(For Linda B.)

Peter Skellen was depressed.

He drove his car with his usual careful precision, moving a sedate pace near the speed limit, obeying all traffic laws as was his custom. It had never occurred to him that his machismo might be tied up with squealing tires and high speed chases. He felt no burning need to prove his nerves of steel by running a red light. Habit, however, made him check his mirror; uninterested in the motor directly on his rear, but eternally suspicious of anyone three cars behind. Peter Skellen was a cautious man.

He was also a man trapped in a deep depression.

This wasn't an emotional state he was accustomed to dealing with, so he was still at the point of floundering around in the wash of misery, uncertain if it was worthwhile to keep his head above water. He'd been content with his lot for so long he'd nearly forgotten that true unhappiness could be easily as painful as any physical wound. Not that his life had been perfect, of course. There had been the usual daily irritations, boredom and frustrations everyone trudged through. But beyond all that, often obscured by those petty everyday furies, was his anchor and touchstone--his wife Jenny. And then, with strangely shocking suddenness (the previous nine months having passed in a happy haze of macho bliss as his swelling but beautiful wife complained of aching feet and back pains), there was another tiny anchor tugging on his heart. Any pride he'd felt before paled in comparison to the rush of joy he'd experienced the first time he'd seen his daughter. He'd glowed with it, sang with it, and felt peacefully humbled by it.

Now that happiness seemed very far away, untouchable. And he felt chilled by something he'd never thought to feel again-- loneliness. After six weeks, it was becoming more and more difficult to cope with it. Habit and training were keeping him sharp for the present, but sooner or later that would wear thin, simply because he really didn't give a damn anymore.

Pulling up beside the ugly brick building that was his destination, he cut off the motor, automatically scanning the passing cars and taking note of the nearby alleys and cross streets. He opened the door and got out, locking it carefully, and walked toward the entrance of what Colonel Hadley had called "Cowley's Home for Wayward Boys"--or, to be more precise, the headquarters for Criminal Intelligence Five.

Once inside, Skellen was appalled at the apparent lack of security. No one challenged him as he strolled down the corridors; he even received a couple of friendly waves and a rather sultry look from an attractive blonde. He waited at the lift for a few moments, but it seemed out of order. As he moved up the steps a man paused on the way down.

"Hey, Bodie! Where's your other half? The old man's been waiting."

Skellen halted warily. "Pardon?"

Having moved on past, the man stopped cold three steps below and turned back to look up. The expression on his face was comical. "What the--? You're not Bodie!" The friendly brown eyes froze instantly and his hand moved instinctively under his jacket.

Skellen quickly held out his own hands, palms out. "Hold on; I've credentials. If you'll permit me?" Carefully, very carefully, he slipped the slim leather case from his coat and flipped it open. "I was beginning to wonder if anyone had their eyes open around here. I could've lugged in a bazooka--"

"Blimey!" The man's eyes were fixed on the I.D. "Peter Skellen? SAS?" He looked back up in amazement. "Christ, who'd have believed it?" He laughed then, the dark eyes twinkling merrily.

Puzzled and oddly uncomfortable, Skellen closed up the wallet and tucked it back inside his coat. "I've an appointment with George Cowley. His office is on the third floor, isn't it?"

An amused smile curved the man's mouth as he nodded. Skellen could feel the dark eyes follow him up the steps. Before he had time to ponder the strange reaction, however, he was in the middle of another. The pretty blonde at the desk stared at him for a full thirty seconds before finding her voice.

"Mr....uh...Skellen? Peter Skellen?" Her normally cool poise was ruffled embarrassingly. But she recovered herself quickly. "Mr. Cowley is expecting you, sir. You may go right in."

He hadn't had to show her his I.D. or even introduce himself this time. This sudden and inexplicable notoriety had him totally baffled. Shrugging, he nodded his thanks and was ushered into the office.

He'd heard enough about the man who awaited him. George Cowley was an extremely powerful man, and a respected one. It had been one of the few times Skellen had heard true admiration in Colonel Hadley's voice. "Ol' George'd cut his own mother's liver out if she didn't toe the line."

But everything he'd heard hadn't prepared him for the man who greeted him. The spare, grey-haired man looked more like a stern and ill-tempered butler. Hardly the iron-and-guts fighting man he'd been led to expect. Yet there was something there, in those grey-green eyes, that straightened his spine and made him aware he was in the presence of a superior.

Cowley looked him over without any trace of surprise. "Aye, you'll do." He nodded in satisfaction then gestured to a chair. "Have a seat, Captain. What do ya think o' pure malt scotch?"

Skellen sat down, bemused. "If you're taking a poll, I'm for it."

Cowley chuckled. "Aye, you'll do fine." He moved to the breakfront, favouring one leg slightly as he walked. "You'll hae a drink then?"

Skellen started to reply that it was a bit early for him, but a rapid judgement of character reversed his decision. "Yes, sir. Thank you."

Cowley returned with two glasses, handing one over. "Well, I canna say I'm disappointed. The photos didna lie."

"Photos, sir?"

The sharp eyes appraised him. "You've no clue to what this is all about then?"

"Only that I was ordered to report to you, sir. Temporary secondment to CI5--" He broke off, thinking quickly. "When I came in, no one stopped me..." His eyes widened as it fell into place. "...because they thought I was this other chap...Bodie." He snapped his fingers as the last puzzle piece completed the picture. "He was SAS a few years back, wasn't he? Bodie...yeah, I heard he'd moved to another branch."

"You're familiar with him then?"

Skellen's smile was rueful. "Just by reputation. We've never had the pleasure of actually meeting. But having a double in the same outfit will hardly go unnoticed. He was only in for a couple of years, though, and I was overseas most of the t "There is a remarkable resemblance," Cowley commented.

"So I've heard. Bit hard to swallow, actually."

Wordlessly, Cowley dug out a file and pushed it across the desk. "And now?"

Skellen picked up the folder, stared at the picture inside.

"Well?" Cowley prodded impatiently.

He shut the file and dropped it back on the desk. "I suppose there's a degree of likeness."

Cowley seemed amused. "Aye, a degree. Certainly enough for our purpose."

"And just what's that, sir? A bit of double vision maybe? Played on whom?"

Cowley took a slow drink of his whiskey, savouring the taste. "Very perceptive, Captain Skellen. Bodie and his partner will be here soon. I'll go into more detail then." He glanced at Skellen's nearly untouched glass. "Drink up, Captain. And remember to tell Colonel Hadley how much I appreciate the co- operation of the SAS."

"The Colonel says he owes you," Skellen replied with a dash of sarcasm. "I hope I'm proper payment."

The tone didn't faze Cowley in the least. He smiled and held up his own glass. "I believe you'll do, Captain. Cheers."

---

"Days off, Doyle," Bodie said petulantly, head lolling back on the seat. "Days off. That means wine, women and song--or hadn't you heard?"

"I've heard. Maybe the ol' man hasn't," Doyle replied, totally unsympathetic.

"'Course he hasn't. He's tone deaf and only drinks scotch."

"What about women?" Doyle asked, amused in spite of himself. Bodie could make him laugh at his own mother's funeral.

Bodie rolled a bloodshot eye. "You must be joking. Last time the Cow got himself laid was 1947. Got carried away by the smell of lilac toilet water."

Doyle chuckled, then shook his head. "Stop complaining, Bodie. I didn't like being called in either, y'know. Only following orders, mate. Report in immediately."

Bodie groaned tragically. "I want you to know you've wounded me to the quick, son. You're such a lovely liar, Doyle. Why is it they trip off your tongue as natural as spit until it comes to coverin' for your dearest mate? You could've told 'im I was in Tahiti, couldn't you? Or joined a commune. Anythin'. I'd've even written your lines for you. Said I had an incurable disease--"

"A hangover is not an incurable disease, Bodie."

"Speak for yourself," Bodie snapped, then moaned at the loudness of his own voice. "You should be reported, that's what. This is a bloody crime."

"What? Cruelty to animals? It's one o'clock in afternoon. Snap out of it. You're puttin' most of it on anyway." He paused. "Besides that, I did you quite a favour. The bird was truly awful."

"Eh? What do'y mean by that?"

"I've seen better faces on lorry drivers, mate."

Bodie lifted his head, offended. "You should talk with some of the dogs you've picked!"

"Unlike you, however," Doyle retorted loftily, "I'm after more than what's offered on the outside. I'm interested in a girl's mind, her character, her soul--"

Bodie snorted, giving his partner's theatrics the reaction it deserved. "Face it, mate, the only souls you're after are the soles of her feet--off the floor and as wide apart as possible."

"Christ, you're crude," Doyle sniffed, but had to laugh. "So who was she then, your Miss Universe?"

"Eh?"

"The bird, you prat!"

"Oh...uh...Marilyn, I think." He settled back in the seat, eyes closed, smiling dreamily. "She had her moments."

Suddenly disgruntled by Bodie's obvious satisfaction, Doyle took off from the stop light with a squeal of tires. "Yeah, well so has Cowley, and we're late already. And it's your fault."

Unaffected by the accusation--which was true enough--Bodie muttered, "What's the ol' man want anyhow?"

"How the bloody hell should I know?" Doyle snapped.

Long accustomed to his partner's volatile mood swings and his bad temper, Bodie didn't even open his eyes. "So what did you get up to last night then?"

"Stayed home."

Bodie opened one eyelid. "Alone?"

"Yeah, bloody alone. Why not? I've other things to do with me time than chase birds, y'know."

"Really?" Both eyes came open at this novel thought. He grinned. "Like what?"

Doyle shrugged. "Read a book, listened to some tunes--"

"Boring, Doyle, boring."

"Yeah, well some people like to improve their minds. 'Course in your case it's a hopeless cause at the start."

"Ha. Ha." Bodie sat up. "Seriously, Ray, what's with you lately? I've tried to coax you out for weeks now. New religion or what? Given up sex have we?"

Doyle's hands tightened on the wheel. His partner's teasing had unwittingly hit a very sore spot. Not that he would ever admit it to Bodie, but it had been quite a while longer than Bodie would have imagined. And, oddly enough, he wasn't even sure why.

Somehow indiscriminate sex had lost its appeal for him just lately. The urge was as strong as ever (any stronger and he'd be wearing spectacles any day now), but the desire for a faceless, nameless relief had paled. Ann Holly might have had something to do with it, but that was some time ago. The emotional wounds were well-scabbed and painless, although her face was still clear and sharp in his memory. He'd certainly had women since then--a plethora of them. Too many maybe. Perhaps that was the problem. What Bodie and other womanisers (himself included, to be totally honest) tended to forget was that if the girl was vague and unmemorable within a week, so too were they. And he was frankly weary of being a faceless orgasmic blur. It would simply be nice to mean something to someone again. For all Ann's faults and his own, for all their impossibly divergent life styles and goals, he knew she remembered him as clearly as he did her.

"Ray?"

Bodie's voice drew him back sharply from his thoughts.

"Look at it this way, sunshine," Doyle said lightly, "you've a head this morning. I haven't."

Bodie smiled with irrepressible smugness. "Afternoon, y'mean. And all the lovely memories to go with it."

Doyle just grunted. Memories, he thought viciously. Until you get randy again and some other bird catches your eye. He knew he was being unjust to the other man. Bodie treated his women royally, certainly better than Doyle did his quick conquests. But Bodie was flatly better with women all the way around; knew how to charm them.

Bodie settled back once more to doze until they reached headquarters. They met Murphy as they came in the door.

"Hallo, Bodie," he said with a strangely irritating smile. "Hang on...you are Bodie, aren't you?"

"What are you on about, Murph," Bodie asked testily. Doyle's dark mood had finally affected his own, and his head was beginning to pound again.

Murphy just grinned mysteriously. "Wanted to make sure. Never can tell, y'know."

Bodie and Doyle exchanged a puzzled glance as Murphy barrelled out the door, sniggering. Doyle shrugged and headed for the steps, not bothering to check out the lift, which only seemed to operate every other Tuesday. Bodie followed, too wrapped up in his hangover to worry about it.

There was an amused glint in Betty's eyes as well. "You two had better go on in. He's been expecting you this last hour or more."

Bodie leaned over her desk, unable to resist trying it on, in spite of his aching head. "Ah, Betty, sweetheart. Have you been countin' the minutes, then? I know you've missed me beautiful face."

"Mmmm." She smiled at some private diversion. "Seems like I've just seen your beautiful face. It gets around more than you know."

Bodie straightened, bewildered, and Doyle said sharply, "Come on, Bodie. The ol' man's waitin'."

---

Cowley was enjoying himself immensely. Doyle's face was a study of shocked confusion. Bodie's expression mirrored that for the first ten seconds but quickly shifted to a kind of perplexed resentment. Of the three, only Skellen appeared unmoved; more curious than dismayed or startled. Understandable, since he'd at least had a short time to adjust to the idea before it was thrust upon him in the flesh.

Doyle looked at Bodie, then back at Skellen. Then back at Bodie. "You're bloody twins!"

Bodie stiffened. "Not hardly, mate." Then, at Doyle's wide- eyed stare and Cowley's amused glint, he amended, "Bit of a resemblance, maybe.

"And you, Captain?" Cowley demanded, "What's your opinion?"

Skellen was inclined to agree with Bodie. He saw the likeness between them easily enough, but saw the differences as well. And he couldn't accept that the similarities were quite as startling as everyone else seemed to believe. But, as he met the defiant blue eyes and caught the flash of arrogance and scorn, an imp of nastiness made him reply impulsively. "Like looking in a mirror," he said sweetly.

Bodie's expression froze, and Skellen wondered wryly if his own face ever displayed such pompous coldness. He knew if looks were lethal, he'd have about a half-second left to live. Returning the stare calmly, he determined that it wouldn't be he who broke the contact.

Impatience did that, as Bodie turned to Cowley. "What's this all about, sir?" he demanded.

Cowley had not missed the underplay of tension between the two men and was amused by it. Unavoidable when placing two very active bulls in one pen, but he trusted they wouldn't be together long enough for it to create a problem, so he was enjoying Bodie's discomfort on a purely personal level. His pet barbarian needed taking down a peg or two, and he had a feeling this man Skellen was quite capable of it--or at least of putting 3.7 on his toes. Cool, removed Bodie let few things get up his nose, but this had managed it quite nicely.

"Perhaps I should introduce you," Cowley said dryly. "Bodie, Doyle, this is Captain Peter Skellen of the SAS. He'll be working with us for a time."

Doyle had recovered from the initial surprise and stepped forward now with a delighted grin. "Good to meet you, Captain. I'm Ray Doyle."

Skellen shook his hand, feeling an immediate click of common chemistry with the mop-haired agent. Doyle looked a bit scruffy, hair too long, jeans too tight and worn a bit thin at the knees, but the green eyes were clear and sharp and the handshake was firm and warm. There was genuine delight and humour in the forthright expression on the round face.

Bodie, however, hadn't moved. Skellen looked at him. "William Bodie, isn't it?"

"Just Bodie." The words were clipped. "I've heard of you."

Doyle turned back, amazed. "You knew about him? Why didn't you ever mention it? Christ, Bodie, he's your double! Are you two related or something?"

"Not that I know--" Skellen began, but Bodie cut him off.

"One of us is just a freak of nature."

Cowley decided it was time to cool the atmosphere. "You two, have a drink and find a seat. We have things to discuss."

With just a jot more than his usual insolence, Bodie moved to the cabinet to fix a drink for himself and his partner. In the process he commented off-handedly, "I heard about your connection with that embassy affair a few weeks back."

Doyle perked up. "You were in on that? The American Embassy? Good job that."

Bodie heard the unconscious admiration in Doyle's voice and was irritated by it. The SAS kept their dealings as anonymous as possible, and Doyle, no less than the rest of the British public, was properly intrigued by the image they presented. Strange, perhaps, for a member of CI5, but Doyle was obviously not immune to the mysterious attraction the SAS exuded. Bodie wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

Skellen wished he had, as well. He felt uncomfortable about answering Doyle, but it would seem rude not to. Training made it difficult to discuss an operation with anyone outside the SAS-- even if it was a similar department. He was less than pleased with Bodie, who certainly knew better than to bring the subject up at all. He evaded responding by demanding of his double, "How'd you hear about it?"

Bodie handed a drink to Doyle and shrugged. "I've still a few contacts. Understand you were quite a hero, weren't you? Under cover with the lovely, lethal terrorist--in more ways than one."

Skellen set his glass down on the desk, muscles tightening in preparation for a somewhat physical retort. But then he relaxed. The other man was obviously trying to goad him into some kind of impulsive action. Unfortunately, he'd managed to pick just the tender spot that might have given him more than he'd bargained for. You're slipping, Peter, he told himself sternly. He simply stared at Bodie and held his tongue.

Bodie, slightly disappointed that his bait had been refused, eased from his ready posture and located a chair across the room. He sat down and sipped at the hair of the dog that bit him the night before. His headache was worse than ever, and his stomach felt a bit queasy. He glared at Doyle, unjustly blaming him for his discomfort. If his prat of a partner had been with him last night, he certainly wouldn't have had nearly as much. Doyle was generally too cheap to pay for more than a couple of rounds and, although Doyle's thrifty soul was quite content to let Bodie fork over the cash for both of them for as long as either of them could stand, Bodie's principles of share and share alike refused to permit him to indulge his parsimonious golly very often. He learned quite early on that it didn't pay to spoil Doyle where money was concerned, or you'd wind up flat broke.

Doyle glanced from his partner to Skellen, confused by the brief but intense exchange of words. As usual, even the undercurrents were going over his head. He was a good cop and an even better detective, but interpersonal relationships had never been his forte.

Cowley decided he'd relished the interplay enough. Waiting until they'd all settled down, he said, "I haven't brought you together to cast a musical comedy. There is a method in this madness."

"Shakespeare, sir?" Bodie remarked with a wry smile. "If we're playin' Hamlet, I'd've soon stayed in bed. I know how he ends up."

"More a comedy of errors, 3.7. Played on our old friend, Gerald Green."

"Green?" Doyle repeated. "The former chief constable of Beddington? I thought we'd settled him." Doyle's lip curled at the memory; being a good copper, the thought of a bad one turned his stomach. "I remember his nice, clean town."

"He's no longer chief constable, 4.5. He is now the Right Honourable Mayor."

"Eh?" Even Bodie snapped to attention at this.

"You haven't been keeping up with politics," Cowley said blandly. "Our Mr. Green is extremely popular with John Q. Public."

"How the hell did that happen?" Doyle asked in disbelief. "After what he did, I thought he was finished. What with Chives and his strong-arm tactics--"

"And none of the mud stuck to Green," Cowley interrupted. "He was clean as far as the public were concerned. A man under him abused his power; Green, being an honourable man, resigned his post. It did not, unfortunately, prevent him from running for public office, nor prevent the public from remembering the peaceful city they'd enjoyed while he'd been in office."

"A bloody Gestapo nightmare," Doyle snarled. "No wonder it was peaceful."

"Quite so, Doyle. But most of the ordinary people didn't see that side of it. All they could see was that the crime rate jumped back to its normally energetic levels. They remembered those 'nice, clean streets' with fondness. So Gerald Green has risen from the muck smelling of rosebud. It was a landslide election, so I hear."

Bodie leaned back nonchalantly in his chair, purposefully ignoring Skellen. "So the ordinary man has found the proper rat for his rat-trap. What's it to do with us, then? Can't fight popular opinion, can we?"

"If it was only Beddington, I'd agree with you. Wish them luck of their choice, though I pity them for fools." Cowley studied his glass thoughtfully. "Unfortunately, it's gone beyond that. His popularity hat been noted in higher, more wide- reaching areas. The Minister tells me that the Home Secretary is considering taking Green on as an advisor. From there, Parliament is not an unreasonable step."

"I take it the Minister is not in favour of that."

"No, Captain Skellen, nor am I. The man is sincere in his beliefs, and that makes him very dangerous. Slow poison, spreading his own personal brand of bigotry and lust for power like acid rain. And the worst of it is he knows how to make it all sound very pretty, very sensible. Subtle hatred is the most difficult to defuse. I'd rather deal with a rattlesnake than his type."

"So you're planning to de-fang him," Bodie commented coolly.

"Or perhaps simply dilute his venom a tad," Cowley replied, echoing the matter-of-fact tone.

Skellen observed them all doubtfully. It sounded uncomfortably political to him, and whatever the old man had in mind seemed to be very close to crossing an ethical line. He was aware that CI5 often skirted near to the rules, bending them to the breaking point and more, but this hinted of something far more distasteful. Yet the Colonel had assured him that Cowley was a straight stick with morals staunch enough to make the Queen seem like a libertine in comparison. Skellen was too much of a military man to start bucking his orders simply because he felt uneasy with the battle. There was too much here he couldn't see yet, and he was willing to wait for the full picture.

Whatever wicked web the old man was spinning, however, didn't seem to surprise the two operatives. Both Bodie and Doyle were taking the idea of weaving what could be a very nasty trick without batting a lash.

Either they were excellently trained, or all too familiar with this type of ploy. Skellen had played his own share of grimy scams in his time--the recent "undercover" game he'd run with Frankie and her People's Lobby still left a bitter taste in his mouth, even disregarding the ugly backlash it had created in his own personal life. Despite that, he still stubbornly believed what he'd done had been necessary. Lives had been at stake, and that was the bottom line. This Machiavellian plan of Cowley's, however, seemed like a different kettle of fish altogether.

It wasn't Skellen's expression, it was his lack of it that caught Cowley's attention. "You disapprove, Captain?"

The blue eyes met Cowley's unflinchingly. "Not for me to say, sir. Not yet, at least. I must admit, it sounds a bit shadier than I care for."

Surprisingly, it was Bodie who answered. "If you're worried about infringing on Green's rights, save it. He never bothered much about anyone else's."

Two nearly identical pairs of eyes met and held. Again there was the lightning flicker of animosity, the weighing and judging, the spark of challenge.

"I see." Skellen smiled almost lazily. "The old eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth bit, eh?"

Bodie's smile eerily mirrored the other's. "As long as they're not my teeth, mate."

Cowley suddenly tired of the friction. He didn't mind the sparring--had expected it--but they wouldn't be of much use to him if they ended up breaking each other's necks. "I understand your reluctance, Captain, but you'll have to trust my judgement that this operation is more than a personal vendetta on my behalf. It is necessary. He paused. "However, if you object to participating, you may contact Colonel Hadley and express your reservations. He already knows the plan, incidentally."

"Naturally." Skellen's smile was rueful. He, of all people, knew the Colonel's moral compunctions--which could be listed all the way from A to Z, as in zero. "That won't be necessary, sir. I'll stick with it for now. What, exactly, is your plan?"

Cowley sat back, pleased by Skellen's response. He didn't like his men to be too eager for an operation as touchy as this. He fully realised it was a very grey area of right and wrong. He preferred a healthy degree of uncertainty. His gaze touched on Doyle. Never any problem with that one--what had Bodie said of him once? 'He'd blame himself for the invention of gunpowder...' His eyes moved on to Doyle's irrepressible partner. Then there was the other extreme. Outwardly, at least, Bodie had no morals whatsoever; would do anything to anyone at any time--given a good reason or a good price. It was little more than a facade, however, and Cowley knew that, or Bodie wouldn't have lasted in CI5 for a week. But, depending on his mood and reasons, it was sometimes uncomfortably close to the truth. It made Bodie at one and the same time, one of the most valuable members of the Squad, and the most dangerous. As partners, they balanced each other perfectly; a chance he'd banked on when he'd joined them in a union far more intense and devoted than most marriages. Certainly the odds were it was one match that would definitely be 'until death us do part', considering the expected life span in this business.

He returned to the subject at hand. "According to the Minister, Mayor Green has been bending the Home Secretary's ear on a number of pet topics. And, with an eagle eye to the polls, the Secretary is beginning to listen. The Minister isn't pleased by this--no one who knows what Gerald Green is capable of could like it. The best way, the only way, to counteract this trend is to discredit Green."

"How do we do that, sir?" Doyle asked. Recalling Green and Chives and the police state they'd managed to create in a peaceful, pleasant English town, Doyle was willing to do anything short of assassination to put a stop to Green's brand of justice. He particularly remembered Bodie surrendering against his better judgement because Doyle figured it was the right thing to do-- only to wind up handcuffed and helpless in the back of Chives' car. Yet Bodie had never once thrown it up to him.

Their eyes met now, and Doyle knew Bodie was remembering, too, and reading his thoughts. The blue eyes smiled at him, telling him not to be a ninny--water under the bridge.

"Nothing spectacular," Cowley explained. "It'll be more of a case of putting Mr. Green's veracity in question. With luck, his stability."

Bodie nodded appreciatively. "Make him seem balmy enough so the Home Sec will think twice on everything he suggests. Maybe even drop him altogether."

"Shouldn't be difficult," Doyle muttered. "The bastard is a nutter."

"Bodie, you'll be taking a trip up north, to Mayor Green's fair city. I want you to take up residence in Green's pocket for a week or so. But only so Green is aware of you. Try to make certain no one will be able to prove you've been within two hundred miles of the place. Do I make myself clear, lad? Keep an extremely low profile except where Green is concerned. A delicate operation. D'ya think you can handle it?"

Bodie nodded again. "Hit, run, and disappear. No problem; I've done it often enough before."

Doyle tossed a mischievous glance at Skellen. "That's what all his birds say."

Cowley spared a quelling look at the curly-haired agent, and cautioned, "Remember, you'll be a gadfly, not a bombardier. Sting him a bit, irritate the hell out of the man, but nothing physical and nothing too major. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. No problem." Bodie hesitated, suddenly realising what that meant. "And meanwhile, back here...?"

Cowley turned pointedly to Skellen. "You'll need a haircut, of course, Captain."

Skellen swept a disdainful eye over Bodie. "I suppose it'll grow back," he said lightly. "Not permanently disfiguring."

Before Bodie could find the voice to reply; Cowley went on, "You'll need to grow your sideburns a bit longer as well. As for the rest, I believe it'll pass admirably. Stay close to Doyle. He can pick up on any mistakes you might make; steer clear of anyone who might catch on to the charade. Your voices are near enough, it shouldn't be noticeable. Most people will see you together and automatically believe you're Bodie without looking twice."

"Now there's a cheery thought," Bodie cut in nastily. "What are we then, a matched set?"

Doyle was thinking it out, unbothered by the idea he and Bodie were considered natural accessories to each other. "So Skellen and I will go on as usual here in London. Everyone will assume he's Bodie, and when Green calls up complaining to the Home Sec or anyone else about CI5 harassment, he'll wind up with egg on his face and lookin' a proper fool."

"Precisely, 4.5," Cowley replied. "Aye, it's a shaky plan at best, but the only one that could put a scum on Green's shining armour without going into something much nastier. If it works, we'll be rid of his troublemaking in Whitehall, if it doesn't..." He shrugged. "Well, we'll be no worse off than before. I don't want to destroy the man, just tarnish his image a bit--and keep him bloody well out of London." He swept them all with his stern gaze. "CI5, naturally, will have no part in any of this if any of you are fumble-fingered enough to get caught out. I will cheerfully deny any knowledge of your activities. This is one piper you'll dance to alone."

None of them was in the least shocked by this. They were all quite aware of the score on these borderline ops. Not only your skin was on the line, but your reputation as well, for there would be no hanging responsibility on higher authority. In accord with the degree of agents they were, none of them was willing to admit they might screw up anyway. But on this occasion, only one of them was confident of the ability of the other two. Doyle knew Bodie's skill, and instinctively sensed that Skellen might be just as good. The other two were sure enough of Doyle, but had arbitrarily decided the other was a true cock-up. Neither, of course, was willing to voice his objections.

In any case, all three had long ago resigned to hanging alone if the need arose. Protecting their organisations was second nature to all of them. It was unconsciously similar to a religious zeal right down to being willing to burn at the stake if necessary, although not one of them would have realised it.

"Doyle, you'll be in charge of instructing Captain Skellen on the more obvious of your partner's mannerisms, clueing him in on how to behave in public."

The green eyes twinkled with delight as they noted Bodie's clenched jaw and forbidding look. "I've been doin' that for years, sir. He's never caught on."

"Hmmm. Just make sure Skellen does."

"Easily, sir. I've been workin' up a paper on abnormal psychology. Complete with footnotes."

Bodie spared the time to glare at him before turning to Cowley. "Hang about, sir. What's the logic in sending me up north? Green'll hardly remember me anyway. Why not send Skellen? There's loads of people here that might twig, but--"

"Yes," Cowley cut him short, conceding the point. "Ideally, it would be easier that way; fewer people to convince. However, there was a stipulation to Captain Skellen's secondment. Colonel Hadley wants him within easy reach if something comes up. There are a couple of nasty situations that could blow at any moment, and if Skellen is several hundred miles away, he won't be of much assistance to them. You, Bodie, have been away from the SAS too long to be of much use. The codes and signals have changed, and it's pointless for you to relearn them just on the chance you'll be needed. No, Skellen has to remain in London."

"Indispensable, is he?" Bodie sneered.

"Let's just say the Colonel wants him immediately available." Cowley smiled. "He couldn't take your place either, 3.7, if I was foolish enough to assign you to anything but routine. I want the 4.5/3.7 team visible for a bit, not necessarily effective. It's only for a few days...however long it takes to accomplish the purpose." Cowley's smile broadened, eyebrow cocking in amusement. "Besides that, Bodie, remember your job with Green. Who else could I trust to be at his obnoxious best? I have every confidence in your ability in that area, having been subjected to it myself often enough."

Bodie opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again, finding he was, for once, at a loss for words. Cowley had made up his mind; there'd be no changing it. What bothered Bodie far more, was the startling fact that Doyle wasn't speaking up either. He was obviously agreeable to the situation as it stood, and Bodie found he was oddly hurt by what he saw as a betrayal. He was accustomed to Doyle, if not always agreeing with him, at least loyally backing him up as much as possible. His partner had to see how he felt about this, but there he was going along with it, willing to let this upstart take his place without a murmur of protest. His illogical resentment of Skellen burned a degree hotter.

"Well, Captain?" Cowley asked. "Do you think you can pull off the masquerade?"

Skellen considered it for a moment. It still seemed like a dirty game, but they knew more about this Green than he did; perhaps they were right. Even Hadley must think so. Skellen made his decision rapidly, and probably for the wrong reasons, mostly hoping the change would take his mind off his own problems for a bit. "I've worked undercover before," he smiled ruefully, "as Mr. Bodie pointed out earlier. It's not new to me. This job should go smooth as cream."

"Aye, well you'll have to move into Bodie's flat for a time; drive his car; wear his clothes--"

"What?" Bodie cut in, outraged. "That's carryin' it a bit far, innit? You can't be serious, sir!"

Cowley ignored the outburst. "I hope there'll be no problem with your personal life with that aspect of it, Captain. Colonel Hadley tells me you're married."

Skellen looked down at the floor. "No problem, sir."

"And what about my personal life?" Bodie demanded furiously. "Don't I have a say in this?"

Cowley regarded him sternly. "This is necessary, 3.7. That should be obvious."

"Oh, stop being such a prat, Bodie," Doyle added lightly. "It's only for a week or so. What's the fuss about?"

Bodie stared at his partner, both enraged and wounded at his seeming defection. How could Doyle airily accept a stranger, let him move into his life, his place? Impossible to articulate his uneasy feelings--impossible even if Cowley and Skellen weren't there listening. He felt ridiculous enough as it was. He turned away, stubbornly refusing to let them see how he felt. "Okay, fine by me. Go on with it then."

Cowley nodded, satisfied. "The operation will commence day after tomorrow. That should give Captain Skellen and Bodie time to clear up their affairs."

"Yeah, well speakin' of affairs," Bodie said resentfully, "what happens if one of me birds shows up at my flat, eh? Won't she notice a bit of change in technique?"

Skellen couldn't resist the opening. "Undoubtedly. But you can always tell her you'd been takin' vitamins."

The muscles in Bodie's jaw clenched, temper hardly improved by Doyle's chuckle, but Cowley broke in smoothly before he had a chance to reply.

"I'm sure you can manage to warn the young ladies off for bit, 3.7. Explain that you will be unavailable. In your line of work, they must be accustomed to your absence from time to time."

There was obviously no way to deny the truth of that. Bodie remained silent, realising anything he might say would probably be capped by Skellen, and he was unwilling to provide further fuel for Doyle's amusement. It was all too apparent that his curly-haired partner had taken to Skellen on sight. Surprising, considering that Doyle was generally the more prickly one, reserved and cautious with most strangers. But the green eyes held none of their usual coolness, and the warm smiles were all too genuine.

Bodie had no idea why it bothered him so much, but it did.

---

Ten minutes later, the briefing was over and they were outside in the car park. Doyle settled back in his seat with a grin. He was feeling a bubbling sense of euphoria. His life had seemed rather flat just lately--strange when considering their nervous occupation--but this unexpected situation with Skellen had brought an amusing fillip to it. He hadn't even consciously realised he'd been in a slump until this unique occurrence had boosted his spirits like a rocket.

Propping one trainer on its usual place on the dash, he glanced cheerily at his partner. "Why'd you never mention Skellen, eh? Threw me quite a loop, it did. Walkin' in there and seein' a bloody copy--"

"Shuddup, Doyle."

Doyle's eyes widened. "Didn't like 'im much, did you? Seemed like a nice enough bloke to me."

Bodie snorted as he turned a corner with particular viciousness. "I'm not likely to appreciate your judgement, mate. If he winked at you an' bought you a pint, you'd think Adolf Hitler was a decent chap."

Doyle refused to let Bodie spoil his buoyant mood. "You just hate the fact there's someone else toolin' around with your beautiful face." He grinned. "Must be a real trial to you, thinkin' you were an original only to find you were stamped out as a matched set." Bodie didn't reply so Doyle continued, "Cheer up, mate. It could've been me with the double." He fluttered his eyelashes sweetly. "Is Britain ready for that, eh?"

"I reckon not," Bodie retorted in a dampening tone.

"Eh, you think there might be?"

"What?"

"Another me somewhere. After all, it might be--"

"Forget it, Ray." Bodie tossed him a withering look. "They'd've drowned him at birth."

"Oh, ta very much." Doyle shrugged, unaffected by his partner's churlish attitude. "Anyway, I don't mind havin' a go at pullin' ol' Green down again. Pity the bastard ever made it back out of the gutter. The thought of him turns me stomach."

"Mmmm," was Bodie's noncommittal answer.

Doyle looked at him again, puzzled. Even with a hangover, Bodie wasn't usually this cold or incommunicative. The few times Doyle had noticed it before, something had been very wrong. It wasn't often Bodie let anything thing bother him much, but when it did it cut very deeply.

"What is it, mate?" Doyle asked softly.

"Nothing."

"You really didn't like him, did you?"

Bodie's very mobile mouth was pressed into a severe line. "What's not to like? The usual, pompous SAS know-everything. I've seen'm often enough before. One reason I chucked it in."

Doyle was startled by the venom in his partner's voice. This had definitely taken him on the raw for some reason. "Thought you told me it was the money that sold you on CI5," he said lightly, hoping to divert him. "But I knew that couldn't be it."

Bodie shot him a dirty look. "Just drop it, Ray."

Doyle turned his head back to the front, eyebrow climbing. He knew better than to press the subject; Bodie was explosive and his fuse was dangerously short. "So where we goin' now, then?"

"I'm dropping you home."

Doyle glanced at his watch. "The pubs'll be open again soon. Don't you want to stop for a bitter first?"

"No. Got things to do, remember?" His voice dripped sarcasm. "Settle up my affairs, right?"

"Bodie--"

"Here we are." Bodie pulled the Capri to a halt. "Better drop around tomorrow evening to let Skellen in. I think I'll make an early start of it."

Doyle realised there was something very wrong here, but couldn't quite pin it down. Certainly it had to be more than merely Bodie's natural irritation at having a look-alike. He paused. "Listen, if you want--"

"Ray, I've things to do, okay?"

Doyle nodded and opened the car door. "Yeah, sure. See you tomorrow then."

The car squealed away from the pavement before Doyle had reached the first step to his flat.

---

Peter Skellen's depression settled in like a smothering fog as soon as he reached his empty mews flat. The hole they'd blasted in the wall had long since been neatly patched, but he could still make out the signs of repair. Jenny's favourite lamp no longer sat on the side table, and even the fresh white paint on the banister couldn't hide the scars and gouges where the handcuffs had bitten into the wood. Ugly reminders of an ugly scene.

Although he wasn't hungry, he went out to the kitchen and fixed himself a sandwich, washing it down with gin. Cowley was a very bad influence. It would be all too easy to drown his pain in a gin bottle--he smiled humourlessly--or a bottle of scotch. Either way, it didn't seem a path he'd been inclined to take. There were quicker methods of suicide, and even at this point, he wasn't suicidal.

Pulling off his jacket, he dropped down on the sofa and switched on the television. There was some American program on; happy, clean people living dramatically unhappy, clean lives. He ignored the plot and just watched the brightly moving figures. Jenny wasn't here to change the channel or switch the set off impatiently to put on some classical music. Sam wasn't here to crawl over the rug trying to get hold of the remote control or to be dragged out of the light cords.

Christ, he missed them.

He looked over at the telephone, but didn't move toward it. What the hell could he say? I love you? God, she had to know that. I'm sorry? A little late for that one.

With the flickering, unreal world of the television and the fading afternoon sunlight slipping through the drapes, Peter Skellen put his face on his arm and cried.

---

"Make yourself at home, mate," Bodie said caustically. "Everyone else is."

Doyle entered the flat, checking out the luggage on the floor by the door. "Keen to get started, are we?"

"Just followin' orders; headin' off to visit Mayor Green."

"Op's not supposed to start up 'til morning," Doyle pointed out.

"Skellen'll be here tonight, won't he?"

"Yeah, but I figured you'd wait until he got here at least...make him feel comfortable."

"You'll manage that I expect."

Uncertain how to answer Bodie in his present mood, Doyle moved to the liquor cabinet. "Have a drink before you go?"

Bodie hesitated. "Okay." He grimaced. "Hopefully Skellen won't be as free with my liquor as you are, or I'll come home to a dry house."

Doyle smiled as he handed him the drink. "Don't worry, mate, I'll keep him from pilfering the silver."

"Just take care he doesn't ruin me new jacket. I paid a bloody fortune for it."

"I'll watch it like a hawk."

Bodie relaxed a bit, smiling. "Finally got them straight, have you? Hawks and elephants? Good for you, son!"

"Read up on me botany lesson," Doyle grinned, pleased to have a dash of his old Bodie back.

"That's plants, not animals, Ray."

"Is it? Whatever."

Bodie chuckled. "How'd you ever get the rep for being the brains of this team anyway? Ignorant sod."

Doyle perched on the arm of the sofa. "This should be a nice holiday for you. Nothing to do but irritate Green. Very fun."

"Yeah, I'll think of you often."

"Mind to keep well away from the barmaids. You're to keep a low profile, remember?"

"Consider me Claude Rains." At Doyle's puzzled look, he added, "The invisible man. Did Cowley tell you what you and Skellen will be on?"

"Surveillance job. Very dull. You're well out of it. But maybe I'll luck out and Skellen won't be likely to doze off on watch like you do."

Bodie scowled. "Just watch he doesn't drop off when you need someone at your back, sunshine. Keep your reckless arse out of the line of fire. I won't be there to guard it for you."

"I'll manage to muddle through without you. You're the one who'd better watch it, mate. Don't much fancy runnin' up north to bail you out of the nick. Don't get carried away with your gorilla routine with Green. Be subtle--if the word's in your vocabulary."

"It's tucked in there somewhere," Bodie replied dryly. "Don't try teachin' your granny to roller skate, Doyle."

Doyle sipped his drink, wondering what else to say. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt uncomfortable with Bodie; it was a very odd feeling.

Bodie sat his glass down and moved toward the door. "I'd best get going then."

Quickly Doyle stood and happened to grab up the suitcase at the same time as Bodie did. "I'll give you a hand with this, shall I?"

Bodie didn't release the handle; their hands overlapped, and they were standing very close.

"This is the first time you've offered to carry anything over a kilo. What's up?"

Doyle let go as if burned. "I just thought--"

"What?"

They were still very close, and all Doyle could think was how blue his sodding partner's eyes were, and that he'd never seen such lashes on any of his birds. He swallowed and stepped back, flushing with sudden embarrassment.

Bodie didn't miss the blush, but he understood it even less than Doyle. "Ray?"

Recovering rapidly, Doyle said, "Good luck, mate. Watch yourself, eh?"

Bewildered, Bodie stared at him for a moment. Then, impulsively, he reached out a hand to touch the flushed cheek. "Always do, don't I? See you in a few days, sunshine."

As soon as the door closed, Doyle located his drink and downed it. He felt a bit shaken and wasn't at all sure why. All of a sudden he hadn't wanted Bodie to leave--had wanted something very different. Staring at the empty glass, refusing to pour himself a badly needed second one, he went to the kitchen and put on a kettle for tea.

He went about the process methodically, dimly thinking he should be even more upset than he was. After all, it wasn't often you realised you fancied your partner. It might have been easier if he could honestly believe it had been a lightning flash that hit him unexpectedly. But he knew better. The attraction had been there for months, years maybe. The awareness of it could be measured in weeks. The acceptance, however, hadn't come until thirty seconds after Bodie walked out that door.

A hell of a thing, wasn't it? He'd just as well have a yearn for the Cow for all the good it would do him.

He was just opening the tea tin when the door bell sounded.

"What'd you forget--" he began as he opened it, but froze in mid-sentence.

It was Bodie but it wasn't Bodie. Different clothes than he'd worn five minutes ago, but so much in Bodie's style it took a second for the discrepancy to register--black leather, black trousers, rollneck sweater.

"Skellen?"

The man smiled ruefully. "The haircut makes that much difference, eh?"

Doyle let out his breath slowly. "Christ, it's bloody eerie. Come in. I was just putting on some tea."

Skellen entered the flat and glanced around curiously. "Not bad. A bit spare maybe. Needs a woman's touch."

Doyle's head leaned around the kitchen door. "It's usually got women crawlin' all over it--but not for interior design work. He left the latch keys on the side table there."

Skellen pocketed them and sat down on the sofa. "Where's he gone to?"

Doyle returned from the kitchen, carrying two cups. "Already headed north. Left right before you got here." He handed a cup to Skellen who looked at it distastefully.

"I take it black."

Doyle smiled as he settled down in the side chair. "Bodie takes milk. Learn to love it, Captain."

Skellen's eyebrow lifted as he took the point. He sipped the liquid. "What else do I need to learn to love?"

Doyle felt the urge to laugh at the question--it was a bit close to home at present. But he just shrugged. "You've picked the right clothes anyway. Definitely his style."

The blue eyes twinkled. "What? These old things? Just something I tossed on."

"Yeah, well tomorrow you can go through his wardrobe." Green eyes sparkled wickedly as he added, "There's a particular jacket that should suit you just lovely."

"Any other tips for me to make this act more convincing?"

"Plenty, but with a little luck we won't have to convince anyone. Better to keep clear of close contacts. Just bein' seen around should be enough. If you do have to talk, remember to be...flippant. Bodie doesn't take very much seriously. His humour tends to be a bit black."

Doyle fell silent for a moment, thinking of his partner and his various moods, realising that most of the time Bodie was amazingly even-tempered, even sunny. Yesterday didn't count, as it was quite atypical behaviour. "He smiles a lot," Doyle said thoughtfully. Enjoys life I think."

Skellen looked down at the floor, realising this might be tougher than he'd figured. He hadn't felt much like smiling lately.

"Don't know much else to tell you, actually," Doyle continued. "But we should get by well enough. He doesn't give much away to anyone anyway, so you won't mess up on any background info. Even I don't know much about his life before he joined the squad."

Skellen glanced up, surprised that Doyle didn't know the other man's past better. He'd thought they'd been partners for years. "When he was in the SAS, he was good. I've heard that much."

"He still is."

"I also heard he was a mercenary for a while."

"Yeah, well, he mostly keeps shut about all that." His gaze met Skellen's firmly. "He's a good bloke; a good partner. He's saved my hide more times than I can count."

"Hopefully your hide won't be in jeopardy while he's away. I'm not used to working with a partner."

Doyle smiled. "One should always be open for new experiences, or hadn't you heard? Anyway, things'll be quiet the next few days. The Cow's got his fingers stuck in several pies at the moment, and we've drawn the smallest slice." He regarded the other man with interest. "The old man said you're married?"

"Yes."

"Nice, is she?" Receiving a nod in answer, Doyle asked, "Doesn't she mind you goin' off for bits like this? Must be hard on her."

"She's..." Skellen hesitated. "She's used to it, isn't she? We've been married for a long time; since I first joined the army." Seeing Doyle's interested, friendly expression, he took out his wallet, a little embarrassed, and pulled out a snapshot.

Doyle dutifully inspected it. "My, she is pretty, isn't she? Good job there, mate. That your baby, is it?"

"Yes, that's my daughter, Sam. He took the picture back and stared at it for a long minute, feeling the sweet ache in the pit of his stomach. "Samantha, actually. She's thirteen months."

"She's lovely."

Skellen shrugged, uncomfortable but pleased. "I expect most babies are."

"It must be nice to have a family." Doyle's voice was wistful. "Someone real and solid to go home to after the mess we deal with every day. I almost married once, but she couldn't handle it...neither could I, probably." He looked up, his gaze frankly envious. "You're very lucky."

Skellen couldn't go on with this any longer. He stood abruptly and moved to the window. "Not so lucky. We're separated."

"Christ, I'm sorry...I didn't--"

"It's okay. You couldn't know, could you? Besides, I expect it's only temporary. We need to work a few things out, is all."

Doyle wasn't sure what to say. He'd put his foot in it solidly and although the man had his back to him, the set of his shoulders and the clenched fists clearly showed he was hurting. Skellen and Bodie were two very different people, but Doyle couldn't help but feel that Skellen, like his partner, preferred to keep his pain a private matter.

He took his teacup to the kitchen, rinsed it out. He was feeling a bit unsteady and more than a little shocked that his first impulse had been to reach out to the man who looked so much like his partner. Ridiculous, since he expected if he'd tried as much with him, Bodie would've decked him for butting into something that wasn't his business. And that was a total stranger out there, not Bodie. This crap he felt for his partner was going over the edge a bit, wasn't it?

After several moments, Doyle returned to the sitting room. Skellen hadn't moved from the window.

"I'll be shoving off now, mate, Doyle said quietly. "Sorry if I--"

Skellen turned and Doyle caught his breath. The expression so mirrored Bodie in the accepting, patient look his partner displayed whenever Doyle lost his temper or was particularly tactless.

"Forget it," Skellen said lightly. "You coming by to pick me up in the morning?"

"Sure." He swallowed. "Make yourself at home. See you around 7:30."

"Right."

---

As soon as Doyle left, Skellen poured himself something more bracing than tea. He liked Doyle quite a lot. Couldn't hardly help but like him since he was obviously trying so hard to be friendly and accepting. There was also an innocent, unconscious charm about Doyle that was very appealing.

But it wasn't his new partner that was weighing on his mind. Two stiff drinks finally gave him the courage to pick up the phone.

"Jenny?"

"Peter." A pause. "I asked you not to call for a bit."

"I know, but... How's Sam?"

"Samantha's fine. Still alive."

"Jenny, for God's sake don't--" He broke off, the pain lancing through him sharply.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I shouldn't have said that."

He took a deep breath. "I can't blame you, can I? What do you want me to do? I can't change what's happened."

"No, you can't. And I can't change how I feel about it. If it was just me... But I've Samantha to think of as well. Let's not talk about it, please..."

"Okay. I miss you, love. And Sam."

"I know--" Her voice broke.

"Don't cry, Jenny, please."

"I told you not to call, Peter. Why make it harder for us?"

"It doesn't have to be like this. We could--"

"No," she said sharply. "Don't start. I have to think. I need time. You owe me that.

"But I want to see you. See you both. Please, Jenny."

"No, I can't. Not yet. Don't ask me, Peter. If I see you again--"

"You'll love me again," he cut in, clutching the receiver so hard his knuckles were white. "You know you will."

"God, Peter, do you think I've ever stopped?"

"What else can I think? You walked out, didn't you?"

"You know why. You said you understood."

He shut his eyes tightly. "I do. But...it's been so long, Jen. I need you. Please don't do this to us."

"It wasn't me, Peter. It wasn't even you. It's your bloody, unending job."

"Ah, Jenny, you know it was a fluke. It wouldn't happen again in a million years."

"Can you swear that? Are you willing to bet my life and Samantha's on that? Well, I'm not. I simply can't. Do you have any idea how hard it was to let you walk out that door each day, knowing I might never see you again? I could deal with that--I had to. But the rest is too much to ask. I've heard it all before, Peter. I know it's necessary; I know you're good at it. But I'm simply not strong enough to live with it any more."

Skellen rubbed his eyes with his free hand, feeling them burn treacherously. Jenny had never known him to cry except for those silly tears of joy when Sam had came to them. What would she think if she knew he'd cried more in the last three weeks than he had in the other thirty-four years of his life? How bizarre: a man trained to withstand torture and mayhem reduced to tears at a domestic disruption. But Jenny was so damn special, and he'd spent so much of his life without a foundation that seeing it crumble now was scaring the hell out of him.

"You've never asked me to resign," he said at last. "Is that what you want?"

"No, Peter. That's not the answer either. I've loved you for what you are. Trying to change you would just make us both even more miserable. Don't you think I've thought of that?" He could feel her pulling herself together. "I need to think. Don't push me, Peter."

"All right. We'll leave it for now." He paused, then said softly, "How are you doing, Jen? With everything else?"

"Sarah and Frank are wonderful. And Samantha loves the park here."

"Has she learned any new words?"

"A couple. Sarah has a cat and Samantha thinks it's wonderful. Every other word is 'kitty'."

He smiled, picturing his vivacious daughter twisting the kitty's tail into a knot. "What's the other one?"

"What?"

"You said a couple of words. What's the other?"

An uncomfortable pause. "She's learned to say bye-bye."

"I see." He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but failed. "Did you teach her that?"

"Peter... It's just a--"

"Coincidence, I know." He took a deep breath. "It's okay. Jenny--"

"I must go, Peter. Samantha's woken up."

"Yes, well give her a kiss from her da, will you?"

"Of course. Be careful, Peter."

"I love you, Jenny." But she'd already rung off. He hung up the phone and sat very still for a long time, knowing that if he moved, he'd destroy something that didn't belong to him. The need to vent his frustration was very strong.

Eventually, he simply got up and went to bed.

---

The next day passed effortlessly. No one thought to question Skellen's identity as Bodie. Skellen played his part well, didn't push to make anyone believe anything, just sat back and made it natural. Doyle quickly noted his skill. After all, this was very different than the usual undercover operation. In this case, he was taking the place of a well-known man in his home ground. It could be screwed up in a dozen different ways, most of which couldn't be anticipated. But Skellen was cool and refused to be rattled by any personal conversation at headquarters. He answered all the sallies and teasing with one or two word remarks, and even Murphy--who knew Bodie had a double because he'd met him on the steps--didn't give any indication that he had twigged Skellen as a ringer.

The rest of the day was spent sitting in a car watching a suspicious Pakistani who was rumoured to have contacts with a particularly nasty terrorist group. Nothing came of the watch other than boredom. But it did give Doyle ample time to catalogue the differences between Skellen and his partner.

During those hours in the car he surveyed Skellen, fascinated by the entire situation. His new partner was a couple of years older than Bodie, around his own age probably. But it was more evident by the air of maturity than any physical signs. Not that that meant anything--Doyle had long ago suspected that senility would strike Bodie years before maturity anyway. Bodie consciously clung to his image of an overgrown boy playing at life, and it would take dynamite to change it. He sensed Skellen was the opposite, choosing to accept responsibility at an early age. It was probably the most blatant difference between them.

There were physical variances as well, unnotable at first glance, but to a man who had known him for years and spent hours in his presence nearly every day, they were very clear. Skellen was maybe a half inch taller, perhaps a half stone lighter. His eyes were a slightly darker blue, his lashes not quite so long or thick, his chin a bit sharper, his nose slightly wider and not so perkily curved. But the similarities were still spookily, illogically close. The mouth was identical, those crazy, unusual eyebrows, the set of the body and the way he moved. Intellectually, Doyle barely knew the man; emotionally, he couldn't help but react as if they'd been mates forever.

Their divergence in personalities was far more notable. With no one else around to fool, Skellen reverted to himself, and Doyle found he was of a much more serious nature than his partner. He shared Bodie's hatred of terrorists, but tempered it with some degree of understanding and appreciation of their goals at times, while still detesting their methods. It was an intellectual exercise that Bodie had never mastered. Bodie either approved of something or he didn't; he wasn't much for in- betweens or philosophising. Doyle, who was indecisive on this point, wavering from one side of the fence to the other, depending on the circumstances, found himself agreeing with Skellen on a lot of things. Their thoughts ran along much similar lines.

A stakeout with Bodie usually consisted of talking over the football scores, discussing the relative merits of birds that strolled by, or trying unsuccessfully to keep Bodie from napping. His hours with Skellen were a pleasant diversion. They discussed politics, plays, music, and the ethics of CI5 and the SAS.

After four or five hours, even this lofty subject palled, however, and he noticed Skellen was often staring blankly out the car window, his thoughts a million miles away. Understandable after what he'd learned last night, so Doyle contented himself with the thought that his new partner was preoccupied with other matters. While his appreciation for Skellen didn't diminish, he found himself wistfully missing Bodie's irredeemable black humour.

When they were finally relieved, Doyle put the Escort in gear and headed back toward Bodie's flat. Impulsively, he said, "Want to stop for a pint?"

Skellen shrugged. "Why not?"

It had been habit more than anything else--he and Bodie usually spent an hour or so winding down after work--but he was inordinately pleased that Skellen agreed.

They located an appealing pub, parked, and entered. Finding a table at the back, they settled in comfortably.

"I wonder how Bodie's doing?" Skellen commented.

Doyle grinned. "He's having a terrific time. He was born to be obnoxious."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

Doyle laughed. "I suppose he was a bit of a prat the other day, wasn't he? He's not generally that bad, y'know. Had a devil of a hangover."

"No need to explain. I wasn't offended."

"He'll hate to hear that. He was doing his level best." Doyle took a sip of his beer, then shook his head. "Don't know why you got up his nose so bad, though."

Skellen looked rueful. "I didn't exactly fall in love with him either. But I figured he couldn't be that irritating all the time."

Doyle looked surprised. "He's usually not like that at all, You just set up his back. When he wants to be nasty, he can be a royal pain. Generally, though, people like him better than me. He's a charming bastard, and he's got a smile--" Finding that same smile suddenly directed at him, Doyle stuttered to a halt, realising he'd been selling Bodie's winning personality a bit heavy. "Anyway, don't judge him too quick," he finished lamely.

"Means a lot to you, doesn't he?"

Doyle shrugged, chugging his beer as a defence. "He's a mate. Just didn't want you to get the wrong idea of him."

"I'm not trying to take his place," Skellen said quietly.

"I know that."

"I'm not so sure he did. Didn't like it at all, did he?"

"Yeah, well maybe his life isn't as settled as yours."

Skellen looked down at the table. "I don't know as I'd say that, right at the present."

Doyle realised he'd put his foot in it again. "You know what I mean. Anyway, it had to be a bit of a shock; you showin' up like you did--even if he did know you were around somewhere. If he was takin' your place, you might feel the same."

"You're right." He grinned. "I'm sure he'd jump at the chance to exchange you for Jenny, but I'm not sure I'd be very gracious about it." The grin widened. "Got to admit, he is a handsome bastard."

"And you're both equally modest."

Skellen ordered them another round. "What about you, Doyle? What's your story?"

"Ray."

"I'm Peter then. So what'd you do before?"

"I was a copper. Nothing fancy; just detective constable."

"Cowley picks them from all over, doesn't he?"

The green eyes met his proudly. "But only the best."

Skellen smiled. "I should be flattered then. Hadley told me Cowley wanted my secondment about a year ago, but he refused him flat. The Colonel's got a few debts on Cowley, as well."

Doyle looked doubtful. "Can't believe anyone has anything on the Cow. He could call in chits from the bloody Queen if he'd a mind to."

Skellen would've been inclined to doubt Cowley's omnipotence if he hadn't spent a couple of hours in the man's presence. The man held a powerful string on a lot of important people, and it wasn't that much of a secret--even if he held the strings lightly. "Well, I wouldn't leave the Colonel anyway."

"Cowley probably figured calling you in would make one too many Bodies anyway," Doyle said complacently.

Feeling pride in his own service, but refusing to be offended by Doyle's egocentric faith in Cowley, Skellen remained silent. The SAS had been around longer than CI5, and would undoubtedly continue to be around when CI5 was history. The SAS didn't depend on one man--CI5 did. Knowing that, he didn't feel the need to defend the SAS. He changed the subject.

"So you didn't care for being a cop then?"

"It was all right. The red-tape got me down a bit. Not so fond of paper work and files. When I spent fifty percent of me time on that, I reckoned it was time to get out."

"And now?"

"One good thing about the Cow, he understands that. Mostly, we don't have to mess with it at all, just turn it over to somebody else." He grinned sheepishly. "Unless we've been bad boys. You learn to keep your nose clean when times is slow, or else you spend weeks in the bloody file room playin' with papers. If it's a hot time, though, you could make up dirty limericks starring his old mum and he'd still send you out on an active job. 'Course he'd make you pay for it later."

They talked for hours, effortlessly, both amused and entertained by the other. When they finally noticed the time, they were surprised.

"We'd better get home, mate," Doyle said. "We're to be back on the job by daybreak." He reached for his wallet to ante up his share, but Skellen stopped him.

"I'll get it."

Doyle nodded happily. He'd known he would like Skellen.

---

Bodie's day was much less entertaining. He booked a room in a disreputable hotel on the outskirts of the city. He used a false name and a slightly cockney accent that Doyle would've scorned. His partner had always been the better actor of the two, and Bodie realised that even wearing rather seedy clothes, he still looked a bit out of place. Doyle, on the other hand, could've pretended to be Quasimodo and probably get away with it. Of course, Bodie thought resentfully, he could turn up the next day looking like a bloody wet dream. The man was a natural chameleon.

Unpacking his bag irritably, Bodie was unable to get his partner out of his head. It was patently unfair, of course. He was easily better looking than Doyle in every way you could name. So why was it, when Doyle was randy, the birds would practically trample him in their haste to get to that fuzzy-headed golly? Animal magnetism, no doubt. He probably radiated his sexual need like those bloody moths or something.

Unfortunately, Bodie found he was beginning catch some of the fallout from it. Like those strange, tense seconds right before he'd left his flat. Christ, didn't Doyle ever look in a mirror?

Finished with his unpacking, Bodie lay back on the bed and stared up at the cracked ceiling. One couldn't blame Ray, of course. How the hell was he to know there had been a time and place and a very different Bodie who hadn't stopped to question whether his companion for the night was male, female or anything other than human and breathing? But that was long ago in an uncivilised place, and Bodie was nothing if not adaptable. He could be civilised when the need arose--preferred it, in fact. Civilisation meant nice clothes, decent liquor, clean beds, and he appreciated all of that very much. Why did Doyle and no one else bring back the old ways and old wants? Oh, there'd been a few times he'd had a man in his bed here in London, but it been a case of convenience or impulse, nothing he'd thought about or needed.

Actually, when he considered it, it had only been the last couple of months that it had begun to bother him; when a flash of green eyes made him uneasy, and an inadvertent brush of Doyle's hand had sent him scurrying off to find a bird to lay as quickly as possible.

Feeling a vague stirring of pleasure in his groin, he turned to his stomach and buried his face in his arms, deciding to ignore it and take a nap. He had nothing to claim his attention until much later than night. Might as well catch a kip while he could...

....sweat running down his stomach and thighs, shirt sticking wetly to his torso, fear curling insidiously in his gut like a sleeping snake. He jerked off his shirt and tossed it down beside his bedroll, letting his sweltering skin dry as much as it could in the moist darkness. Firelight flickered off to his right, drawing suicidal moths the size of saucers. Darker, lumpy shadows farther away indicated his mercenary companions: Benny, Tub, Frenchy and the rest. Too bloody hot for a fire, but it kept the night scavengers away.

And then, a shiver up his spine as eyes appraised him from the riotous growth just beyond the machete-hacked clearing. He could feel their look, drawing him out, siren-like. He moved forward automatically, pushing his way into the jungle.

Bits of firelight danced through the leaves, moonlight poured through a magic gap in the thickness of vines above. It showed him what was waiting for him there, what had drawn him from the safety of the fire.

A tiger, green-eyed and ruthless, settled down with a cat's grace, tail twitching lazily. It lay watching his approach: beautiful, sensual, and unstartled by his nearness. He had no weapon, no means of driving it away, and was glad.

The tiger stretched, muscles rippling like watered silk beneath the sleek, bright skin; strangely delicate but wonderfully powerful.

The exotically slanted eyes watched him move closer, flashing the wicked green that set his blood racing. He knelt, mesmerised, by its side, touching the velvet-covered flank. The tiger purred and rubbed its beautiful head against his thigh. He stroked down its side, feeling each rib, the mark of a quick predator, loving its soft, sleek touch. The purring rose in volume at his stroking, dangerous and unpredictable, but still under his seductive petting. The exquisite head lifted and the tongue rasped over his bare nipple. He threw his head back with a gasp, instantly hard and burning.

"Bodie," the tiger said throatily, and it was Doyle's voice....

Bodie awoke on a startled intake of breath. He was sweating even though it was far too cold in the hotel room. It took a moment for his panting breath to steady. His aching cock was another matter.

He was shaken by the dream, confused by it. Since when had he been into bestiality? He'd done a lot of kinky things in his time, but--

Christ, it wasn't like he wasn't getting enough.

Angrily, he got up and headed for the bath down the hall. Unlike Doyle, he wasn't interested in introspection. A dream was a dream, and best let be.

A cold shower took care of the problem; a quick and far more tidy solution than his first impulse. It was late and time for him to move. He put everything else from his mind and concentrated on the job.

He found a convenient tree opposite Green's bedroom window. The lights were out and the house seemed quite settled. He entered through the window and stood at the foot of Green's bed.

"Very careless for an ex-chief constable," Bodie remarked, sitting down on the bed and making himself comfortable. "Leaving the window unlocked like that."

Green sat up, startled, pulling the duvet back up over his pyjamas in an instinctive gesture. "Who the hell are you?"

"Name's Bodie. That's B-O-D-I-E. You don't remember me? I'm very hurt, I am. Not very civil of you, forgettin' someone you almost snuffed through your old friend Chives. Remember him, don't you? Remember George Cowley--CI5? Ah, I see you do."

Green nearly knocked over the bedside table trying to switch on the lamp. He was very pale and breathless. "I...I never had a thing to do with that--"

"'Course not, Mayor. Honest, upright man like yourself? Never thought it for a minute."

What are you doing here?" Green asked shakily.

"Courtesy call. Just wanted to let you know I'm around. You were always big on checkin' in and signin' up, weren't you? So, here I am." Bodie leaned back against the bedpost and propped his rather muddy foot on the bed spread. "You've a lovely daughter, incidentally."

Green stiffened. "What do you mean? How dare you break in here?"

"Break in?" Bodie glanced back at the easily opened window. "Have a heart, governor. Maybe I should've knocked, but--"

"Get out! I'll report you for this!"

"Now hang on a minute, old man. We were talkin' about your pretty baby girl. Maureen, isn't it? Sweet thing, and definitely of age. Nineteen at least. Think she'd look at me, do you? I can be very charming." He fluttered his lashes. "Real lady-killer they call me. I've a fancy to make the lovely Maureen's acquaintance."

"You stay away from her, you...you...!"

"Why? I'm a nice, upstanding young man. Not rich, true. But I'm gainfully employed. Even have a few years of seniority. Definitely eligible, I'd say."

Furious now, Green jumped from the bed and reached for his dressing gown. "You bastard, I'll see you won't be around to bother her. You'll be in jail where you belong. She'd never talk to your sort!"

"You sure about that, Mayor? From what I hear, she's a feisty piece. A bit of a rebel. Doesn't like her old da's style at all. You know kids; just love to get up their old man's nose. Nothin' better to do that than takin' to bed someone you hate, eh?"

Totally enraged, Green shook his fist at Bodie. "Get out of here, damn you! I'll see you locked up for this! I'm calling the police!" He scrambled at the phone as Bodie watched calmly. He'd dialled three numbers before the younger man got up casually and jerked the line out of the wall.

"Looks like it's out of order. What a pity," Bodie said sympathetically. "Ought to look into that, you should. Have a lot of problems with your phone system up here, don't you? Remember me and Doyle had a devil of a time gettin' a call out the last time we was here."

Green was so furious he looked on the verge of a stroke, red- faced and shaking, but he wisely kept his distance from the younger man.

"I'll get you for this, you damned pup! No one does this to me and gets away with it!"

Bodie looked tragically depressed. "Christ, I've upset you! What a shame. Does this mean you'll never love me like the son you've never had? Don't fancy me for son-in-law, do you?" He shook his head sadly. "The course of true love is always rocky. Tell you what, I'll go have a talk with your little girl and see how she feels about it, shall I?"

Green was speechless; he looked around for a weapon, or at least something big and hard enough to throw at the intruder.

Bodie held up his hand in understanding. "It's all right, Mayor. I'll just have to grow on you, I suppose. I'm patient. I promise I'll pop back in on you from time to time to give you progress reports on our romance."

Bodie agilely dodged the clock-radio. "Naughty, naughty. Keep that up, and I'll just settle for shackin' up with her."

"You damned blackmailer!"

"Blackmail?" Bodie repeated, offended. "Have I named a price? I'm shocked at you. You think someone needs to be blackmailing you to have lustful thoughts about your daughter? You think I was planning to fuck her and run?" Bodie paused at that, considering. "Nice idea, at that."

A heavy crystal frog missed his head by inches.

"I see you're not in the mood to talk. I'll show myself out, don't bother. See you soon, da."

"You come back and I'll have a gun!" Green threatened as Bodie slipped out the window.

Bodie poked his head back in, face desolate. "I guess that means I'm not invited to dinner tomorrow?"

Dodging another missile, he slipped down and made his way back to the highway, caught a bus, got off after a few streets. He caught another going the other direction, rode for a few miles, then got off and found a taxi.

Back at his hotel, he ordered a huge breakfast from room service. It was terrible and extremely greasy, but he was far too hungry to care.

He took another wash, this time soaking in the bath and ignoring the irritated pounding on the door from the other tenants. When the water cooled, he grabbed up his clothes, wrapping a towel around his waist, and returned to his room.

Laying back on the bed and staring at the too familiar ugly stains in the ceiling, he tried to calm his mind by tracing out geographical patterns in the cracks--South Africa, Australia, Iceland, Finland, Doyle's strangely shaped ear--

He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Doyle's ear? Well, maybe it did look a bit like. Hard to tell, mostly they were covered with that mop of curls, weren't they? Except when whizzin' down the street, wind whipping the hair back to expose the soft throat and the sexily erratic curve--

Closing his eyes tightly, he took a deep breath. He wondered idly how Skellen and his partner were getting along. Confidently, he reckoned it wouldn't take long for Doyle to put the upstart bastard in his place. A soldier boy playin' at spies, that's all he was.

Having been SAS himself, Bodie was hardly impressed by their techniques. They had their place, certainly, but undercover or surveillance work simply wasn't their forte. Doyle had taught him more about that in six months than he'd ever learned in the SAS or the army. Bodie had also heard that Skellen wasn't so up on it either--he'd been tailed on the Embassy case like a bloody amateur. Stupid, careless sod. More honestly, however, Bodie couldn't really fault Skellen for that; he remembered how inept he'd been when he'd first joined CI5. In the forward assault, the sudden action, the half-second need for decision, he'd outshone Doyle easily--but the necessary plodding police work was Doyle's speciality, and he was bloody great at it.

Satisfied, Bodie settled himself in the pillow. Yeah, Skellen would get up Doyle's nose quick enough; his partner wasn't exactly the most patient of men.

Relieved by this picture, Bodie opened his eyes and went back to studying the splotched ceiling. He was tired but not sleepy, so he continued counting countries.

He found Canada and with a little judicious adaptation, Egypt, Botswana, and a perfect vision of Libya. Feeling drowsy at last, he picked out Ireland--and there was even a tiny crack in the paint that almost looked like the division of the north...

.....smoke in the alley, choking and hot. The bomb had been far enough away he'd missed the main blast, but the force of it had still knocked him silly. Even dazed and half-conscious, he sensed new trouble. They moved in after a blast, these children of death, killing off any survivors before it could be seen as straight murder and not the fault of the bomb. He'd seen it before. Little kids of nine or ten, slamming bricks into British soldiers' heads and running away like rats. It was the IRA, of course--the champion of the Irish Cause--encouraging these babies to murder. "Ah, Danny, me boy! Tired of playin' kick-can? 'Ere's a lovely game for you, boyo. There'll be a bomb on St. Martin today. Run by after you hear it and bash the nasty British, dear." Forget they're people, forget they can hurt. Just bash them. Kill them. Prove the point, drive them out, never mind the cost...

He rolled over, unhurt but still stunned. A vague throbbing behind his eyes told him he wasn't totally alert, that he needed to lie still for a bit until it passed. But he had to move, before they closed in.

Hearing a sound to the right, he stiffened. He reached for his gun, but it was gone, spun meters beyond his reach by the blast. Trying to crawl painfully toward it, he was brought up short. Two feet stood inches from his hand, blocking his way. Not a child's feet.

He tried to sit up, eyes moving up the obstructing body as he rose. Lean, nearly skinny form, leading up to a rounded, Celtic face, green eyes and a riot of reddish-brown curls.

Sitting up worsened the pain in his skull, and blackness stole his vision as he passed out.

Coming to, he realised he'd been moved. The bed was soft although the blankets were rough against his bare skin. A cool hand was smoothing his brow.

He blinked. "Where am I?"

"Safe--for now." Doyle's voice (?!) with an Irish lilt.

"Why did you help me?"

The man seemed uncomfortable with the question. He squeezed water from a wet rag with unnecessary force. "Dunno. Likely 'cause you needed it." Then he smiled, a wistful dreamy smile, revealing a chipped tooth and a soft-hearted nature. "Your name be Bodie, you said?"

"Did I?"

"'S an Irish name, y'see. Those eyes of yours--Irish eyes. Blue an' deep as still water in a stone quarry. What be you here a'tol for, fightin' your own kind? Stupid, it is."

"It's a job," Bodie replied, wincing at the pressure of the cloth against the cut on his head.

"A job then? Is that what you call it, is it? Stealin' the country from your own kin?"

"I'm British," Bodie snapped.

"Nah, boyo, you've Ireland in your blood, however you speak. If you think yourself English, you shoulda stayed there, you should. This is Ireland, a free country, it is. If your scoundrel bunch would get out, we'd take care of it just foine alone."

"A lot of folk in Belfast feel different." His vision focused on a pair of softly green eyes. His breath caught in his throat. "So much for politics." He reached up and grabbed hold of the thin wrists. "Why did you help me?"

The bright eyes widened, but he didn't try to escape. The smile was suddenly mischievous, full of devilment and teasing. "Why'd'ya think? I told you, it's those Irish eyes, m'darlin'."

He stared at the elfin face for a long time, reacting at last with a startled whisper. "You're beautiful, sunshine." He slipped the palm of his hand along the face into the thick red- brown curls, thumb tracing along the strangely battered cheekbone. "Christ, you're beautiful," he repeated, wondering why it had taken him so long to see the truth of it. He pulled the smaller man down to him slowly. Their lips brushed with a crackle of inner lightning.

"Where have you been?" he demanded softly.

The green eyes sparkled. "Right here."

Their mouths met again, exploring, tasting. He pulled the slender imp down on the bed. They pressed together, clothes vanishing, bare skins touching at last. The friction of their cocks started a fire that set Bodie wild. The insane sweetness of it drove him to a fever pitch in seconds. But suddenly the witchcraft ceased and the object of his desire was out of his grasp.

"No...we won't do this."

Puzzled, desperately on the edge, Bodie tried to reach out. "Why? Why, tiger, why?"

As if in answer, memories of Ireland rose up to choke him-- the Irish mist, the smell of smoke, gunfire, rotting potatoes in boycotted bins, blood and burned bodies...

Out of his vision now, Doyle's voice called with a lovely Irish lilt, "Me sainted mither would never forgive me, would she now?"

"It's not my fault," Bodie cried out, struggling to walk through the sticky bog that sucked him down. "Damn you! Damn you! Damn...."

Bodie woke up with a hard-on, shaking and sweating. His hand went instinctively to his erection, but he jerked back with irritation. This was ridiculous. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself, but the erection poked stubbornly at the sheet, unreasonable and demanding.

Unless he wanted to settle for another cold bath, he'd have to take other measures. It was a bit of a blow to his pride--he seldom had to resort to such base tactics for his satisfaction.

Taking the problem in hand, he dealt with it swiftly. Afterwards, he rolled over and went back to sleep, putting the dream from his mind as he had so many others before it.

The rest of the week passed slowly. He did his job well, popping up in unlikely places when Green was alone, setting his barbs nicely, and dashing off before any witnesses appeared.

On Friday, Green informed him importantly that the Home Secretary himself had been informed of Bodie's antics, and that he was looking into the matter of harassment personally. George Cowley would find himself in very hot water, indeed, according to Green.

Bodie was suitably impressed--it meant his exile in this backwater town was near an end. He did his noble best to be as ungraciously provoking as possible, however, before he made his final bow.

Returning to his hotel room, Bodie was satisfied that another visit to the harried mayor wouldn't be necessary. Mission accomplished.

Once inside, he kicked off his shoes and settled back with a book. Doyle would've been amazed at the title and at the very real interest Bodie took in its contents. Bodie was quite aware of the fact his partner's opinion of his intellectual pursuits was rather low--an impression Bodie had seen no reason to dispel. It was a carryover from his army days, when most of his mates had been as near to illiterate as made no difference. Spouting Lord Byron or Keats to that mob was a good way of guaranteeing to get yourself thumped--or at best ostracised. When he'd first met Doyle, the street-kid copper, it seemed wiser to maintain the image. By the time he'd realised Doyle wasn't quite what he seemed to be either, it had been easier to let the whole thing ride. Habit made it difficult to change his tactics, and he wasn't sure if it would have helped or not. Being extremely class conscious--a bit of a social climber when he got the chance-- Doyle would never understand Bodie's youthful decision to leave that higher strata without a backward look.

It bothered him a bit at times, though, that Doyle really didn't know him. He'd never had such a close friend in his life as Doyle, and it seemed rather a pity... Still, Ray hadn't exactly opened his soul up to him, either.

Strange, when he thought about it. Starting so cold and wary of each other, each eager to prove himself and careful to guard his own vulnerabilities, they'd managed to skip all the usual life histories on the path to friendship. Simply took each day as it came. It worked quite nicely, actually. Well enough that Bodie had no desire to change the status quo. It was something he'd finally admitted to himself--his friendship with Doyle was very important to him. Maybe even, if truth be known, the most important aspect of his life.

If Ray Doyle had his faults, Bodie was blind to them. He'd had a lot of people commiserate with his lot, saying Doyle was a bad-tempered, hot-headed bastard. He was usually surprised and defensive. Ray? Yes, perhaps he did get a bit moody from time to time, but that was just because he cared so damn much-- carrying around the bloody weight of the world on his skinny little shoulders, the stupid sod. Bad-tempered? Well, there might be something to that, he supposed. The man could fly into a rage if he ran out of milk in the fridge.

The book forgotten for the moment, Bodie considered it. Yes, he could see where some people might find Ray a bit difficult--but that was all window-dressing anyway. Didn't mean anything. Not when compared to the rest. As a partner and a mate, Ray Doyle couldn't be topped. He was the best. The best and only partner Bodie ever wanted.

Bodie settled back down to read again, having spent a happy ten minutes contemplating his partner, oblivious to the strangeness of that.

Nearly two hours later, he finished the book and closed it with disgust. The author thought he knew about Africa, did he? Fat chance. It bore very little resemblance to the Africa Bodie had known. A cleaned up, laundered version that tried to pass itself off as something deep and exposing. He snorted--it was little better than a travelogue.

Bodie smiled, wondering what would happen if he ever wrote his own book? No one would believe it certainly. Sometimes he hardly did himself.

Letting his mind drift, he remembered the bar he'd worked at for a while in a busy but obscure little port in Northern Africa. No one had a thought for politics there, or if you were unpopular with the authorities in ten different countries. Cold cash was the only valid passport, and almost anything could be had for a price. The prostitutes were a staple, of course, most of whom had slept with the nineteen-year-old Bodie either out of the hope that he'd give them a bit of extra protection, or some maternal urge. Being the strong-arm in such a dive wouldn't be expected of someone with Bodie's youth and looks, but the manager had seen him fight, and was easily convinced he was the man for the job.

Bodie chuckled, remembering how the girls had insisted on trying to help him look older. An hour by a makeup table had managed to make him look thirty--as long as he didn't sweat or wipe his face. It'd taken experience to demonstrate to his worried mother-hens that his hard expression and the muscles he'd developed on freighters gave him enough of an intimidating quality to warn off all but the most adamant of troublemakers-- and the rest learned quick enough that youth didn't necessarily mean softness.

Not all the girls wanted to give up on the makeup idea, however--there was the lovely Nita who kept wanting to curl his eyelashes...

Bodie's other memories of that period of his life were sketchy, mostly of heat, sensuality, and a sultry, exotic darkness. Unless you lived there for a while, you could never understand that slow, lazy heat, or the nasty sordidness that lay panting beneath the surface. They'd get an occasional tourist, or an adventurous foray from some foreign embassy in Morocco, but the daytime people were usually gone too quickly to stir up the slow, cautious dregs that preyed on such innocents. And if they weren't...that was their ill luck. The busy, dirty little city had been a vending port for all types of merchandise that couldn't afford to sport excise tags--drugs, liquor, ivory, certain proscribed animal skins...and human flesh. Slavery was so old in this free port, it was a banal trade when the world was new.

Finally shaking off his memories, Bodie stood and gathered up his things for a bath. He took the long trek down the hall and bolted the door. It was late and he didn't expect anyone else would want it, so he soaked for a very long time, enjoying the silky feel of the water, letting his mind wander over a myriad of subjects. He gave up at last, when they keep slipping back to one--his partner.

As he left the bath, he met another hotel tenant on the landing. Seeing her startled look, he remarked wryly, "Yes, dear, I take one nearly every night or so--need it or not. Just gettin' in from work are you?"

She batted two-inch lashes at him and giggled. "Cheeky bastard." But she looked him over and edged closer. "Want to see me later, luv? Be cheap for you, pretty man."

"I'd imagine it'd be cheap anyway," he said flatly.

"Why you crummy bastard! Who the 'ell--"

"Watch your mascara don't clog the pipes, sweet," he murmured, moving past her down the hall. Her ribald curses floated after him. She'd been a fetching thing, actually, if you could scrub away some of the muck on her face. No more than eighteen or nineteen. But, unlike Doyle, he'd never fancied tarts--whether they were the type you paid cash or paid your soul for. At least the ones who charged cold currency were more honest. Ann Holly came to his mind immediately, but he blocked the thought. It wasn't fair to Ray, and it hadn't been none of his business, had it? It was certainly a taboo subject between them. Right enough; everyone deserved some safe ground. But it just proved his point that bad makeup jobs didn't necessarily mean they were whores. Or maybe it did.

Inside his room, Bodie threw off his robe and wandered around, still thinking of the little tramp outside the bath. Maybe he would've been better to take her up on her offer, the way things had been going lately. And he really didn't dislike them all that much; there had been a few nice ones like the girls at The Tiger's Lair. Not a bad lot, really.

Finally, still feeling restless but unwilling to give into it, he switched off the light and went to bed.

....stepping back from the sunlit street into the cool alcove of the club sent a shiver down his back. The drop in temperature never failed to surprise him. The power of the sun was incredible; it could bake your brain in minutes. Mad dogs and Englishmen, he thought with a grin.

His vision adjusted to the dim interior; the fans rotating in a slow, dizzy arc in the ceiling, casting lazy shadows from the low-power lights. There were few customers this early, mostly just the regulars.

He flipped open the gate to the bar and poured himself a neat scotch.

The stocky bartender pursed his lips. "Alexi will dock you for that, Bodieman."

He shrugged, giving his opinion of the Greek/Iranian owner of the club. "Let 'im. Nothin' from nothin'." He looked up. "Ey, Sam, need some help at the bar tonight, will ya?"

The dark man looked patient. "Me name not Sam. This ain't Casablanca, Bodieman. No, I can handle it. You'll have your hands full, I betcha."

Bodie took another drink, savouring the smooth, bitter taste. "Why's that, Sam?"

"Ben 'n Hasid comin' in tonight, that's what."

"So? Why here? Slumming, is he?"

The bartender grinned, showing a wide gap in yellowed teeth. "I hear he likes pretty, blue-eyed English boys, Bodieman. Maybe you take day off, best thing, maybe, hey?"

Bodie moved outside the bar to mind a convenient stool. "If he'd've wanted me, sweetpea, he'd have 'ad me six months ago. He's seen me around."

"Maybe you too tough for he em, hey? Maybe he lookin' for pure, hey man?" He looked Bodie over teasingly. "You--you ain't been pure since you born, kid, yes?"

"Don't tell me mum," he muttered, taking another drink. "So why here? Not many lambs in this slaughterhouse. Most of 'em met the shears long ago."

The bartender shrugged. "Tip off maybe. Something special comin' in. Somethin' without protection. Most embassy folk travel in packs, safer. When they go off alone, they always have guide. Easy way to get info, those guideman. Americans are only ones stupid enough to pay good, too much money anyway, what they care? But British and Frenchman, they cheap, yes? Pay peanuts. Very smart bargains. Only maybe not so smart, hey man? Sell out easy to high bucks, right?"

Bored with the conversation, Bodie leaned back precariously on the barstool, feet up on the bar. "So some prat foreigner is hangin' his arse to the wind for the chance of a thrill. So what's it to me? Long as they don't break up the crockery, Hasid has me bloody blessin'."

But a few hours later, just at dusk, Hasid came in, accompanied by several of his men. He found a vacant table in a dark corner and waited like some black spider, his web drawn by his bodyguards as they moved to strategic points in the club--two of them going back outside, presumably lookouts.

Leaning casually over the bar, Bodie murmured to Sam-who- wasn't-Sam, "Christ, you weren't jokin', were you, sweetpea? The bloke's settin' up like a bloody siege."

"He's waitin'," the bartender said wisely.

"All this for one little lamb? Bit excessive, innit?"

The black face stared at him with a secret wisdom. "Ever trap tiger, Bodieman?"

Intrigued now, Bodie watched each entry with interest. None seemed to fit the desired pattern. None was young enough or pretty enough or even Aryan enough. When the target finally did come in, he almost didn't pick him out. Although young, he was hardly a boy, and not precisely Aryan either. There was a distinctly foreign cast to his odd face, broken cheekbone, slanted eyes, kinky-curled hair, although one would be hard put to name his nationality. But his skin was fair and when he came up to the bar to order a drink, Bodie caught the cool light green of the amazing eyes--and the distinctly English accent.

Alerted, he concentrated on him then, wondering at first what there could be in the skinny figure and almost-ugly face to attract a man of Hasid's wealth and particular tastes. He nearly cast it off as poor judgement and let it go, but he found that his own gaze kept drawing back.

There was something...some intangible essence that attracted even while your common sense told you the features were off, far from perfect. But, somehow, together they were spookily beautiful the more you looked at them. And when he moved...the feline grace was a heartstopper. It was a shockingly simplistic explanation, but within thirty minutes, Bodie found he understood the cliche all too well--poetry in motion. The man was a walking cry for a climax; he was hungry himself, and he exuded that hunger. Yes, he was obviously hunting tonight, but he didn't know other, more dangerous predators, were hunting him.

Bodie, being a man for women--mostly, given circumstances, opportunity and choice--was startled by his reaction to this newcomer. Just watching him move, watching the green eyes flicker over the crowded bar, made him hard and hot. He didn't have the excuse of being hard up either. Nita was there, batting her lashes at him, and Dana and Sharon, not to forget the lovely Annette with the sorcerer's mouth. A crook of his finger and any one of them would be happy to oblige. But his sudden rise of heat wasn't for them and they couldn't cool it. Being nineteen, his passions were quick but stubborn, and once he made up his mind, he wasn't willing to wait long.

Before he could make his move, however, he noticed Hasid. The signal was subtle but distinct. This was the one, this green- eyed Englishman, and now all of Hasid's men knew as well. Very shortly, they would make their move.

Also reading the signal was the Englishman's guide. The native's restless gaze caught it as easily as Bodie had. Nervously, he excused himself and left the table. He would not return, Bodie knew. He'd delivered the merchandise and received his payoff. Time to disappear.

Uncertain of his reasons--except for the one throbbing in his trousers--Bodie moved to the table. "Come with me to the bar," he said softly.

The eyes looked up, appraising. "What?"

Bodie sat his own drink down in front of the man. "Pretend this is not what you ordered. Be angry about it."

"It isn't--"

"Listen, if you'd rather have your balls trimmed and sold, that's fine with me. I'm just giving you a way out, if you want it."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm not about to repeat myself, sunshine. The more we talk, the quicker he'll catch on. He's watchin' you like a bloody hawk. Either do as I say or forget it."

A quick shift of mental gears took place as the man decided to go along with it for now. "What the 'ell is this then?" he complained loudly. "I ordered gin and tonic! Don't you speak the King's English, you big ox?"

Bodie tossed back a curse as he headed for the bar. Green eyes followed, still grumbling. "I'm payin' double for this tripe, the least you can do is get it right!"

By the time they reached the bar, they were out of ear-shot of Hasid, although the eyes still moved with them unwaveringly. Bodie went behind the bar to fix the drink, shouldering the puzzled bartender out of the way.

"Okay, what's this all about?" the man demanded softly.

"They'll be waitin' for you outside. You don't stand a chance. There's at least five of them."

"Who are they? What do they want?"

Bodie snorted. "If you're such a bloody innocent, you've no business being here, mate."

The other man blushed but had no answer.

"Well, whatever you were after," Bodie continued, handing him the fresh drink, "you've got a hell of a lot more than you bargained for. I don't think you'll like it much either."

"Why should I believe you?"

Bodie shrugged. "Don't. It's nothing to me. It's your arse, not mine."

A pause, then, "All right. What do you suggest I do?"

"Wait a few minutes, go back to your table. Drink your drink. Then head for the loo. It's down the hall there, only turn left, not right. That's the office. There's a back way out."

Without answering, he picked up the drink and returned to his table. Bodie, unsure if his advice would be taken, edged toward the front entrance and unobtrusively left. He went through the alley to where the other man would emerge and saw just what he'd expected--one of Hasid's men guarding the back. He waited, pressing closely in moonshadows of the building. Ten minutes later, the exit door swung open and the guard moved in quickly. Bodie, however, moved quicker. He put the hefty man down with three quick blows.

The fugitive stared at him, eyes wide in the silver moonlight.

"It was true then?"

"True enough that we've about five minutes before the others come lookin'. Even I can't handle that many, angelfish."

"Angelfish?"

"Never mind--c'mon, dammit!"

He grabbed the thin wrist and tugged him down the alley at a run. A few quick turns in the maze of streets put him where he wanted to be. A blank door in a garbage covered alley. He pounded out a code.

The door peeked open. "Oui?"

He spoke in rapid gutter-French and the door opened just wide enough to admit them. It slammed shut and the bolt slid home.

The woman regarded his guest doubtfully and said in French, "Not your usual type, ma petite. Who is this skinny boy?"

"Leave it, Rosalind. Just loan me a safe room. No questions, no answers--to anyone, okay?"

She nodded. "Up the stairs then. I'll need the room early, though. Be out by nine, ami."

Bodie had never let go of the man's wrist; he used it now to propel him up the steps and into the small room. Finally letting him go, he shut the door and bolted it, then moved to the windows and closed the shutters tightly.

"We'll smother," the other offered quietly.

"So learn to sweat," Bodie suggested unsympathetically. He located the gas lamp and lit its flickering torch. "The bad thing about this place is that we're trapped if they do find us. Two stories down to the brick and a sure broken leg. But if they don't see the light, they may not check. Rose only uses this room when she's overflowing with customers; it's too hot otherwise. Everyone knows that."

"So why have the light at all?"

Bodie turned around then to face him. "Because I wanted to look at you."

Startled, the man took a wary step backward. "Why did you help me?"

Bodie grinned wolfishly. "Good Samaritan, I am. Besides, it's better than being gang-raped and castrated."

The man swallowed nervously. "Is...that what they were planning?"

"You really didn't know? You figured maybe they were going to invite you to tea?"

"I thought...robbery...or kidnap--"

"Christ, what a fool. What the bloody 'ell are you doing here anyway?"

"I wanted to see something besides the British Compound. They're so damned careful--"

"I wonder why?" Bodie cut in sarcastically. "Maybe you know why now, eh? English boys are very popular here, but not the way the Queen would approve."

"I'm not a boy, and I can take care of myself."

"Sure you can."

The other man flushed. "Okay, so maybe I was foolish. But what about you? You seem to know your way around. How's that? You're British, too."

"I haven't been British since I was fourteen, mate. Citizen of the world, I am. And I know my way around because I've learned the hard way. I'll be glad to give you your first lesson, sunshine."

Feeling uneasy again, the man backed up until he was against the shutters. "You didn't say why you helped me get out. What do you want?"

Bodie approached, groin painfully aware of the situation and how near it was to satisfaction. He touched the pale face softly.

"What do you think I want, eh?"

The other man jerked back from the touch, green eyes flashing with temper. "Keep your bloody hands to yourself! If you want money--"

Bodie moved in even closer, until the other was pressed flat against the wooden shutters; he could hear them creak in protest. "No, not money. Just a bit of gratitude." His hand slid up to tangle in the thick curls. "You owe me that much, don't you? If not for me, you'd be up against Hasid and his sadistic toys, followed by most of his men--and then they'd have cut off your balls and sold you to some bored prince in Saudi. They pay a lot for green eyes, I hear. And nice, white skin..." His hand smoothed down the rigid face, cupping the neck and pulling him closer until their lips were a breath away. "Better a go with me than all that, golly."

Abruptly, unexpectedly, he was shoved back--very hard. He fell against the narrow bed, almost losing his balance. Bodie glared up. "Want to play that game, eh? No gratitude at all, I see."

The other moved to the bolts at the door, but Bodie was quicker. "No, you don't, tiger. Not again. No more running. This time it goes all the way...all the way to the finish."

The man jerked away, backing up. "Why are you doing this, Bodie?"

"Because I want you, dammit! I'm tired of you being so bloody untouchable."

"What made you ever think I was?" came the soft reply.

"Because you are, that's why," Bodie yelled furiously. "So fuckin' perfect. Well, you owe me...a dozen times over...you owe me."

"And you don't owe me anything, is that it?"

Crazily, Bodie realised it was all changing--the guidelines of the dream were warping, and story-book time was over. No more Arabian tales and hot fantasy. Just Ray Doyle standing there defiantly, refusing to co-operate in his sexy plotline.

What was worse, there were other things here, niggling at his conscience: pain and need and guilt, and a dozen other things he didn't want to deal with.

"Just shut up," be told his dream creature. "You're here to get fucked, and that's it. I wanted you, so I dreamed you. So you'd just bloody well accept it!"

Ray's sarcastic laugh was his answer.

"You've slipped your wicket, mate."

It wouldn't go back the way it had been, no matter how much he wanted it to. This was no naive embassy lad to be bullied and seduced. Ray Doyle was here, legs apart, hands on hips, green eyes flaring scornfully. The chipped tooth was noticeable even under the uncertain gaslight. "You dumb son'v a bitch. Do you really think you're going to rape me?"

Angry, frustrated, and confused, Bodie said, "Maybe."

With a chuckle, Doyle threw himself down on the bed, crossing his arms behind his head. "What a dreamer you are, mate."

Gritting his teeth, Bodie hissed, "Don't push it, Doyle."

Doyle just grinned and looked around. "Got to admit, not a bad set-up. Now, I would've had a harem in 'ere, not some bony, uptight slum kid. But to each his own, I reckon."

"You owe me," Bodie said stubbornly, concentrating on changing the dream back the way it was supposed to go.

"Eh? Oh...savin' me delicate white behind from Hasid and his cohorts?" He shook his head admiringly. "Christ, that's good, that is, Bodie. A real romantic, you are. Barbara Cartland should hear about you, mate. 'Cept she'd never go for the actual rape, y'understand." He grinned. "But then, you wouldn't either, would you? That's why you're havin' this intermission like."

"Shut up!"

Doyle used his fingers to count up his points. "First you're a bad, tough bouncer in a seedy bar--that's the bad-guy Bodie. Then you risk your neck to save an innocent stranger-- that was the good-guy Bodie. Then you lock 'im up in this stuffy little room and plan to have your wicked way with him--bad guy Bodie returns. Only you couldn't quite stomach that so--"

"Just shut up, damn you!"

"Oh no, there's something to be got at here. Good bloke versus bad bloke. A classic case, innit? You've never been able to quite sort 'em out, have you? Mercenary and army man. Killer and SAS. Assassin and CI5. And sometimes even when you're wearin' the bloody white hat, it doesn't seem all that different than the other way, does it? Confusin', innit?"

Bodie turned away, fists clenched. How could this go so wrong? He didn't want truths or analysis. All he'd wanted was--

"The trouble is, Bodie," Doyle continued, "you really want to be good. Just a good, solid English lad, that's you. That's all you really want. But you're a bit ashamed of that--like it's a weakness. Or maybe just because you don't think you have it in you after all. Not like Doyle. He's good, Bodie. Bad-tempered, nasty-minded and scrappy--but deep down he's truly good. And you're bloody afraid you're not. That if you dare to touch him, you'll ruin him. That there's no way he could love you if he knew what you really were."

It was Bodie's turn to run. He found himself trapped in a corner of the room, holding his ears to keep from listening, but he wasn't hearing with his ears.

"You've got emotional leprosy, Bodie. You're a carrier. You touch them, they hurt. You try to hold them, they die. Like Marikka died. Like Julie was hurt. Like when Krivas killed Jilly. Even that sniffly little nursing sister in Africa. Almost bought it 'cause of you, didn't she?"

Bodie shook his head. "No..no..."

Doyle sat up on the bed. "If it scares you, mate, think how much it bothers me. I'm getting out of here. I'm not being used like this. Dream about the little chit down the hall."

Bodie caught him and swung him around. "No, I'm not using you. I wouldn't!"

"Oh yeah?" Doyle tried to break free, but Bodie held him tighter, suddenly terrified of losing him.

"You're not running again. I've given too much to you, dammit! More than to anyone ever. I need you, sunshine. I've lost too much already. I can't let you get away this time."

"Fuck off, Bodie," Doyle snarled.

Bodie caught him the second time, ruthlessly smothering all his gentler feelings. "I need you, and I'll have you...if it kills us both..."

It was a strange relief to let free all his passion and rage. If this was his dream, and the dream had dared to turn Doyle against him, hurting him with truths he'd never wanted to know, then the dream image, like the bloody albatross, deserved whatever he got. Bodie wilfully blanked out the tenderness he wanted and needed, concentrating on force.

He'd always known he could take Doyle if he had to. As good as his partner was, he still had the advantage of weight and, all other things being equal, that had to win out.

It did. He had Doyle down on the bed in seconds, writhing and furious beneath his ungiving hands. Bodie freed one long enough to punch him solidly against the jaw, stunning him. He stripped the figure and himself, pushing back the feelings that threatened to cramp his stomach--confusion, regret, love. They had no place here. He'd waited long enough. Doyle had driven him crazy with wanting, and now he would take.

The thin body was as beautiful as ever, patterned with soft hair, muscles sleek and hard just beneath the silk skin. Like a damned cat, all the hidden strength--no, like a tiger. A bloody, unpredictable tiger, green-eyed and striped with right and wrong--begging for it one minute, tellin' you it was wrong the next. He'd trapped the tiger now, and it was his.

He parted the legs roughly. Doyle's head lolled on the flat pillow, blood trickling from a cut on his mouth, groggy and semi- awake. Bodie licked the blood away with a gentle tongue and settled himself between the spread thighs.

"I'm sorry, sunshine," he murmured. "Just this once, I promise. No more. I won't hurt you again. Won't touch you again. Just this once, I can't let you go...."

He thrust, feeling the resistance, hearing the cry, closing his ears to it. Just once, he swore to himself. Just in me dreams, like some bloody song. It's not real, this isn't Ray...it feels so good...god, it feels so incredibly good... Never again...just once...don't hurt, please, don't hurt...I want you to... Justoncejustonce..I swearnever... neveragainjustonce.....Oh CHRIST! RAY!

Bodie woke up with a shout, breath racing, heart pounding as if it would leap to his throat and choke him. Two seconds later, he raced for the basin and was violently sick. Returning to his cold bed, he found wet, sticky sheets. Angrily, he ripped them off and slept under the blanket, refusing to think about any of it.

---

The week had passed pleasantly enough for Doyle. He missed Bodie, but not as much as he might have, considering the amount of time his partner was on his mind. But Skellen was with him, and it was strangely easier to be with Skellen than with Bodie just now. At least until he'd worked through these crazy impulses. And the uncanny resemblance between Bodie and the SAS man was comforting--like having his partner with him but minus all the new-born tension.

As a matter of fact, in many ways, Skellen was more responsive than his partner, more emotionally open than Bodie had ever been. Doyle sensed this wasn't all that normal for Skellen either, but he seemed to be walking his own tight-rope.

It wasn't difficult to figure out the problem, but it did take a few days before Skellen trusted him enough--or was desperate enough--to talk about it. Once the subject was broached, it was easier, but it still took until the end of the week before Doyle managed to pry the entire story from the normally reticent Skellen.

It was Friday evening before Doyle finally pieced it all together and understood just how upset and vulnerable Skellen actually was. It went far deeper than a mere marital spat.

They were at Bodie's flat, drinking Bodie's scotch (with malicious glee on Doyle's part), and truly relaxing for the first time in a week. The next day was free, so neither was being particularly careful about his intake. Feeling quite comfortable with each other, a few stiff drinks loosened their tongues along with Skellen's (or rather, Bodie's) necktie.

"Listen, mate, she can't keep you from seeing the baby, can she? I mean, it is your kid an' all."

Skellen stared into his glass. "You don't understand. She's right about all of it. They nearly got killed because of that last op." His jaw tightened. "I still don't know exactly all that went on, but it had to've been nasty. I know what those people were like--real sadists, just looking for an excuse to--"

"Eh, 'old on there," Doyle broke in awkwardly. "It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known. It was a job and you had to do it, didn't you? Couldn't be helped."

"But it's my job, not Jenny's. I signed up for the SAS, they didn't. But because they're mine, they--" He took a deep breath and another gulp of whiskey. "Why should she have to deal with it all? And Sam...Christ, Ray, they both could've died!"

"But you're not to blame."

"Of course I am," Skellen snapped. "Wouldn't have happened otherwise, would it? She's right about that. She's right about every bloody thing."

Doyle hesitated, then stood to refill their glasses. "So she wants you to give notice, is that it?"

"No, that's the hell of it. She's never asked that. I even suggested it, but... Hell, Jenny realises it's all I know, for chrissake! What do I do if I quit? Sell used motors? She knows what that would do to me. No, quitting isn't the answer either, it seems." He accepted the refilled glass and made a quick headway on draining it again. He was silent for a long moment before he said very quietly, "I don't think I can handle losing them."

Doyle sat down beside him. "If she really loves you, you won't."

Skellen shook his head. "It's not that simple. She loves me right enough. Too much maybe. That doesn't change the rest of it."

"It's the bloody job," Doyle said angrily. "It's the same for nearly everyone. It's no kind of life."

"Yeah, well we chose it, didn't we?"

Doyle looked at him, seeing Bodie so clearly--a hurting Bodie. He hid his instinctive reaction with a quick movement, reaching for the other man's glass. "Here, let's 'ave another, shall we?" In his haste, he managed to knock the ashtray off the table.

They both bent for it, and their heads collided solidly.

"Sorry," Skellen said ruefully, rubbing his forehead.

"My fault--" Doyle broke off, terribly conscious of their closeness, but finding himself unable to pull away. He could smell Bodie's expensive, distinctive aftershave. The blue eyes, so like his partner's, still held a dark sadness. The strongly curved jaw showed the shadow of a beard, outgrowing the morning shave, accentuating the vulnerable, sensual mouth.

The thought came to him irrepressibly, that if he touched Skellen, the man wouldn't pull away from him. He was lonely. He needed a human touch, and Doyle could certainly furnish that easily enough--too easily. If he couldn't have Bodie, how could he ask for a better substitute? An electric spark of desire shot to his groin at the thought. Touching this man, loving him--it would be nearly the same, wouldn't it? And if Peter refused, well there wouldn't be the risk there was with Bodie. Losing Skellen's friendship would be a true pity--but it could never compare to losing his mate. Doyle had never been that much of a gambling man.

Abruptly, Doyle stood, embarrassed and a bit ashamed of himself for even considering it. Skellen looked up, puzzled.

"What is it, Ray?"

"Nothing. I...I'd better get goin', I suppose." Leave quickly and as gracefully as possible before he succumbed to temptation and made a right muck of things all around.

"It's early yet," Skellen protested, also standing. It was painfully obvious he was reluctant to be left alone with his own black thoughts.

"Listen, Peter," Doyle began awkwardly, "I really--"

The phone rang, interrupting his lame excuses. "Hang on a moment." Skellen moved to answer it. "Colonel? Yes. No, I'm free." He glanced at Doyle. "I see. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

He hung up the phone and turned to Doyle with a sheepish smile. "Seems I must run as well. Something's come up."

Eager for the distraction, Doyle perked up. "Yeah? What's on?"

Skellen shrugged, grabbing up his jacket. "Nothing much. I'm just in as backup. They've already got it pretty well covered."

Doyle followed him out the door. "What is it then? Or is it top secret?"

"No." He hesitated. "Possible hostage situation at a private airstrip. We'd had a tip-off they were running guns through there. Someone moved in a bit too quick. They've barricaded themselves in the Control Building--with two hostages, it looks like. They're demanding a larger plane now...among other things."

"I'll go with you," Doyle said quickly.

Skellen stopped on the landing, checking his gun. "It's SAS business, Ray. Nothing to do with you. Probably over by the time I get there, anyway."

Doyle's hand touched the other's arm. "You've had quite a bit to drink, Peter. You sure you're all right?"

The other man grinned at him. "So've you, mate. Occupational hazard in our line, isn't it? You learn to snap out of it quick enough."

"I know. But I'm still going with you."

Skellen looked uncertain as Doyle checked his own weapon. "All right, then. But you stay clear and do as I say, agreed?"

Doyle smiled. "It's your show, Captain."

Skellen nodded and they ran down the steps to the car.

Fifteen minutes later, they reached the gate of the airstrip. They left the motor there, flashing I.D.s at the nervous guard and proceeded on foot. Skellen pulled a transmitter from his coat pocket; it was slightly smaller than the CI5 issue R/T.

"Skellen. How's the positions?"

A voice answered after a burst of static. "All sides covered. We're moved in twelve minutes."

"The perimeters covered?"

"Affirmative."

Doyle nudged him. "What about that?" He gestured toward an abandoned factory across the fence to the south. It was blackly visible in the moonlight, and the upper floors were easily in line of fire to all access to the Control Building.

"Skellen here. Were the outlying buildings checked out?"

"Clean. Move to the north side. Eleven minutes."

They exchanged a glance. "What do you think?" Doyle asked quietly, his copper's instinct making him suspicious.

Skellen didn't seem happy either. He chewed his lip thoughtfully.

"I know Carstarres--he's the one moved in first. Bit quick on the trigger, but he's good. They wouldn't have twigged unless someone alerted them he was outside."

"So someone might be watching the area?"

Skellen's eyes moved back to the factory. "Up there, do you reckon?"

Doyle shrugged. "Could be. Good line of sight. They might have radios--and guns." He looked back to the empty ground around the Control Building. "They could be waiting for the big push before they show their hardware. Your lot'll be sittin' ducks out there, if we're right. It'd be a long shot, but if they've the armament--"

"That's where they'd be," Skellen finished the thought, still observing the factory.

"They said it was clean," Doyle pointed out.

"Let's give it the white glove test, shall we?" Skellen returned lightly. He switched on the transmitter. "Skellen here. Find another backup for north side. I'm checking something. Out."

"Acknowledged. What's your position?"

"Building on south side, over the fence. Skellen out."

They didn't have much time to play with, so they hurried. It only took a couple of minutes to sprint to the fence and over it. They found an open doorway and entered. Inside,