicked.

Bodie let himself into the small yard, and ducked into the flat.

"Nasty weather out there," he said, shaking water from his hair. "Where are you off to, tonight?" eyeing Doyle up and down, from his combed hair, nearly new Arran sweater, best slacks and good shoes. For a short while, at least, his partner looked shop-window-neat. Until he ran his fingers through his hair.

"Out," snapped Doyle, running his fingers through his hair. "Told you I couldn't make it for a beer tonight."

"Yeah, I know. Was just passing, and thought I'd cadge a cup of coffee."

"Is that a hint?" An unwilling smile grew on Doyle's mouth.

"Subtlety," said Bodie, "is my strong point."

"I've noticed," Doyle sighed, and disappeared into the kitchen.

With one ear on the clatterings from that area, Bodie mooched around the living-room. There was a brand-new black attaché case sitting on the table, almost covered by Doyle's good tweed jacket, and he automatically investigated it, knowing Doyle didn't own such a thing. Or hadn't. He opened it, and gaped at the contents.

In a moulded bed of blue felt lay a pistol, surrounded by empty clips, ammunition boxes and other bits and pieces, each in its own compartment. Carefully, almost reverently, Bodie lifted the weapon out of its place; a Walther GSP Match pistol, .22 calibre for competitive target-shooting, an ugly/beautiful piece of work, and not cheap. The butt did not fill his hand, the shaped stocks were uncomfortable. It did not take much of a guess to assume those glossy walnut stocks had been tailored to the narrow hand and thin fingers of Ray Doyle. A very expensive refinement.

A small white card had dropped out as he lifted the gun, and familiar writing caught his eye. He did not need to pick it up to read it. 'This should improve your performance. Good luck. G.' (G for Cowley as in George?) he thought wildly. As improbable as a geriatric snowball in hell, but that was who the writing belonged to -- A mug of coffee was put in front of him, and Doyle took the pistol away, put it back in its place and closed the case.

"Drink it quick, I've got to go soon." he said.

"Off to practice for the next Olympics?"

"Not quite."

"That's a beaut of a gun, Ray. Had it long?"

"No," and he paused, not looking at him. "I'm going to sight it in tonight."

"Oh. Didn't know you're going in for target-shooting."

"Neither did I. But the team captain's a fanatic, and I got my arm twisted."

"Anybody I know?"

"Doubt it. Rob Tuck." Bodie had never heard of him, but he filed the name away.

"Must have cost you a packet," he said. "It sure as hell didn't come out of the Armoury." Doyle shrugged, but did not comment.

"Have you got anything from Lucy about Pattie yet?" he said instead.

"Yes, as a matter of fact." Bodie wandered over to the couch and sprawled on it. Doyle brought both mugs and perched on the arm, and all Bodie could see was his profile. It wasn't very informative. "Cried on me, she did. Was very upset to discover her best friend was into horrid things like cocaine and heroin. She wanted to visit her in prison, but Colin said no. She wrote to her, though. Until Colin found out and said she mustn't."

"Colin said, Colin said," Doyle muttered, scowling into the murky depths of his coffee.

"Quite," Bodie said. "I'm beginning to find it a little tedious myself. Where do you shoot?"

"Keep working on her, and maybe she'll bore the pants off him with 'Bodie says'," Doyle chuckled. "Then the fun'll start. He'll probably rip off Great Aunt Flora out of sheer spite."

"Yeah," Bodie grinned. Then, "Where do you shoot?" There was another fractional pause.

"Out of town."

"I see. Big, black secret, huh? Don't worry, old son, I won't arrive and show you up on the range."

"There's no way you can out-shoot me with a hand-gun," Doyle snapped, rising to the bait.

"Says who? A challenge, Raymond? Any gun, any distance, your choice. This Rob Tuck can officiate."

"You're on. But it'll have to wait for a few weeks, maybe a month. So you better get in some hard practising, Bodie. Come on, drink up, or I'll be late."

"Okay, okay." He sipped the hot liquid, then said abruptly, "What's up with the Old Man and these medical checks? Do you know?"

"No more than anyone else." Doyle's frown deepened. "His leg's been giving him hell lately, and the M.O. sent him to a specialist."

"The visit this morning?"

"No. That would have probably been to find out the results."

"Are they finally going to operate?"

"How the hell would I know?" Doyle snapped, irritated. "He's said often enough he'd sooner have one and three quarter legs and an active job than one and an early pension. He's good for another nine, ten years yet."

Bodie didn't answer. Doyle did know more than most, surprisingly, and didn't sound as if he was convinced by his own argument.

"But if he does get the Golden Handshake before time --" he said after a while.

"But what? We get a new Controller." Doyle put his half-empty mug onto the coffee table. "God knows who. How could anyone replace The Cow? Sod it, the man is CI5. The next one would have to be bloody good to fill those shoes, and off-hand I can't think of anyone who could do it. Or who I'd lay my hide on the line for." And that was the bottom line, the fine print that did not appear on contracts. It took a special kind of captaincy to order men into life-or-death situations, and to have their implicit faith, confidence, and trust that was, of necessity at times, completely blind.

"Me, neither," Bodie said quietly. "That's one of the disadvantages when a leader leads by personal loyalty. Not that he set out to make it that way."

"Yeah," Doyle agreed. "He's just George Cowley."

"Cowley's Irregulars," Bodie toasted the unofficial name with his coffee. "He's the best bloody commander I've ever had."

"Sod it, this is sounding like a bloody wake!" his partner flared, and bounced to his feet, angry and restless. "Drink that stuff and hop it, will you?"

"Okay," he sighed, and drained the mug. "Do you have to be so obvious about it? My feelings could be hurt." But he let himself be chivvied out of the flat with only token protests, sprinted through the pelting rain to his car and drove off.

He didn't go far. He parked the Capri out of sight, walked back to the corner and waited, invisible in the night-shadows.

At seven-thirty a familiar Rover drew up, Cowley got out and rang the doorbell. Doyle joined almost immediately, attaché case in his hand. The two men got into the car, Doyle behind the wheel, and the Rover accelerated smoothly away. Conversation between them had been brief, and the gusting wind and rain had carried most of their words away from Bodie's straining ears. But he'd heard enough to learn that agent 4.5 and the Controller of CI5 were on first-name terms.

"What the hell --?" he demanded aloud.

Slowly Bodie returned to his car. He was wet, soaked to the skin across the shoulders, and cold. But physical discomforts were ignored.

The number of times his partner had been in the unprecedented situation of standing in for Cowley at important meetings, the primary lecture the Old Man had never before delegated, the instruction to mount an operation, added to Cowley's possible health deterioration, all seemed to add up to one thing.

Cowley had decided Doyle was going to be a contender for the succession, and was grooming him accordingly. It was a sobering thought.

If his partner had been some ten years older, then, yes, he could see that he would be a bloody good choice as Controller. But right now the man himself not only hadn't the experience for that kind of upward step, but would be more than unwilling to take it. Of that, Bodie was sure, and he couldn't see Cowley missing it, either. Of course, a lot depended on what kind of time-scale Cowley was working to, why and when he had made up his mind that Doyle would follow him. But Bodie had a feeling that it couldn't be a long one; the change in duties were coming too fast and frequent for it to be years rather than months. Which just didn't make sense.

One other thing puzzled Bodie. Did Doyle, or did Doyle not, know he was the Heir Apparent? On the one hand he obviously knew a lot more about Cowley's condition than he was letting on, and was worried about it. On the other, he resented the assignments that took him out of field while accepting, as a matter of course, that he had been singled out for those and other responsibilities. Like the Skinner operation. And where in all that, did the expensive target pistol and Rob Tuck fit in? Social grooming? Bodie speculated -- getting to know the right people -- 'How to be Polite and Subservient to Politicians and Still Get Away With Blue Murder.' -- If anything was guaranteed to get Doyle's goat, that would. His own feelings were ambivalent; a mixture of puzzlement, amusement, irritation, and a growing unease. The question of Doyle's latest lady and his secrecy concerning his outings lost all importance in the face of these new developments.

He had plenty of time to return to the Kensington mews and change into dry clothes. Plenty of time, too, to review again the last two weeks and the actions-reactions of his partner and Cowley. All of it underlined his assumption, and if he was right, which seemed pretty certain, where did that leave him? Partnerless, or teamed with another operative. Neither option filled him with enthusiasm, but he'd take the former if he had to. The latter wasn't even in the running as far as he was concerned.

In the meantime, he was on assignment, and Lucy Connors should be receiving all his attention. He was certainly receiving all hers.

---

She had been watching for him from the window of the first floor flat, and was waiting in the doorway as he ran up the stairs. In her three inch spike-heels, she was nearly as tall as he was, but slender boned fragility gave her a model's elegance, and the smile that had glowed charm even in a CI5 surveillance photograph transformed an already lovely face.

He folded her into his arms and kissed the mouth raised to him. The scent and the taste and the feel of her started the slow sweet fire in his blood, but he was in no hurry. First a meal in a West End nightclub, then either back to Kensington or Battersea for the rest of the night.

"Ready?" he murmured in her ear.

"Yes, I'll get my coat. It's not still raining, is it?" touching his hair with loving fingers.

"'Fraid so. But the car's right outside."

"Bodie," long -- naturally long -- eyelashes swept down, and she cuddled closer, "can we stop off at the De Vaux? Just for a little while?"

"Sure," he said. "Any particular reason?"

"Colin'll be there --"

"Fine. We'll all have a drink." He kissed her again, gently, then released her to gather up the white hooded jacket on the back of the couch. "Where is the De Vaux?"

Once in the car, she gave him directions interspersed with happy chatter, to which he listened with less than half an ear. She was, he gathered, pleased that he and Colin were going to meet, was sure they'd like each other -- they had a lot in common -- she'd told Colin all about him -- Bodie swallowed a snort of amusement, remembering Doyle's cheerful speculation.

This coming meeting was something he's been looking forward to ever since they'd started on the Connors case. It would be highly interesting to meet in the flesh the man who'd become virtually an obsession with his partner, and he'd judge for himself if Doyle's instincts were right, or a symptom of paranoia. All Doyle was going on were a series of reports from people with grudges -- circumstantial evidence, the lot of it, he decided smugly, congratulating himself on thinking like a cop, as Doyle should be doing. Okay, there was no question that Connors was bent, but was he also the potentially dangerous villain Doyle seemed to think? He, Bodie, would give his expert opinion, based on a long-term observation of and association with the more chancy members of the human race.

---

Even without the benefit of the many photographs taken of the man, Bodie would have recognized Lucy's brother immediately. Expensively dressed in tailored suede jacket, cords and tooled leather boots, Colin Connors was another whose photos did not do him justice. The likeness to his twin was startling, the feminine softness of Lucy transformed in his features to masculine strength and extreme handsomeness. The charm was there, too, in the ready smile. But it was a conscious thing with him, and the grey eyes were cool, assessing, and resentful. Dislike was instantaneous and mutual.

Bodie smiled his best shark-smile.

"Hello," he said, shaking the offered hand. "Glad to meet you, Colin. Lucy told me a lot about her one and only brother."

"Really?" polite, cautious.

"Yes, really. What'll you have?"

"Perrier water for me."

"Right. Cinzano, love?"

"Please." Lucy linked her arms through theirs, joining the three of them into a single unit. Face flushed with excitement, eyes brilliant, she was lovely enough to stop a man in his tracks, but she was unaware that, temporarily at least she was not the centre of attention for her two men.

Bodie ordered the drinks, paid for them with a fiver from a packed wallet, and settled down to an enjoyable quarter of an hour in a verbal parry and riposte with an increasingly hostile Connors. His opponent had a quick intelligence, Bodie discovered, a biting sarcasm that was delivered with smiling charm, and a deep-seated objection to having his authority challenged. With the aid of two inch heels on his Frank Wright boots, Connors was three inches taller than Bodie; he tried to use the psychological advantage the extra height should have given him, and failed. Bodie had been looked down on by better men than him, and had cut them down to size without any problem. But the tension between them grew; two dominant, arrogant males clashing head-on in an instinctive aggression, the young hound and the battle-wise wolf, savagery cloaked by civilized convention.

Just as Bodie was thinking it was time they left before he gave in to the urge to needle Connors into starting something, they were joined by a red-haired young man, Pete Elland. There was a certain amount of sullenness about the newcomer, an expression of dissatisfaction on an averagely forgettable face, and there was constraint between him and Connors. The aftermath of the CI5 burglary on Laurence, Bodie speculated, and would have liked to have drawn Elland into the conversation. But Connors, either wishing to continue the duel, or wanting to keep his friend out of it, was determined to hold the floor. Bodie let him do so, viewing the silent challenges thrown down by body-language with the cynical amusement of a master studying a tyro. Clearly Connors considered himself top-dog on his particular dung-hill, and recognised Bodie as a palpable threat. Consequently Bodie, being who and what he was, permitted a little of that condescension to show through. Connors saw it, recognised it, and was not skilled enough to rise above it.

But all the underplay was completely lost on Lucy.

"I knew you two would get on," she laughed as they returned to the car.

"We should double-date some time," Bodie said smoothly. "You and me, Colin and his fiancée. He looks a lot like you."

"Don't tell him that," she giggled. "He gets very cross -- says I look like him, not him like me. But I can't see the difference." And she shrugged.

"Semantics," Bodie said. "What would have happened if we didn't hit it off?"

"Happened?" Lucy echoed, eyes wide. "Nothing. What do you mean?"

"Supposing Colin doesn't approve of your choice of boyfriend, what happens? Does he tell you to chuck 'em, or what?"

"Heavens, no! Well, once or twice he's warned me about a boy -- and he's been right -- one was married, and another had been in prison. But he likes you. I know he does."

Bodie laughed, and stroked her cheek.

"Let's hope he continues to like me," he murmured. "I wouldn't want to be ditched because he suddenly decided he didn't like the way I comb my hair."

"Don't be silly," Lucy giggled again. "I wouldn't do it, even if he told me to."

"That's nice," he said. "And fortunate. Because, Lucy, my love, I would not let you chuck me over. His mate didn't seem too happy. What's up with him? Toothache?"

"Pete? No. One of his deals fell through, I expect. He buys broken-down cars, repairs them and sells them on. He makes quite a bit of money that way."

"Colin helps him, does he?"

"Sometimes, but he's not that interested in car engines. You did like him, didn't you?"

"Love at first sight," Bodie assured her solemnly. "But you're much prettier, so I'll stick with you." She giggled in delight, and he found himself wincing. "Well, having met part of your family, I'll see what I can arrange for you to meet part of mine."

"Who? Your parents? Sis