(Swinburne -- "Rococo")

"Bodie, are you asleep again?"

A mock snore told Doyle that his comment had been heard. Doyle grinned and flicked down the switch on the r/t. "4.5 here. No sign of Odell yet. Not that we can see much in this bloody fog. Out."

Cowley's voice came back irritably, "Stay on it, 4.5. It should be any time now."

"Yeah," Doyle replied dryly, "an' if we see Jack the Ripper, we'll let you know."

He stuck the r/t back in his pocket and pulled his coat around him tighter. Bodie had settled on a window ledge, collar up on his plaid jacket, chin burrowed down, looking like a hedgehog curled up for the winter.

"I'm glad to see you're nice 'n' cozy, mate."

Bodie grunted acknowledgment without uncurling. "See if you can block that drip that keeps fallin' on me head, there's a good lad."

"The only drip I see is you --" Doyle broke off, pressing back against the wall. "He's here."

Bodie was up and crouched by Ray's shoulder, gun in hand, in less time than most men would be able to take in the words. "Sure it's Odell?"

"Suppose so. He's just standin' there by the phone box."

"Buggied, I take it, like the one in his hotel room?"

Doyle spared him an exasperated look. "Were you dozing in brief as well? How'd you think we knew where to go, you dolt?"

Bodie ruffled the back of his curls. "You're just jealous, Raymond."

"Jealous?"

"Father lets me get off with more than you."

"'Course he does. He knows you're a great lump --"

"Hush, he's gettin' a ring."

They watched as the man looked around, then ducked inside the box and picked up the receiver. In less than thirty seconds he was out again and moving rapidly down the street.

"4.5 to Alpha 1. He's taken a call, now he's heading off. Orders, sir?"

The r/t crackled back, "Pick him up."

Bodie took the left pavement, Doyle the right. They paced the man for a block then, with a signal from Bodie, they narrowed in.

---

"We've got Odell's contact now, but he's just one of the small fry. It's the main source we want, and we couldn't count on finding him by tailing Odell. We need a man inside." Cowley sat down behind the desk, straightening his leg with a wince of pain. "Damned damp weather; it's been givin' me fits."

Doyle toyed restlessly with a pen. "Has Odell talked at all?"

Cowley shook his head. "He's former SAS. We'll get nothing out of that one he doesn't want to spill. But he's here to take a job, that much we do know. It's not the job we're interested in, it's the people who will give it to him. Supplying mercenaries is only a sideline for them. Guns and munitions are their main business, and that's what we're concerned with stopping. The PM's tired of Britain being the central clearinghouse for other peoples' wars -- not to mention making it easier for terrorists to get their hands on firepower right here on home ground."

"I talked to Odell," Bodie commented. "He's not a bad chap."

Doyle tossed the pen on the desk. "Come on, Bodie! The man's a mercenary; a pound for penny killer."

The blue eyes turned on Doyle, suddenly cold. "Last I heard, you took a salary, Doyle. Don't be so bloody superior."

Before Doyle's temper could snap, Cowley broke in, "Odell isn't important. He was a means to an end and perhaps he can still be useful to us, in a manner of speaking. He's been out of the country until very recently -- El Salvador. Rumor has it he was working for the American CIA."

"Damned Nazi's," Doyle mumbled, throwing another dark look at his partner. He was already beginning to regret his remark about mercenaries, however. Bodie picked the oddest times to get touchy.

"That's not our business either, Doyle," Cowley said pointedly. "We want to get the person or persons managing this supply network. Thanks to Odell, we've now got the name of the first contact and the meeting place. Now all we need is someone to make the meet." His gaze fell on Bodie.

Bodie smiled lazily. "Yeah, I'll do it."

Doyle stood. "Wait a minute, sir. Why Bodie? For all we know they're familiar with Odell. If they think it's a setup, they'll shoot on sight."

Bodie shrugged. "It's unlikely they know him. When he left the SAS about three years ago, he took a couple of brief jobs in Jordan, then went straight on to South America. He wasn't even in the business when he was here, and this is his first time home in three years. No reason for them to know his face, only his reputation -- which must be good or they wouldn't be givin' him the time o' day. We know that much about this mob; they only deliver quality."

"Okay," Doyle agreed reluctantly, "I admit the odds are pretty good. But why should Bodie go in? I'm the usual undercover man."

"Not this time, 4.5," Cowley said sharply. "You don't have the necessary background. Bodie's former SAS," a pause, "and former mercenary. He knows how to deal with this lot, you don't."

Bodie smiled beatifically at Doyle. "And we're both Liverpool Irish."

"Oh, terrific. Makes all the difference."

"In any case," Cowley continued, "we'll go with Bodie on this one. I'll make sure all the identification gets altered tonight. We'll be keeping Odell in custody until this is all settled. Doyle, you'll be backup -- but from a distance, mind. A good distance. If this fouls up because of your carelessness -- either of you! -- I'll have your hides, understand?"

"Yes, sir," Doyle responded somewhat glumly.

"Yes, sir, " Bodie grinned triumphantly at Doyle. He was exceedingly weary of cold, damp alleys, of waiting nervously for Doyle's cover to fall apart, of wondering if his partner was alive or dead. Better to be inside for once, with only himself to worry about. "When do I start?"

"The meet was set for tomorrow evening. Report in the morning for briefing and to pick up your ID. From noon tomorrow, you'll be Ashly Odell. Reservations will have to be made at a different hotel on the chance the desk clerk or maids notice the change in Mr. Odell's appearance. Nothing too suspicious in that. In Odell's line of work, one is hardly known for stability. That's all for now. Oh, and Bodie --"

Bodie turned back from the door. "Yes, sir?"

"You'd best get all your affairs settled tonight. This may last for some time."

When they were out in the corridor, Bodie rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Well, what's on for tonight then, mate? A bit of pub crawling? Want me to ring up a bird of mine and see if she has a friend available?"

Doyle remained silent.

"What's wrong, mate?"

"Nothing. I don't feel like going out tonight."

"What? Hey now, it's eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we --"

"Bodie!"

The taller man stopped and put his hand on Doyle's shoulder. "Tell me, mate, what is it really? Did it get up your nose 'cause Cowley gave the job to me? That's not like you, Ray."

Doyle shook his head. "No, of course not. It's not that. I just don't like the whole setup. Got a bad feelin' ..."

"Oh come on, Ray. This is a piece of cake. A regular picnic compared to some jobs we've drawn. Don't beg for trouble, mate."

Doyle smiled. "I suppose you're right. Let it go then."

"That's the spirit." Bodie's eyebrows wriggled suggestively. "What about tonight then? Gonna send me off right, ain't you? Might be my last chance to get pissed for a while."

"Thought Cowley said for you to get your affairs settled."

"Which affair? Sharon? Marie? Cynthia?"

Doyle laughed. "You ass. You know what he meant."

Bodie shrugged. "Not much to settle, is there? I've never had a lot to tie me down. Where do you want to start, the Red Lion?"

"...never a lot to tie me down." The words echoed in Doyle's mind, free, light and airy. So unlike his own practical, earthbound existence.

"Ray?"

Summoned from his reverie, Doyle smiled. "Whatever you say, mate. Red Lion it is."

---

They returned to Bodie's flat quite late, neither moving on perfectly steady legs. Doyle switched on a light and settled on the sofa with a relaxed sigh. Bodie insisted on pouring out still another drink.

"We've had enough," Doyle commented. "If you're playin' Odell tomorrow, you'll need your wits about you -- what few you have."

"Bloodshot eyes and a bit of booze on the breath is perfectly in character for an Irishman, Doyle. Or hadn't you heard what lushes we are?" He handed Doyle a glass and dropped down beside him. "We should've taken up with those three birds from Kent."

"One o' them had orange hair," Doyle pointed out.

"And a 'D' cup," Bodie added. "All cats are grey in the dark, Raymond old son."

"Somehow I think that one would've glowed like neon. No thanks." Doyle took a sip and leaned his head back. "Bodie?" he said after a minute.

"Yeah?" Bodie had also mellowed out. He'd pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt halfway down his chest. He stretched out, legs sprawled, eyes closed.

"Did you really want a bird tonight?"

"Nah." He opened his eyes and turned to look at Doyle. "Why'd you ask?"

"Dunno. Just didn't want to get in your way is all."

Bodie blinked in surprise. "Get in me way? How's that? Since when've you been in my way?"

"Well, I wasn't in much of a mood tonight ..." he trailed off, taking another drink.

Bodie patted his thigh. "Ah, Raymond, I use you as bait, you see."

"Eh?" Doyle looked at him fuzzily.

"Yeah. Tie a line around you, toss you out on the dance floor, then reel you in with birds nibblin' all over you. The sport's in the catchin', even if you throw 'em back later."

Doyle started giggling, and Bodie took the drink back before it could slosh on his sofa. "Bodie, you're rotten. Low class, hed-- hedonistic, uncouth, chau...chav...chauvin --"

"Chauvinist?" Bodie finished helpfully.

"Yeah."

Bodie nodded solemn agreement. "And I despise dogs and small children."

Doyle laughed again. "Nah ... you like kids. Don't you like kids?"

"Most of 'em, yeah, I guess."

Doyle retrieved his glass and took another large gulp. "You want any? Kids, I mean?"

Bodie considered it. "Maybe. Haven't thought about it much. You?"

"Don't think so. With Ann I mighta --" He broke off and waved the thought away. "Never mind. Where was I?"

"Shredding my character."

"Oh yeah ... well, 'spite of all that ... you bein' a louse, I mean ... I like you, Bodie."

"'Fess up, Ray -- it's because I'm a louse."

"No, I'm serious, Bodie. You're a good friend, bes' mate, you are."

Bodie studied his glass. "Ta, mate. But you was always a bad judge a' character, wasn't you?"

Doyle ignored him, concentrating fuzzily on the next thing he had to say. "I wish you wasn't goin' in tomorrow. Don't like it. I know it seems safe enough and all, but this mob is hard going. Big money, lot o' power. Crossin' them could get --"

"We're not goin' over this again, are we?" Bodie cut him off. "It's just another job, Ray. You're makin' too much of it." He looked Doyle over with slightly unfocused eyes. "An' you're drunk."

"Who's not? You wanted to get pissed, you said. I'm not allowed?"

"Not and be serious at the same time. Some kinda law, I think. Besides, you get maudlin."

"I do not," Ray said, offended.

Bodie grinned. "Yes you do. Weep all over my sleeve. Seen it more times than I can count."

Doyle started to retort hotly, but thought better of it. Instead, he said, "I'm not now. Just worried, is all."

Irritated, Bodie sat his glass down on the table with a thunk. "And you don't think I do, you sod? What about the times you're inside, eh? What about that bit where you played the South African bloke ... VanNeeKirk, wannit? Thought you'd bought it for sure, I did. It was no day o' joy for me either, you know. Worried sick, I was. Had a blow up with the Cow over it, too. It cuts both ways, son."

Ray regarded him blearily. "You were worried about me, Bodie?"

"'Course I was. What'd y'think?"

"You never said."

"Well I wasn't about to go blubberin' over your shirt front, was I? It all came out a'right."

Ray's eyes were wide and glowing, his face suddenly lit with something almost incandescent. Bodie found he couldn't look away. He noticed absently how long Doyle's hair had gotten, how soft it felt against his hand where it lay on the back of the sofa. Their gaze held for a very long time, the room suddenly crackling with an unknown electricity.

"Bodie," it was hardly a breath. He reached out to touch the flushed cheek. "What are you thinking?"

Bodie swallowed painfully, knowing he couldn't say it, didn't dare. "What are you thinkin', sunshine?"

Doyle's eyes didn't waver. "Dunno. Haven't figured it out yet."

Bodie stood up abruptly, breaking the trance. "When you do, be sure to let me know, eh? Time to hit the hay. You can kip out on the couch, if you like. Blankets in the cupboard."

"I know." A long pause. "Bodie?"

He halted but didn't turn. "We're drunk, Ray. Let it go for now."

"Thanks for tellin' me."

"Telling you what?"

"That you worried."

"You never knew? Christ, how could you not know?"

"I just didn't. Didn't think about it, I suppose."

"So?"

"So now I know."

Bodie started to go into the bedroom, but Doyle stopped him again.

"Bodie?"

Exasperated and a bit unnerved by his partner's strange mood, Bodie turned to face him at last. "What?"

"Goodnight." Doyle smiled, the eyes shadowed and incredibly catlike.

"G'night." Bodie escaped to his bedroom before Doyle could decide what he was hunting.

---

From his car across the road from the pub, Doyle watched as Bodie exited and moved purposefully down the street. He gave a signal, subtle but readable, and Doyle spoke into the r/t. "He's got some information, but not what we need. Probably the job for Odell. He wants more time. Should I make contact and get more of a report?"

"Negative, 4.5. Hold back. If there was anything important, he'd contact us. It looks like the first step was successful. I'm taking the watch off the hotel."

"What?" Doyle stared at the r/t accusingly. "You can't do that; it'll leave him wide open."

"4.5, if they're considering Bodie for more than hired muscle, they'll be watching him closer than ever. We can't take the chance of being spotted. He'll have to be on his own for a bit. He can handle it." Cowley's voice narrowed to a warning tone. "Report back to HQ."

"Yes, sir," said through clenched teeth. He signed off but remained where he was a moment, watching Bodie's departing figure. The man moved surely, purposefully. If Doyle had been called a cat, then Bodie was a wolf. His tread more heavy, powerful.

Doyle pulled the car out slowly, ducking in behind a lorry so he could keep his speed down and watch his partner.

Unsurprisingly, his thoughts returned to the previous night. The memory wasn't as sharp as he'd of liked it to be, but the feelings were perhaps even stronger; he'd had more time to consider them. He still didn't care to put a name on the feelings; they were too new, too unsure. But, for the first time in the years he had known him, he was certain of how Bodie felt toward him. Ray acknowledged to himself that he'd never been the best judge of character, nor exactly quick on the uptake in cases like this, but looking back on it now, he could hardly conceive of his own blindness. Bodie had always treated him with velvet gloves, customarily sweet tempered and wonderfully understanding of his partner's various and unstable moods. But what Doyle had never really considered was that this was a condition extending particularly toward him. Bodie cared for him. Certainly he'd never said it outright, but he had made no special secret of it either.

When he looked back, it seemed that Bodie was always there, supporting, comforting, teasing. Usually judging his partner's mood and needs flawlessly and offering up the suitable panacea.

Tallying up the flip side, Doyle realized with a flush of guilt that he came up sadly lacking. Bodie always put on such a show of being so bloody independent, he'd just taken for granted that he preferred it that way. But would Bodie come out and say differently? Perhaps it was time to look a little closer.

He did so as he passed him now, giving him a crooked grin. Bodie acknowledged his presence with a flicker of lashes, but kept his face expressionless. Doyle turned off at the next road, moving in the direction of headquarters.

When this was all over, they had a lot to talk about.

---

When Bodie left the restaurant it was late, but he decided to walk back to his hotel. Although it was damp and the mist was even heavier than it had been the night before, the hotel wasn't far and he thought the cold air would clear his mind.

The job was going well up to this point. Pearson, the contact he met earlier, had not doubted his identity, had given him the job and an envelope stuffed with cash. Attaining access to someone higher in the organization was trickier. The plan, as most good plans, was simple and direct. Bodie did a convincing song and dance about having an American associate who wished to sell a large supply of American issue armaments. Knowing Odell's contacts with the CIA, this brought immediate interest. Bodie then explained that any deal would have to be much more private than this; he would only make an information exchange with a top man. Pearson had been unhappy with this, but understood the need for caution. He'd promised to get in touch once he checked with his superiors.

Bodie had come out of the meeting feeling very pleased with himself. He'd noted Doyle across the street and had given the signal for him to stay clear. But he'd felt the green eyes follow him for the next two blocks. It was irritating, although safe enough at this point. He knew what disturbed him more was the way Doyle was watching him.

Bodie was no innocent. He recognized that look quite well; had seen it on many faces. In the army, in the SAS, in public school for that matter. Any place where men suddenly started favoring men -- through choice or necessity. The expression was a strange combination of unwilling admiration, awe, lust, and frightened revelation that the feeling could happen to them. But he'd never, in his darkest most secret dreams, imagined he'd see it in Doyle's eyes.

Taking Doyle to bed and having it off presented no problem. God knows the situation had been a standard fantasy for the last couple of years. It was the aftermath he dreaded. Ray Doyle was a self- consciously macho little bastard at the best of times, overcompensating perhaps for his size and his sensitive, artistic nature. Homosexual experimentation wasn't in his books, and Bodie was willing to bet his expense chits that it never had been. Not that Doyle was a prude or unopen to new ideas. Far from it -- he was probably the least prejudiced person Bodie had ever met. Still, with something as volatile as this, it was impossible to predict the results, and that was what worried Bodie the most. The backlash to such a situation could be painful. Doyle meant a lot to him; too much to risk on this. He had to be very sure of what Ray really wanted and why before it went any further.

Bodie stepped off the curb to cross the street to the hotel, his chin tucked down against the cold drafts. The street held an unnatural quietness, the secretive muffling common to a fog-laden night. The sound of an approaching car registered dimly, but before he could react, it was upon him.

The screeching of brakes on wet pavement alerted him to jump back, but not quite quick enough. The mudguard clipped him in the side, throwing him back into the gutter, the side of his head striking the edge of the pavement.

Through a building wave of pain, he heard sounds. A car door slamming. Footsteps. A voice, ridiculously young, breaking in mid-sentence.

"I think he's dead. Blimey, you've killed 'im!"

Another voice, farther away. "Get back here, Joe! Get in, quick!"

"I told you not to switch off the headlamps ... I told you ..."

"Get in, you bloody ass! Let's get outa here before someone sees --"

The sound cut off like someone switching down the volume on the radio. Only his heartbeat remained, painful thuds against his chest. He could feel wetness gather on his face as time passed and the mist settled on his skin. He couldn't see, couldn't move, couldn't hear except for the ocean roar in his head, louder and louder, covering his world in a cold blackness.

---

It was the cold that woke him finally. He shivered violently and his ribs cried out in protest at the movement. Groaning, he lifted his head. He couldn't see for a moment, his eyes refusing to focus. The grey and black world finally settled down to the blurred glow of a street lamp, the light vainly trying to cut through the fog. As he tried to sit up his head throbbed wildly. Instinctively putting his hand up, he brought it back sticky and wet.

Searching in his coat pocket for a handkerchief to wipe off the blood, he came up with a key. He stared at it for a moment. Hotel Chelsea.

He struggled to his feet, his side and head both aching unbearably. Across the road he caught the pale neon flicker of the sign. The H and the L were both burned out, but it looked familiar. He made his way unsteadily across to it and went inside.

A man moved forward quickly as he collapsed against the front desk.

"Mr. Odell! Are you all right, sir? You're bleeding! What's happened?"

"I ... A car ... I don't know ..."

"I'll call the police --"

"No." He caught the clerk's arm. "I don't like coppers."

The man hesitated. "A doctor then. Maybe you should go to hospital?"

"No ... I think I'm okay. Just a bit stunned." He dropped the key on the desk. "Just help me ... to my room."

"Certainly, sir."

By the time he reached the room, the blackness was closing in again. The desk clerk practically carried him the last steps to the bed.

"Sir, I really think you should have some attention --"

"No, just let me sleep."

"But --"

"Thanks for the help ... I just need some quiet ... some rest ..."

As he trailed off, the clerk stood there uncertainly. But he had had ample time to see the gun strapped under the man's armpit. He wasn't disposed to argue with that. He shrugged and left, locking the door carefully behind him.

---

The next time he woke, it was the late afternoon sun hitting his eyes through a chink in the shade. He rolled over, trying to ignore the pain by slipping back into unconsciousness. Sleep stubbornly eluded him. He turned back over, looking at the sunshine. The old man will be pleased; the weather's changed. But he didn't stop to think how it had changed or what old man.

He did feel marginally better, though. He found he could sit up, make it to the bath, and splash water over his face. He saw the blood crusted on his forehead and wondered vaguely what had happened. The headache was at least bearable now, not as painful as his side at least. Although he couldn't remember his head hurting quite this badly --

He stopped abruptly, staring in the mirror.

What was the thought he'd just had? He couldn't remember a headache this bad ...

He couldn't remember a ... Christ, he couldn't remember.

Shaking, he leaned against the wash basin, panic inching in.

Couldn't remember. Couldn't remember.

The face stared back at him from the mirror, obviously just as lost as he was, and totally unhelpful.

"This is crazy," he muttered to his reflection. "Crazy." The face in the mirror seemed to agree, but was only vaguely familiar.

He turned away, switching on the shower full force, refusing to deal with this. He pulled off his jacket, unsnapped the gun harness, and jerked off the remainder of his clothes without paying much attention to what he was doing. When the water was steaming, he stepped under the flow, letting it wash over him. He inspected his ribs; the side was discoloring brilliantly, but nothing felt broken. While lathering his short hair, he discovered a painful lump above and to the back of his left ear.

He remembered fog then, and pain, and voices saying he was dead.

"I was run down," he mused aloud to the shower nozzle. "The little bastards hit me and left me layin' in the gutter." He shut off the water angrily and stepped out. He dried off, furious. "The bloody, careless brats ..." Then halted, eyes caught again by the semi-familiar reflection in the mirror.

"Christ, what's happening?"

The voice was barely a whisper and frighteningly unknown. The panic came again, and this time refused to be shunted aside.

"Who the hell am I?"

He almost gasped as the question came out of himself. How can I not know?

Back in the bedroom, he opened the bureau. The clothes he put on fit perfectly. His clothes, of course. Why wouldn't they fit? But everything seemed foreign, felt new.

He found a valise on the floor of the closet and dumped its contents on the bed. A thick envelope fell out, along with a plastic folder and a flutter of loose papers. He picked up the envelope first. It was full of money. He counted it. Nearly four thousand pounds. He opened the folder. It contained a passport, release papers from the army, a photostat of a resignation form from the SAS, a crumpled newspaper clipping on a guerrilla war between Libya and the Republic of Chad. He turned over the passport. The picture matched the reflection he'd seen in the mirror. Ashly Odell, Liverpool, GB.

His nose crinkled distastefully at the name. Ashly? Ridiculous. Didn't feel right at all. But perhaps he only used the one name. Odell. It sounded better. Odell, Liverpool. Liverpool Irish ... A strong note of familiarity rang in his mind. Yes.

He sorted through the other things. Army ... yes, that too. He remembered the army. Boring, bleak ... Belfast and 'keeping the peace' ... The SAS. Sharper memories stirred. The rush of old excitement, challenge ... it all fit precisely in some corner of his mind. But it dead- ended there.

Frustrated, he shuffled through the rest, found the plane ticket. London to Tangier, the 24th. Again a rustle of memory. He knew Tangier ... knew Africa. Was that his home now? No, not home. But there was something ... What?

Recalling that he hadn't checked the pockets of the clothes he'd been wearing, he went back to the bath and investigated, finding his purse. Not much inside. More money, a driver's license issued in El Salvador, two names and addresses scribbled on a scrap of paper. Another newspaper article; this one in Spanish, more faded and older than the other. He couldn't read it.

He returned to the bed and picked up the other one. Several lines of print were underlined heavily.

ALTHOUGH THE FRENCH GOVERNMENT DOES NOT OFFICIALLY CONDONE THIS OPERATION, THE GOVERNMENT OF THE REPUBLIC OF CHAD IS RUMORED TO BE HIRING PROFESSIONAL MERCENARIES TO ASSIST IN THEIR EFFORTS AGAINST THE INCREASING INCURSION INTO THEIR TERRITORY BY LIBYAN GUERRILLAS. FOR THE LAST THIRTEEN YEARS CHAD HAS BEEN TORN BY AN INTERNAL CONFLICT BETWEEN MUSLIM AND CHRISTIAN FORCES ...

He glanced at the envelope of money, then reread the names and addresses he'd found. The first address was in Tangier; the second was a Colonel Vandemeer in Fort Lamy, Chad.

He picked up a packet of French cigarettes from the bed table, lit one and inhaled deeply. So what now? Everything seemed familiar ... yet not familiar. He was no longer frightened, but the confusion remained. The plane ticket, the money, the addresses all added up to one obvious fact. He was being hired as a mercenary. Why else the clipping? And it felt right, felt like something well known to him. But other pieces of his life were blank. There was more, much more. But what?

Another stab of pain from his head reminded him that he still felt like hell. He crushed out the cigarette and brushed everything off the bed, too tired to think about it any longer. He laid down and buried his face in the pillow.

---

"Left the country?" Doyle stared at Cowley as if he'd grown two heads.

"That's what I said, 4.5. This morning on the 10 o'clock flight to Tangier."

Doyle waited a moment, trying to take it in. "Why would he do that?"

"I don't know. I just got word from Customs an hour ago. I was hoping you might have a thought on the matter." Cowley tossed a folder down on the desk violently. "What's he up to, Doyle? It doesn't make sense!"

"You're sure it was Bodie?"

"He used the Odell passport. He's checked out of the hotel."

Doyle hazarded, "Maybe he's following up a lead --"

"Outside of the country? Don't be daft! What good would that do? We want the men here! What the bloody hell does he think he's doing?"

Doyle had no answer, still trying to absorb the shock.

Cowley remained silent for a long time. Finally, he picked up the phone. "Get hold of 6.2. Tell him to locate the contact 3.7 met last night at the Blue Boar Tavern. Name of Pearson. Yes, as quickly as possible. Track him down and bring him in."

Doyle looked up, even more confused. "But if you do that, the whole operation will be blown. You said yourself that Pearson was - --"

"A small fry, yes." Cowley slammed his fist down on the desk in frustration. "Wake up to it, Doyle! The case is already botched! We'll not get another man in there now, not as things stand. Bodie's ruined our chances of getting closer to the target."

"Bodie ..." Doyle trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't understand."

"Nor do I, lad." He hesitated. "We can't disregard the possibility he sold out."

Doyle straightened in his chair. "You can't be serious. Bodie?"

Cowley made an impatient gesture. "Och, man, do y' think I want to believe that? But it must be considered. It's not a pleasant thought for either of us, but I've had men go bad before."

"Not Bodie," Doyle said stubbornly. "I know him. He wouldn't --"

"We both knew Martin as well," Cowley cut in angrily. "I knew Colin Meridith. Do you think it was easy to believe it of them, either? And I knew them both a hell of a lot longer than you've known Bodie."

"I still think you're jumping to conclusions. We've no proof -- "

"Aye, I know that. And I also know there was no reason for him to go tearing off on his own like this. He's picked a time when he'd have a good head start on us, too."

"You're not sayin' he planned this, surely?"

"At this point I don't have enough facts to say anything for certain. Except that we must have him back, one way or another. He knows too much."

"Knows too much?" Doyle repeated caustically. "Since when do any of us know any more than we have to just to get by? Bodie doesn't know any state secrets! We're the bottom of the pole, the muscle men. Now you're talking like he's another Philby."

"Nevertheless, what he does know would be extremely useful to ... say the IRA. Procedures, methods of operation, codes ... how much would certain groups pay for that kind of information, Doyle? Whatever he's up to, he must be stopped."

Doyle's eyes widened. "This is Bodie you're talking about, sir. You're not meaning t.w.e.p., are you? That's insane!"

Cowley's gaze met the younger man's levelly. "We hope it doesn't come to that."

"We hope?" Doyle said bitterly. "You aren't suggesting it's a real possibility? I don't believe this."

Out of patience, Cowley stood and limped to the window. "What would you do in my place, Doyle? It must be considered! Even if neither of us damn well likes it!" He quieted. "We don't know all the facts yet. Nothing is definite."

"But it looks bad, doesn't it?"

"I'm afraid it does."

Doyle studied his hands. "So what do we do now?"

"Find Pearson; get what information he has."

Doyle was thinking of something else. "Why Tangier?"

Cowley shrugged. "It's a good place to lose oneself. A good place to hide. We've not many operatives there; Bodie knows that."

"But maybe that's not it at all," Doyle mused.

"Eh?"

Doyle shook his head. "Maybe nothing. It's just ... if he wanted to get clear away, there must be better places. Places where a British citizen would be less noticeable -- South Africa, Hong Kong, even America. Perhaps our assumptions are all wrong, and he's not running at all."

"I'm not following you. Say what you mean, man."

"All right. Listen, sir, Odell was a mercenary. Pearson was setting him up with a job, right? What kind of job would it be? Tangier is close to a lot of action. The Middle East, Lebanon, Syria --"

"You think he's taking up the job Odell was given? That's senseless! Why, in the name of heaven, would he do that?"

"I ..." Doyle's eyes dropped. "I dunno. It does seem pointless. But he wouldn't be doing that if he sold out, would he? He'd skip for someplace it'd be harder to trace him."

"In other words," Cowley returned sarcastically, "you prefer to believe he merely deserted. Went back to his old line of work without bothering to give notice."

Doyle couldn't help but smile at the outrage in Cowley's voice. "Well, sir, it's not the army, is it? I mean, we could do that, if we wanted."

"Not without a debriefing! It's --"

"In the small print, yes, I know," Doyle finished ruefully. He looked thoughtful. "That's not really what I meant, anyway. There'd be no reason for him to go off like that, would there? I mean, if he just decided to chuck it all, why use Odell's name? Why not go as himself?"

"So we're back to the first point again."

Doyle's face hardened. "I don't believe he sold out, sir. I can't believe it. There's another answer. There must be."

"Aye, I think the same. With luck, Pearson will know something. If he will talk."

"Oh, he'll talk," Doyle said quietly.

---

Odell stared out the dirty plane window, trying very hard to think of nothing.

The plane was a former Aussie military transport, a Gooney Bird C-47, held together with masking tape and determination. One engine sputtered ominously, but Odell wasn't concerned. He'd flown these birds before, and had confidence in their ability to cough and sputter their way anywhere and never give up. This particular plane had probably flown supplies to Tunisia and Tripoli in the Second World War, and was doing the same thing now for a very different war.

The Aussie pilot nudged his arm and grinned. "Loaded the old girl a bit tight back there, mate. Want to jump out an' give us some altitude?"

Odell smiled back. "With or without a chute?"

"Oh, with, of course. You think the blokes that hired us are purse-pinchers? You can use my hanky."

"Thanks just the same, but I'll wait a bit. Figure all your hot air will keep us well up."

The Aussie laughed. "That's right enough. Odell, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Didn't have much time for introductions before the wheels were up. Guess you figured I'm Gibson, though. Call me Gib."

"This your bird, Gib?"

"In a manner of speaking. No one else would claim her, certainly. Made a deal with a officer chap right before we bugged out of Saigon. Didn't figure the ol' girl would make it out. I thought she would; Mabel has heart, y'know. Anyway, if I got her up, she was mine. If she crashed, she belonged to the bloody government again. Fair trade, we reckoned."

"Sounds so. Nobody missed it later?"

Gibson waved an airy hand. "Blamed it on the Yanks, most likely. Always losin' things, don't y'know? Couldn't keep track." He glanced over at his passenger. "You been in Africa before?"

"Yeah, some."

"Where abouts?"

"Angola mostly."

Gibson whistled. "Ugly time there. Used to fly a few irons and biscuits there from time to time. Didn't care to stay long. 'Course where you're headin' now is no Sunday picnic, either. Lot o' black blokes dressed in sheets fightin' a passel o' Arabs comin' down from the north with cutters clenched in their nasty teeth."

"You make it sound so charming."

"Not my style at all."

Bodie fell silent, looking back out the window.

"Angola, you say?" the gregarious pilot continued. "Thought they'd told me you were some other place over across ... some bloody little country in South America or somewhere. No, Central America, it was. El Salvador, wasn't it?"

The pain twinged again above his ear. He closed his eyes, waiting for it to pass. "Yeah."

"Pretty senoritas, eh?"

A curious inner blankness mocked him. From the blankness rose a flash of memory, '...probably thinks Latin America is a place where they speak Latin...' and an answered voice, 'Well, 'tis, innit?' but it was too dim to catch and hold, and the effort sharpened the pain in his skull.

"What d'ya say, Odell?"

"Eh?"

"About the birds! Good, were they?"

"Like anyplace, I reckon. Birds are birds."

"Well, here you get only dark meat. Doesn't bother you, eh?"

Again a wisp of memory, nastier this time. '...get a taste for the dark meat, did you? Little ravers, some o' them, aren't they?' This one he pushed away; there was something distasteful behind it.

"Drop it, will ya?" he said flatly. "I want to get some sleep."

"No offense, mate."

"None taken. Just got a bit of a headache, is all."

"Late night in Tangier, was it?"

"Yeah, somethin' like that."

---

"Four thousand pounds, an airline ticket to Tangier, and the name of the contact to meet him there." Cowley lifted his gaze from the notepad. "That's all Pearson knows -- or all he's telling. None of which explains why Bodie took that flight."

"The four thousand pounds?" Murphy suggested. "It is a bit of flash."

Doyle's strained temper snapped. He had the agent by the collar and up against the wall before Murphy could react.

"What are you saying, Murphy? That Bodie's bent? That he took the friggin' money and ran? You --!"

"Doyle, stop it!"

Doyle took a deep breath and released him. Murphy straightened his coat, the outburst making him sympathetic rather than angry.

"I'm sorry, Ray. I like Bodie, too, you know." He looked over at Cowley uncertainly. "But I thought ... well, I took it for granted that ..."

"You were quite right, Murphy," Cowley broke in. "All the possibilities have to be discussed. And Doyle, if you can't keep in line, get out. Throwing tantrums won't help the situation."

"Yes, sir," Doyle replied sullenly, but his face unclenched. He threw an apologetic look at the other agent. "Sorry, Murph."

It had been nearly a week since Bodie's disappearance, and more than enough time for Doyle's nerves to reach a breaking point. It had taken that long to locate Pearson. As someone had pointed out early on, Bodie's sudden bug-out had probably spooked Pearson into making himself very scarce, and making the job of tracking him down that much harder. What time Doyle hadn't spent searching for Pearson, he'd been violently defending his partner against speculation, innuendo, and worse from inside the department. It had been a very unpleasant week for everyone.

Cowley waited for Doyle to sit down before continuing. "At least we know 3.7's final destination. Fort-Lamy."

Doyle looked up. "Where's that?"

"The Republic of Chad. There is an undeclared war between Chad and Libya, with increasing Libyan raids. The drought there has escalated the fighting. The government -- unofficially aided by France - -- has been hiring mercenaries to help train their forces and lead counter-attacks against the Arab guerrillas. A minor war, nothing to make more than the back pages of the Sunday supplements, but a nasty one, nonetheless."

"You think that's what Odell was being hired for?" Murphy asked.

"According to Pearson, those were the instructions he gave Bodie. Odell was to meet a man named Gibson in Tangier."

Doyle jumped in, a bit too eagerly. "Perhaps that's it. Maybe Bodie thought this Gibson fella knew something about the mob here."

Cowley shook his head. "I've been in touch with the French OAS. Their man in Tangier knows Gibson. He's an Australian pilot that does free-lance work, mostly for the French. He does a bit of smuggling from time to time, some gun-running for the Lebanese, but nothing too heavy. Never been caught at it, in any case. In this instance it's no more than a simple cargo run -- not even remotely illegal, since the weapons and supplies he carried were bought from the French government, all on the up and up."

"And Odell was merely part of the cargo," Murphy put in. "Or Bodie, rather."

"We know for a fact, that Bodie did get on that plane and did go to Fort-Lamy. There's certainly not that much air traffic in and out of that city lately. It looks as if Doyle was right, and Bodie is taking Odell's place all the way. But we still have no reasons."

Doyle stood up. "So when do I leave, sir?"

Cowley's eyes snapped up. "You? Don't be daft, man. I won't send you."

Doyle's face flushed at the tone. "Why not?"

"Be sensible, lad. You've never been off this island in your life."

"I'll manage. I'm hardly helpless, am I?"

Cowley sighed, knowing the stubborn look far too well. "Do you speak French, Doyle? Arabic?"

Doyle's expression was wary. "A bit of French. Enough to get by, maybe." He saw the look in Cowley's eyes and exploded, "So what if I don't? It doesn't exactly trip off Bodie's tongue either, y'know! And it's been years since he was out of the country."

Murphy snorted. "You could set Bodie down in the middle of the bloody jungle and he'd be playin' cricket with the baboons within a week."

Doyle scowled at him. "I don't see it makes a difference. Not every man they hire can have experience in Africa, can they? What the hell does Bodie know of Central America for all that? Yet he's convinced them he's Odell, hasn't he? Give me my due, sir, I'm no bloody amateur at this game!"

Cowley took a deep breath. "I know your qualifications better than you do, 4.5, but this simply isn't in your league. Whatever Bodie is playing at, those men he's with in Chad won't be in on it. They think he's Odell, if they find out different, it might be his death warrant, and yours too if you go blundering in there. Bodie is ex-para, ex-SAS ... ex-mercenary, as well. He knows the ropes. You're --"

"Nothing but an ex-street cop, I know," Doyle broke in sharply. "But I was good enough for CI5, wasn't I? Or has that changed?"

That stopped Cowley for a moment. "Nevertheless, MI5 has more --"

"MI5?" Doyle cut in again. "I thought you were the man who cleaned his own doorstep? You're farming it out now?"

For the second time, Cowley was brought up short. The blue eyes flashed dangerously. "For that matter, I've got better qualified men available in CI5 than you are for this job, Doyle."

"Those other men don't know Bodie!" He hurried on before Cowley's Scottish temper could blow. "Hear me out, sir. Whatever Bodie is up to -- whatever his reason for doing this ... even if he has sold out -- who's the person he's most likely to talk to? Anyone else goes after him will likely end up with their brains blown out ... especially if he has gone bad."

"And you're so sure he won't do that to you?" Murphy asked quietly. "Bodie isn't exactly the most predictable chap we know."

"He won't kill me," Doyle said with conviction. He bit his lip. "At least he'll think twice about it."

Cowley's blue eyes bored into Doyle's. "The bottom line is --"

"The bottom line," Doyle leaned forward, both hands flat on the desk, facing him off furiously, "is that, send me or not, I'm going. With or without your approval ... sir."

Cowley stood. "You've done this before, Doyle; gave me an ultimatum. It's not something it's safe to make a habit of."

Doyle backed off a bit. "Sorry, sir. I didn't mean it quite that way. But you must see I'm right about this." His chin lifted. "I was right the last time, wasn't I?"

The old man studied the young man thoughtfully. "So you were." He turned away. "All right, we'll go with it then. You'll obviously be no use here until this is cleared up. Go on down to Documents and see about getting your papers in order. I'll get you a line with French Intelligence -- if they're willing to help us on this. Their man in Tangier might be useful."

Doyle felt relief wash over him. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

When he'd left the office, Murphy moved over to the desk. "Do you think this is wise, sir? I've never seen Doyle so ..."

"Aye. But we've not a lot of choice. He's right about one thing. He's the only one with a chance of bringing Bodie back -- whether he wants to come or not."

Murphy looked doubtful. "But will Doyle make it back?"

Cowley had no answer for that.

---

Raul Arbiand, the French OAS man in Tangier, was friendly but cautious. Cowley had warned Doyle to expect this. While diplomatic courtesy dictated that the Intelligence organizations assist each other, there was more than a little uneasy shuffling taking place. There was no getting around the fact that the French still held psychological claims to a great deal of northern and central Africa, just as the British did in the south. This whole situation could be construed as intrusion on their particular territory. And France and Britain had seldom been on more than coldly polite terms at best.

Arbiand motioned for Doyle to sit. "Your Monsieur Cowley has spoken with me. He tells me you have ... misplaced one of your people, no?"

Doyle's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. "Not exactly. I'm here to find out what happened, actually. According to your reports, Bodie left for Chad with a pilot named Gibson."

"A man calling himself Odell was a passenger on that plane, yes. It departed for Fort Lamy ten days ago. That is the extent of my knowledge, monsieur."

"And how did you know about that particular passenger?"

"It is ... how do you say? ... my business to keep an open eye for such things. It is your business as well, no? In any case, Monsieur Gibson is a friend I have."

"A friend? How well do you know him?"

The Frenchman's eyes sharpened. "It is always to one's advantage to know men who work for so many different people. One learns much, yes? Gibson likes to talk; me, I listen. As to how I know him --" a gaelic shrug. "We drink together when he is in Tangier. He is a pleasant companion."

"Where is he now?"

"That, I do not know. I have suspicion that it is perhaps a ..." he searched for the word for a second, "... shady deal. But it is not shady toward French interests, so I do not look so closely." He shrugged again.

"But he returned from Chad?"

"Oh yes. He does not stay there long. Only short cargo flights." He smiled, flashing very white teeth. "Very legal. What he does now is further east, not south."

Doyle thought a moment. "Do you know why he was taking Bodie to Chad?"

The Frenchman's face closed up. "I do not ask that, either."

Doyle leaned forward impatiently. "He was signing on as a mercenary, wasn't he? What do you know about that? You must know some contacts there; where he would go." When Arbiand didn't answer, Doyle continued sharply, "The French government is backing the operation, that's obvious. Chad couldn't pay the kind of money they're offering."

The brown eyes were hard now. "You know that as a fact, Monsieur? You have proof perhaps?"

Doyle sat back, taking a deep breath. "Listen, I don't give a bloody damn what your government is up to. I'm just interested in finding Bodie. I need a way in."

Arbiand relaxed a trifle. "What do you intend to do?"

"Follow him, find him. I'll take it from there."

"Into the mercenary camp?"

"Do you have a better suggestion?"

The Frenchman looked doubtful. "You think this wise? I know enough of these men to be certain they would not like being fooled. If they find who you are, they would most certainly kill you."

"So they won't find out."

The other man remained silent for a time, turning over a piece of amber on his desk. "Very well, Monsieur Doyle. I will see what I can do for you. When my friend Gibson returns, I will provide transportation with him. It will give you a better start than if you went there another way. The men you are looking for have much dealings with him."

"How long will this take?" Doyle asked.

"That I cannot say. A week or two. Perhaps longer. Monsieur Gibson's schedule is somewhat erratic, you must understand."

"Two weeks ..." Doyle bit his lip worriedly. He'd lost so much time already.

The Frenchman spread his hands. "This is the best I can do for you. Chad is a very big country, Monsieur Doyle. And not so many people speak the English. It will be better for you this way."

Doyle nodded reluctantly.

"Return to your hotel, Monsieur. I will telephone you when I have news."

---

Doyle's first sight of Gibson's plane nearly made him reconsider the importance of finding Bodie after all. He wasn't enamored of high places at the best of times, and "Mabel" looked like she'd come down a lot quicker than she went up.

The pilot came from behind one wing, wiping oil from his hands on an even oilier rag. He grinned as he caught Doyle's stricken expression.

"Beauty, ain't she?"

"Does it fly?"

"Been known to when the wind was right. You Ray Doyle?"

"Yeah," Doyle held out his hand, but then thought better of it. "You're Gibson?"

"Gib'll do. Sorry for the grease. Been doin' some repairs."

"Good," Doyle said fervently. "How long before you'll have it fixed?"

Gibson's blue eyes twinkled. "Oh nothin' wrong with the ol' girl. Mabel has heart, I always say."

"But does she have engines?"

"Actually, that's what I was just fiddlin' with. One caught fire over Cairo last week."

Doyle swallowed. "Eh?"

Gibson laughed loudly. "Just havin' you on, mate. She's better than she looks on the outside."

"Christ, I hope so. When do we leave?"

"Soon as I fill her with petrol. Got 'er loaded last night. Just hang about a while, and we'll be off." He grinned again. "Feelin' lucky?"

Doyle looked back at the plane and didn't have the heart to reply. He returned to the hangar and sat down glumly. Bodie had better appreciate this.

He spent the next hour listening to the Australian alternately curse and conjole "Mabel" as he worked to get her ready for take-off. It was far from encouraging, but Doyle had wasted nearly three weeks waiting for Gibson's return, and he was still the best chance of finding exactly where Bodie had gone.

Before Doyle was quite ready for it, however, they were up in the air. Mabel did fly better than her appearance indicated, and after a while, Doyle managed to relax.

He looked over at the pilot, who was humming happily to himself. "Do you do a lot of business in Fort Lamy," he began awkwardly, wondering how much Arbiand had told the Australian.

"Ndjemena, you mean."

"Eh?"

"That's the name of the capitol, mate. Changed it after the Frogs left. 'Course most of the map-makers haven't got 'round to noticing that fact." He paused to light a cigarette, offered the package to Doyle who declined. "Been there quite a bit in the last year or so. They've a nice airport, even if rest of the place is a bloody stretch of nothin'. Souvenir from the Second War." He regarded Doyle curiously. "You figuring on signing up with the Colonel?"

"Vandemeer? He's the leader of the mercenary force, isn't he?"

"Yeah. Cold bloke, eyes like steel. But I hear he's a fair one." He stubbed out his cigarette, half smoked. "You don't look much like a merc. But then, I've seen all sizes and all kinds." He studied the other man another moment, as if trying to decide whether to say something. Finally, he grinned. "Reckon you know what you're doing, chasing after this Odell chap?"

"I know what I'm doing."

Gibson shrugged. "He went with Vandemeer's lot, if that's your next question. But if you're after Odell an' you're the law, I'd keep shut about it."

Doyle evaded the issue. "Odell's a mate of mine. I just want to catch up with him, is all."

Gibson let it go. "He seemed a right enough, bloke. Not too chatty though."

"Did he seem ... okay?" Doyle asked lamely.

"What d'ya mean?"

"Did he act all right ... or like someone who's on the run?"

"I wouldn't say so, no. Slept most of the flight, actually. Had a bit of a hangover, I reckon. Mentioned that his head hurt 'im anyway."

"These supplies you're bringing in, are they for Vandemeer?"

"Some of it." He glanced at Doyle. "You want an intro, is that it?"

"Yes."

Gibson thought a moment before nodding. "Okay, old son, you've got it. I can't guarantee it'll do any good, but I'll see you have a chat with 'im."

---

Several hours later, Doyle was stirred from an uneasy doze by the faint, grumbling sound of thunder. He blinked groggily at the blue skies that surrounded the plane.

"We heading into a storm?"

The Australian favored him with another good-natured, infectious grin. "Welcome to Chad, Doyle ol' chap. Ndjemena's about two miles to the right of us there."

Doyle glanced out the window to the dusty brown and grey terrain, and the jumble of adobe buildings in the distance, eyes widening as he saw the plumes of smoke peppering the city.

"Bloody hell! It's under fire!"

Gibson looked casually at his wristwatch. "We'll circle for a bit. It's nearly tea time."

Doyle's head swung around to stare at him, then turned back to the window in time to see the side of a building crumple to ruin. "But ... they're blowin' things up down there!"

"Mortar shells. From across the river probably," Gibson said blandly.

"Mortar fire?! We're not about to land in that, are we?" Doyle said in astonishment.

"Don't worry, mate. They'll stop presently. Very civilized about the whole business actually."

"Christ," Doyle whispered.

Gibson just looked amused. "There's a civil war on, you know. What's a war without a bit of fireworks, eh? Nothing to get upset about. It's been going on for months now. Ah, see? They've stopped. I can take her in now."

"They stop for tea? What kind of war is that?"

"And lunch and dinner. They're not fanatics about it, are they? Everyone needs a bit of break now and then."

Doyle let out his breath slowly. "Is it safe to land?"

"Oh I imagine so. Usually don't aim for the airfield. It's too important to both sides; otherwise there'd be a terrible bullet and bomb shortage, wouldn't there? The Frogs keep it open, actually. Got a few troups dotted around; moral support for Habre', don't y'know?"

"Habre's the Defense Minister, innit he?"

"Yeah; in fact it's his lot that's hired Odell and friends, although I imagine the Frogs picked up the tab for it."

Doyle's knowledge of the situation in Chad was sketchy at best. Actually no one seemed to know exactly what was going on. The best he could follow from what he'd picked up in Tangier, was that Habre' had helped oust the former President Malloum, a Christian, and replace him with Oueddei, who was Muslim. Habre then did a complete turnaround and became pro-French against President Oueddei who was being supported by Libya. It all seemed a bizarre and pointless chessgame, and Doyle couldn't fathom Bodie's involvement in it.

Gibson had circled around to come in for landing. "Best take a firm grip on something, lad. Might be a bit bumpy when 'er wheels are down if a stray shell was chucked on the airstrip."

Doyle clenched the seat with a white knuckled hold, but the landing was relatively smooth. Gibson taxied slowly back toward the group of hangars.

"There's a decent inn not too far from the airfield, if you want to come with me," Gibson offered. "A lot of Yank businessmen and diplomat types stay there. Bit safer than closer in town."

"Yeah, sure. When will you see Vandemeer?"

"Likely he'll turn up this evening after supper. Unless he's out in the bloody desert somewhere." He gestured toward the back of the plane. "You can leave your gear here, if you like. Be safe enough. Let's go have a brew, shall we?"

---

Except for an occasional distant spatter of machine-gun fire that evening as Gibson and Doyle waited at the airstrip for Vandemeer, the night was otherwise quiet. Doyle, accustomed to the subliminal and eternal sounds of London, found it unsettling. There wasn't even the chirping and creaking noises of the country, for the persistent drought had driven most wildlife and even insects farther south or closer to Lake Chad, fifty miles to the north.

He watched with interest as the Australian tinkered with Mabel's engine. "Are you sure he'll show tonight?"

Gibson concentrated on tightening a bolt. "He'll be here. I've a special box for the Colonel."

The sound of motors caught their attention. A transport truck and a land rover pulled up outside the hangar. Gibson grinned and laid his spanner down on the bench. "Right on time, ain't he?"

Three men got out, and Doyle straightened, thinking one of them could be Bodie.

"Do you have my order, Gibson?"

"Do you have my cash, Colonel?"

"But of course." The man offered an envelope to the pilot, and Gibson stuck it in his coveralls without counting it.

"It's on the left, Colonel, along with the other lot you wanted."

"Tommy Lee, bring the crate out. Texan, start loading the truck."

The other two men moved to follow the order, and Gibson beckoned Doyle closer.

"Got someone to meet you, Colonel. Wants to sign up with your outfit. This is Ray Doyle."

Grey eyes so pale they were almost colorless looked Doyle over coldly. Vandemeer was not a large man, he was no taller than Doyle and even thinner. But the line of his long face was ruthless, and there was a power there that would prevent anyone labeling him small. His hair was nearly white, although Doyle would put him at no more than forty-five.

"How did you know of me?" he demanded.

Doyle shrugged. "News gets around. I heard in London you were paying well."

The thin lips narrowed to a smile. "Only when the man comes highly recommended. No advances to volunteers. Unsolicited volunteers. You have references?"

Doyle's chin came up arrogantly. "I figure I can recommend myself."

"You have confidence. That is good perhaps. Perhaps not. But you have done this work before, correct?"

Doyle hesitated. "Close enough. I can handle it."

The man called Tommy Lee came around the plane carrying a wooden crate. He dropped it on the concrete floor with a thud. "You're not thinking of taking this little bit of a thing on, are you, Colonel? The boys'd chew him up and swaller him the first day."

"Careful with that, you fool!" Vandemeer snapped. Both his manner and his slightly South African accent contrasted strongly to Tommy Lee's American southern drawl. "Find a lever to open the crate."

Doyle's teeth had ground together at the American's derisive comment, but he studiedly ignored him. Vandemeer turned back to Doyle.

"So you come all this way, without references, without assurance you will find employment ... without experience even. You must be very confident, indeed to do this thing. But why do you want it?"

"It told you. Money."

"And I have told you I do not pay for nothing. You may be nothing; why should I risk this?"

"Tell the little bastard to head on back to his momma and his faggy country," Tommy Lee grunted as he pried up the boards on the crate. The tall man who had answered to Texan, had returned from loading the truck and moved over to give him a hand, chuckling.

"Gee, Tommy Lee, I never heard you say that to the Limey back at Camp. Not since Odell straightened your teeth for you anyhow."

A tingle shot up Doyle's spine at the sound of the name. So Bodie was still here and was with Vandemeer's group. It was now imperative that he be included. The muscled southerner seemed his best bet to prove that appearances were deceiving.

"Hey there, Yank," Doyle called out snottily, "you got somethin' against the British, have you? Not very bright, that. But then you Yanks are never much in the brain department, are you?"

Tommy Lee stood up. "You talkin' to me, shrimp?"

Out of the corner of his eye Doyle noticed Vandemeer stiffen. Being small himself, he obviously didn't like the term being applied to anyone else either.

Gibson tossed Doyle a sympathetic look, and went back to working on his plane. The Texan looked startled, then amused. Tommy Lee just look furious. And Vandemeer simply waited.

Doyle moved forward. "Are you deaf as well? Who else would I be bloody well talking to, eh? Unless there's another bleedin' baboon in the place."

The southerner laughed. "Okay, you asked for this you little son of a bitch!" He charged, but Doyle neatly sidestepped. The other man was quicker than Doyle expected, and swung around, clipping Doyle a glancing blow to the shoulder. Doyle kicked out like lightning, and Tommy Lee went down. A bit stunned, he came up again, and this time managed to get a grip around the smaller man's waist, lifting him up. It was a serious mistake. Doyle's elbow came back sharply into the solar plexus, following it up with a knee to the gut, and Tommy Lee went down gasping for breath.

Doyle stepped back to the sound of the Texan's guffaws.

"Got ya there, didn't he, Tommy Lee? Chew him up and swaller him, huh? Looks like your 'little bit' bit first, don't it."

Tommy Lee shook his head groggily, caught sight of Doyle again and started to rise, but Vandemeer stopped him.

"That's enough. Go check the plane again; be sure everything is off." Before the other man could argue, he repeated warningly, "Do it -- now!"

Still breathing heavily, he got to his feet and headed back around the plane, throwing a malevolent glance back at Doyle.

"So you can fight, Mr. Doyle. But can you shoot?"

At this Doyle smiled, knowing he was home free. "Well enough."

"Let us see." Vandemeer tugged off the last board, fished through the excelsior packed in the crate and came up with an automatic rifle, a Belgian-made FN 7.62. He loaded it and tossed it to Doyle.

"What do you want killed?" Doyle asked sarcastically.

"Texan, give our eager young lad here a target."

The lanky American crossed to the rubbish bin and came up with a Pepsi can. "This do?"

Gibson's head came out of the engine. "Don't go potting away in here, mate. Might ricochet and hit Mabel here. Not ready to put the ol' girl down just yet."

Doyle raised an eyebrow at Vandemeer. "Do I shoot in the dark then?"

"Sometimes one must. In any case, there is moonlight."

They went outside and the Texan tossed the can as high as he could. It gleamed momentarily against the moon and three shots rang out -- eerily echoed by more machine-gun fire a few miles away.

Doyle lowered the gun. "The sight's off. Only hit it twice."

Texan located the tin and retrieved it, handing it to Vandemeer with a grin. "This son can shoot."

Vandemeer noted the two holes in the can without comment. He pitched it to one side, and regarded Doyle piercingly. "Very well, Mr. Doyle. I will take you on for now. One thousand francs advance, no more."

"One thousand francs!" Doyle protested, thinking of the four thousand pounds Bodie -- or Odell rather -- had been given. His miserly soul was horrified. "I just proved I was worth ten times that!"

Vandemeer smiled. "To shoot a can is simple. To shoot a man takes something more than a good eye. I will wait and judge for myself what you are worth."

Doyle had no intention of killing anyone if he could help it. And he reminded himself that he certainly wasn't here for the money, only to find Bodie. It was the principle of the thing that irritated him. There was also the fact that seeming too eager might make Vandemeer suspicious of his motives -- which already seemed shaky enough.

"Do we have a deal?"

Doyle hesitated. "I'll get more later, when I've proved myself, right?"

"I believe a short probation is in order, under the circumstances. But, yes, if you are valuable you will be paid for your value."

"Okay, I'm in then."

The pale, cool eyes surveyed him for another moment, as if weighing his decision again. But he waved his hand toward the other man. "Texan, you take him with you in the truck. I have business to settle before I return to camp."

He nodded at Gibson who was standing at the door of the hangar, then went to the land rover and got in with Tommy Lee, taking the passenger side. They roared off and the night seemed even more silent and ominous, though the gunfire from the city had ceased.

"Com'on, boy, let's hit it," Texan said, going to the back of the truck to secure the tarpaulin.

Doyle went back to the place to pick up his rucksack. He stopped by the Australian. "Thanks, mate."

They shook hands. Gibson, for once, looked serious. "You sure you want to go with these blokes? You can come back with me, y'know. Looks like you've got on the sore side o' that Tommy fella already."

Doyle shrugged. "I can handle him."

"Right you are." But he still looked uneasy.

"What is it, Gib?"

"I'm not one to buy bad times, mate, but I don't think I'd tarry around this place too long. It might not be quite healthy."

"That's what I said when we were still up in the air," Doyle replied dryly.

Gibson shook his head. "Nah, this is nothing. I mean that something bigger's rumbling up north. I was up there last week, and I heard some things ... rumors y'know."

"Libya?" Doyle thought about it. Libya's president Gaddafi had been making noises about the situation in Chad for some time, but invasion? "Just rumors. They'd never risk getting France stirred up, would they?"

"Just the same, it could get pretty hot here."

"Ta for the warning, Gib. I'll keep it in mind."

"Cheerio."

Texan was already waiting in the truck with the motor running. He put it in gear as soon as Doyle got in.

"How far is the camp?"

"Eighty-ninety miles north. Near the lake."

Doyle settled back in the seat as the truck jostled over the uneven road. "How long have you been here?"

"Six or seven months, I reckon. Can't keep track no more. Been with the Colonel a coupla years, though, one place or 'nother."

"You're from Texas?" Doyle asked to keep the conversation going.

The other man spat tobacco out the window and grinned. "Quick, ain't ya? Figured that out all by yourself, huh?"

Doyle smiled back. "Yeah."

"Well now, I am from Texas sure enough, but if you're fixin' to ask me if I'm a cowboy or anythin', don't bother. Born and raised in Houston. Never been on a horse in my life."

Doyle laughed. "You've ruined me whole image of the West."

"That's awright. Tommy Lee, now, that one's a reg'lar redneck. Sharecropper folk from Alabama. That's why what you said about his smarts didn't set too well. He quit school real early and joined the army. Ended up in Viet Nam. Shook a few screws loose, I reckon. It don't pay to cross him."

He glanced over to Doyle's side of the dark truck. "You took him by surprise this time. Don't count on doin' that agin. He's a mean one."

"I'll stay out of his way, if he'll stay out of mine," Doyle replied grimly.

"Sometimes that ain't so easy with this bunch. We're kinda thrown in each other's company, you might say. 'Lesson you speak the lingo or are partial to niggers and Arabs, that is."

Doyle had no answer for that. They remained silent for a few miles before he asked, "How many men are working for Vandemeer?"

"Lessee ... we just lost Charlie --" He broke off and looked at Doyle. "That's probably why the Colonel decided to take you on, bein' another man short and all. Riley bugged out on us a coupla weeks ago, too. Anyways, 'sides Tommy Lee, there's the Canadian, MacKenzie. Everyone calls him Mac. He's been around three or four months now. Just a kid, no more'n twenty even if he does try 'n cover it up with all that bush on his face. And there's Steiger; he's the translator. Knows most of the jabber they speak around here, and what he don't know Oddy does. Oddy's a nigger from somewheres south of here. He's really part of Hebre's bunch, but he's lent him out to the Colonel so's we can train some of their soldiers."

"Oddy?"

"Well, he's got some African name, but nobody but Steiger can pronounce it. 'Bout everybody winds up with some moniker or another. Like I'm Texan. My real name's Calvin, but nobody's called me that since I left the States."

Doyle was still waiting to hear about the man he'd come to find. "Is that everyone at the camp?" he prodded.

"There's Wesley. Everybody calls him Preacher 'cause he's always prayin' an' talkin' to hisself." Texan's grip momentarily tightened on the steering wheel. "He's one I wouldn't want to meet in no alley. As soon blow your head off as look at ya. Squirrelly. Spooky as all get out. But he can handle a knife like no one I ever seen, and that's a fact. The Limey is pretty good, but he don't hold a candle to Preacher."

Doyle bit his lip. "The Limey?"

"Yep, English feller, like you. Been around about a month or so. Odell's his name." He grinned. "Now you're here, I guess we can't call him just plain Limey no more without it gettin' confusin'."

"What's Odell like?"

"Oh, he's okay. A pretty nice guy as a matter of fact. He got into a hassle with Tommy Lee when he first showed up, but he took care of that real fast. He don't take no shit off'n no one -- but he don't give none neither, so it works out real well. He's a good soldier. That just leaves Ramassy, Bacon and me. Those two and Preacher have been with the Colonel longer than anybody. Worked with him in Angola a few years back." He paused. "Sure do wish he'd dump that Preacher though. He gives me the willies."

Doyle wanted to ask more about Bodie, but didn't know how to approach it without seeming obvious. The Texan concentrated on a particularly bad stretch of road for a few minutes before turning back to Doyle.

"You've never done this kinda stuff before, have you?"

"No, " Doyle replied honestly. He hesitated. "What exactly are we being paid to do?"

"Figured you looked a mite green. But you took Tommy Lee down quick enough, and that ain't easy. You got balls, kid." He spat out the window again, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "What are we gettin' paid for? To show these niggers how to shoot Arabs mostly. And whatever else the Colonel wants us to do." He guffawed suddenly. "Or show the Arabs how to shoot niggers. 'Round here, damned if I can tell 'm apart." Even in the darkness of the truck, his teeth showed up tobacco stained and grey. "More than anythin' else, you jest try 'n stay alive, kid."

Doyle didn't relish being called 'kid', but he found he liked Texan in spite of that. He looked out the window at the arid landscape. The bright moonlight showed it up in sharp relief, the few trees casting shadows far too long across the brittle grass. He felt a pang of homesickness for London -- for crowds and noise and the greasy smell of fish and chips. He'd trade a lot for just one simple underground bomber case.

There was a bleak loneliness about the landscape that echoed painfully inside of him. He realized with something akin to amusement, that he missed Cowley. Missed his advice, his unshakable certainty, even his cutting ability to make one feel barely out of nappies in the face of his vast experience. Father figure, indeed. What would Bodie think of that? But maybe Bodie missed him, too.

Doyle started to ask Texan something, but changed his mind. He'd see Bodie soon enough. That thought made him shiver with a mixture of anticipation and dread. It had been over a month since he'd last seen his partner. The last strong memory of really talking to him was of that strange, drunken night when both too much and not enough had been said.

He stared out the truck window at the black and silver land and saw Bodie's comically stricken face as he'd ducked into the bedroom that night. Doyle knew he'd confused Bodie terribly -- confused himself as well. But not enough to drive him away, surely?

He pushed the thought aside easily, although it was not the first time it had occurred to him since this had begun. He knew Bodie too well for that. Whatever else Bodie was, a coward wasn't part of it. If he'd been worried what Doyle felt for him, or vice versa, he'd of told Doyle to go to hell and that would've been the end to it. No more, no less.

Whatever had made him tear off like this, it couldn't have had anything to do with that.

He hadn't yet considered what he would actually say to Bodie once he'd faced him. Didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to consider the consequences if Cowley and a dozen other people had figured right and Bodie wouldn't want to see him at all. Doyle had a healthy respect for his partner's anger, for his ruthlessness if crossed. But he also had an almost mystical faith in Bodie's basic humanity. If possible, Bodie would always talk first, shoot later. It wasn't part of the facade he liked to present, but Doyle had known him too long to feel differently.

The truck jolted to a stop before Doyle realized he'd been asleep for a long while.

"Here we are," Texan said. "Jump out and give me a hand with this crap."

Doyle got out of the truck and looked around. There was an assortment of goatskin tents fanned out on one side of a large, smoldering campfire. On the other side, in a slightly neater line, were several modern canvas tents. Two men emerged from one.

"Hey, Steiger, Ramassy. Come give us a hand with this junk!"

Ramassy was slightly older than Doyle, and easily six inches taller. His blond hair gleamed as he tossed some dried chips onto the fire to brighten the light. Steiger was heavy-set and older, probably in his forties.

Texan spoke as he pulled back the tarp from the truck. "This here is Doyle, a new man. The Colonel just took him on. That's Steiger there, and Ramassy."

Steiger nodded and went to help unload. Ramassy stopped beside Doyle and looked him over with a grin.

"Doyle, huh?"

"Yeah."

There was an uncomfortable silence wherein Doyle couldn't quite pin down the vibrations he received from the other man. They were not hostile, but neither were they particularly comfortable.

"Let's get this shit unloaded," Texan said irritably. "I want to get some shut eye."

"Where's the Colonel and Tommy Lee?" Ramassy asked, still looking at Doyle.

"Back in Ndjemena. Must be talkin' to Habre."

"Think something is up?" Steiger asked.

"Maybe. Where's the rest of the bunch?"

Doyle had given up trying to label the accents. Steiger sounded faintly British, perhaps Rhodesian. Ramassy had an unusually neutral voice, like a UN announcer, accent bordering between American and upper class Brit.

"Bacon's sleeping off another drunk, is what," Steiger said grumpily. "That makes twice this week. The Colonel will rip his fat hide for it, too."

Ramassy took a box from Doyle and stacked it with the rest. "Mac, Odell and Oddy went off on patrol. Oddy found a guy who says he knows where the supply routes are coming through. They're checking it out. Should be back before dawn."

"And Preacher?"

"Don't know. Haven't seen him since yesterday."

"Maybe we'll get lucky and he won't come back," Texan said.

"Oh he'll turn up when the Colonel does. Crawl out from under his rock like always. Nutty bastard."

"That's all of it," Steiger said, jumping down from the truck. "Good," Texan said, "I'm ready to hit the sack." He gestured to Doyle. "Com'on, kid, I'll find you a place to bed down."

Doyle picked up his rucksack, swallowing his disappointment that Bodie wasn't here. He almost ran into Ramassy who blocked his way. Doyle looked down at the hand on his arm, then back up at Ramassy, puzzled.

"There's room in my tent, Doyle," he said with a strange smile. Doyle caught Steiger's quick look and the Texan's frown. He automatically moved away from the touch.

"Stow it, Rammy," Texan growled. "It's too late at night for fun and games anyhow. This way, Doyle."

"What's wrong, Texan? You got dibs?"

"Don't push it." There was steel in his tone.

Ramassy looked back at Doyle. "I'll wager Doyle's good at games."

While Doyle might reluctantly admit he wasn't always the best judge of character or quick to pick up on emotional undercurrents, he was no fool either. And he definitely didn't like the feelings flowing between the three men. Nor was he ignorant of the fact that he was the focus.

He swung his pack up on his shoulder. "Looks like Steiger is already bunking with you," he said casually. "I'll go with Texan for now. I'm proper wiped, I am. Jet lag, probably."

"In Gibson's plane?" Steiger remarked, and it broke the sudden tension with a laugh.

"I'll see you lot in the morning then." Doyle followed Texan to one of the tents. Texan lit a battery-powered lantern and sat it on a folding table in the center.

"You can bunk over there. Used to be Charlie's place until he bought it."

"What happened to him?" Doyle asked curiously, tossing his things down on the cot.

"Got careless," Texan answered evasively.

Doyle sat down and began pulling off his boots. "What was going on out there, anyway? What's with that Ramassy chap?"

The Texan shook his head. "You are new at this, ain't you, boy?"

Doyle stopped, still holding one boot. "What d'you mean by that?"

"Boy --" he shut up abruptly, shaking his head again. "Jest take my advice and stay clear of Ramassy." He laughed. "And Tommy Lee, too, now that I think of it."

"Seems I've had quite a start," Doyle said ruefully.

Texan flopped down on his cot and stretched out, not bothering to undress. "Wouldn't worry about it, kid. I've got a feelin' you'll do jest fine."

---

When Doyle awoke the next morning, his first thought was of Bodie. He sat up in the cot so quickly he nearly turned it over. The tent was empty. He dressed quickly and went outside. The camp was stirring busily, natives bustling by carrying water, supplies, and what must have been camel chips to add to the pile by the fire. Off to the right, he could see a line of Chadians engaged in rifle practice with Ramassy and Steiger as instructors.

He found a pot of coffee over the fire and poured a mug. Texan came up behind him, making him jump.

"No tea, partner. Most of us are coffee drinkers."

"That's okay," Doyle answered. "I like it well enough. Did the other blokes get back?"

"Mac and Odell? Yeh, I think so. Down at the lake, I reckon. Yep, here they come now, matter of fact."

Doyle spun around, heart pounding double rate, coffee splashing over his wrist. He didn't even feel the burn.

Bodie came toward the camp, his arm slung loosely around another man's shoulders. Both were shirtless; Bodie had his tied around his waist. His companion had dark brown beard and hair that fell in wild curves to nearly his shoulders. They were laughing.

Doyle's mouth felt dry. He took a quick gulp of coffee and seared his tongue. He remembered how he'd planned to play this. Cool, careful, slow. Neither of them were in a position where they could afford to speak out. But everything seeped from his mind except the sheer delight of seeing him; it felt like coming home.

He waited for his partner to come closer, drinking the sight of him in hungrily. A month could be a very long time when you were accustomed to seeing the person every day of your life, sometimes eighteen hours a day.

His first impression was that Bodie hadn't changed. Then he noticed the longer hair, curling a bit on his neck. His shoulders were still peeling a little from the first sunburn, but the darker shade of his usually pale skin, made the blue eyes flash lighter in contrast.

Texan called out jovially, "Hey, Odell, got another Limey here. Just signed on. Shoots a hell of a lot better than you do. Saw him murder a pop can last night."

Bodie stopped in front of them, releasing the other with a light punch to his arm. One thing definitely hadn't altered: he still had that beautiful, too-pleased-with-himself smile.

"If you mean he's British, say so," he grinned. "Limey's in bad taste, an' if you're Liverpool Irish, it's almost an insult."

"Irish, English, what the hell do I know," Texan chuckled. "Y'all talk funny. This here is Doyle. I think we oughta call him Little Bit, though."

Doyle's gaze had been riveted on Bodie, but that made him glance at the Texan with irritation.

Bodie's eyes twinkled as he regarded Doyle. "Why's that, Texan?"

"You shoulda seen him last night. Tore into Tommy Lee like a mean coon on a hound dog. And after Tommy Lee figured he could take a big chunk outa him. He figured wrong. The little bit can bite back."

"Glad to hear it. Tommy Lee needs taken down a peg." He smiled at Doyle. "How's it goin', mate?"

Doyle looked him straight in the eye, and there was no change of expression, no flicker of recognition. Doyle had known Bodie in all conditions, under all types of cover, but there had always been something -- some spark, some acknowledgment of the game they were playing. There was nothing to read there now but good humor and natural friendliness.

In spite of himself, he couldn't help it. "Bodie?" it was a hoarse whisper.

"Eh?"

Doyle held Bodie's eyes for a full minute, searching them for something ... anything. "Don't you know me?" he said softly, unable to believe it.

"Should I?" Looking slightly more wary, Bodie stepped back a pace.

"You really don't know me?" Louder now, with a touch of astonishment and total disbelief.

Bodie's companion spoke now. "What's this about? You owe him money, Odell?" There was a fond, teasing note in his voice.

Bodie held up his hands. "Listen, mate, I don't think I'd skip out on a debt, but ... Poker game, was it?"

"No ..." Doyle swallowed. "It was London."

"I was in London a few weeks ago, but I honestly don't recall you, mate. Do I owe you money?"

An entire foundation of Doyle's life crumbled. He believed it now. Bodie really didn't know him. He was a good enough actor, but not this good. No one could be. Doyle flailed about for a moment, trying to recover his composure. "No ... I mean, maybe you do ..." Owe's me a quid from that cricket match at Webley, he thought crazily. "No ... maybe I got you confused with another bloke. You look something like."

Bodie/Odell patted his pockets absently. "Happen to have a fag on you, mate?"

"Here you go, Odell." Texan tossed him a packet of cigarettes which Bodie caught deftly. "Picked these up in town last night."

"Ta." He lit one while Doyle watched. He'd seldom, if ever, seen Bodie smoke.

Texan clapped Doyle on the shoulder heartily. "The other one there is Mackenzie, the Canadian feller I was tellin' ya about."

Mac smiled, friendly and open, still standing close to Bodie. "Hi, Doyle. Welcome to the wonderful world of Chad. Complete with hot and cold running natives. Not so bad, though, once you get used to it."

Doyle's gaze hadn't wavered from Bodie. "Yeah?"

Bodie's eyes were a little harder now, more uneasy under Doyle's continued stare. There was a split second where Doyle recognized confusion in the blue eyes and a clouded dash of pain, but it was gone again and Bodie moved away, mentally as well as physically.

"Come on, mate," he said to Mackenzie, "let's 'rustle up some grub', as ol' Texan here would say."

"Sure, buddy."

"Good havin' you around, mate," Bodie tossed off to Doyle as they walked away.

Doyle realized that he'd dropped his cup and that the Texan was staring at him curiously.

"You okay, kid?"

Doyle knew he was shaking inside, but hoped it didn't show. "Yeah, sure. Just clumsy." He picked up the cup and poured another, amazed that his hands were as steady as they were.

Bodie couldn't remember. Bodie had amnesia. It should be funny, but he didn't feel like laughing. It certainly explained a lot. And it wasn't like it hadn't crossed his mind during the last few weeks. There had been times when it seemed the only possible answer. But amnesia was the fodder of fiction, the delight of the telly. It didn't touch reality.

Except now, when it did.

"You do know him, don't you, son?"

He'd forgotten Texan was there, and he jumped again, startled. Christ, my nerves are shot. "Odell? Nah, he just looked like someone I knew in London. Gave me a bit of a start, is all."

Texan picked up one of the canvas chairs and swung it around. "Sit down, Little Bit. You look like your momma just died."

Doyle sat down, wondering how to cover his slip. The lanky Texan saw far too much. He'd never done such poor undercover work in his life -- certainly if he had, he'd of never been alive to worry about this one. But it'd been years since he'd looked in Bodie's eyes and saw a stranger. The sheer incredibility of it -- and the hurt -- was more than he could hide.

Texan got some coffee for himself and pulled up a chair beside him. "You wanta tell me what's goin' on? Or maybe I oughtn'ta ask?"

Doyle opened his mouth, then closed it again. Texan stopped him before he could try again.

"Listen, Little Bit, it ain't none of my business, but nobody looks at somebody the way you looked at the Limey without somethin' goin' on. Maybe it's better if I don't know what it is, but I do have some more free advice, if you're interested in hearin' it."

"Yeah," Doyle said weakly. "I could use some advice."

"Men come over here for a hell of a lot of different reasons. But somethin' most all of us have in common is that there's things we don't wanta talk about ... maybe not even remember. Nobody asks too many questions about the past around here. If home had been all that fine and dandy, we wouldn't be here, now would we? If you've got something to pick with Odell, leave it back where it happened. It don't hold no water here."

"It's nothing like that," Doyle assured him. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I thought I knew him, and I was wrong, that's all."

The Texan nodded. "Okay, son. No problem then." He grinned. "Seems like I've been jawin' at you since you got here, don't it? Well, don't pay me anymore mind than you want to. Walkin' into a setup like this cold --"

"Any coffee left?" Ramassy broke in. His hand came down lightly on Doyle's shoulder.

"Check for yourself," Texan drawled.

"Steiger, pour me a cup, will you?"

The hand moved slightly on Doyle's shoulder, slipping over to rub his neck. It was an unobtrusive gesture, overtly friendly, but Doyle didn't like it. Still, it was a situation that was difficult to get up and walk away from without causing offense.

"Texan tells us you're quite a marksman, Doyle. Maybe you could give me a hand later with this group we've been trying to train. I don't think they could shoot fish in a barrel. Sometimes I wonder if they know which end the bullets come out of."

"Better wait and see what the Colonel has lined up for him." Texan suggested blandly.

The fingers were now beginning to comb through the curls at the base of Doyle's neck. Ramassy leaned down close to Doyle's ear. "Oh, I don't think Doyle'd mind giving me a little friendly assistance. He's probably good at all kinds of things."

This time, Doyle pulled away and stood, tossing his coffee off to the side and setting the mug down on a flat rock by the fire. "Think I'll take a turn around the place, check it out a bit."

Ramassy smiled. "Good idea. I'll show you around."

It wasn't what Doyle had in mind, but he didn't know how to gracefully avoid it. He looked over at Texan, who seemed absorbed in studying the grounds in the bottom of his cup. "Want to join us, mate?"

"Texan's got to fix that fan belt on the jeep, don't you, Texan?" Ramassy cut in smoothly.

The other man didn't look up. "Yeh, reckon I'd better get on it before the Colonel gets back." His expression was unreadable, and he didn't look at Doyle.

Doyle shrugged. "Okay, then. I'll catch you later."

As they started off, Texan called after him, "Jest keep an eye out for snakes, Little Bit. They're every place you look around here."

Doyle caught the double meaning in the words, but didn't know quite how to take it. He followed Ramassy down a small embankment away from the camp.

"Where we going?"

"Thought you might as well have a look at the lake. It's not much, but it's a good place to cool off and wash up."

They walked on in silence for a while, Doyle's thoughts returning to Bodie, wondering how this crazy situation had ever come about. That was something he might never know, however. Right now he just had to decide the best way to deal with it as it stood.

They walked for nearly a kilometer before Ramassy spoke. "So the Texan's found a name for you already, huh?" He slowed to walk beside the smaller man.

"Yeah, it looks like."

"Little Bit. It suits you." His arm slipped across Doyle's shoulders. "I like it."

Doyle jerked away reflexively, his voice sharpened. "Don't like it too much, mate. It's not healthy."

The smile deserted the other man's face. "It didn't seem to bother you when Texan called you that."

They had both stopped and were facing each other. Doyle suddenly became conscious of the emptiness around them and the fact they were well out of sight of the camp.

"He doesn't mean any harm by it. I'm not so sure of what you mean."

Ramassy's smile returned, but there was an edge to it. "What do you think I mean, Little Bit?"

"Why don't you tell me," Doyle smiled back, eyes just as hard, "so I'll know whether to kick your bloody teeth in."

"Think you can?"

"I think I can try."

Ramassy chuckled. "Hey now, we don't need to go through all this shit, do we? We both know the score. Why make a big deal of it?"

Doyle didn't answer.

Ramassy stared at him. "Jesus, you really don't know, do you? I didn't think anybody could be that green." He stepped closer and Doyle refused to give ground. "Did you really expect to walk into a place like this with that fine, tight ass of yours and not have anyone notice? You didn't join the boy scouts." His hand moved to slide into Doyle's curls behind his ear. "Just relax and enjoy it, okay?"

"If you don't move your hand," Doyle said calmly, "I'll break your friggin' arm."

Ramassy took his hand away and stepped back. "You want it the hard way, huh? You want the game. Okay, I'll play."

Doyle spat out a curse and started to turn back to the camp. Ramassy caught his arm and spun him around.

"Maybe you don't understand the game, Doyle. Is that it? It's simple really. We have a little fight. If you win, you fuck me." He smiled ferrally, "If I win, I fuck you. Understand?"

"Haven't you people ever heard of checkers?" Doyle's heartbeat had speeded up considerably, but he wasn't about to let his panic show.

Ramassy laughed. "Come on, Little Bit. As you British say, let's have at it."

Doyle took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "All right then." He moved swiftly, landing a neat kick to the other man's jaw. Ramassy went down.

"Why, you little motherfucker." He felt his jaw gingerly. "Think you're pretty good, don't you?"

"Yeah." Doyle kept his distance, watching for another opening as Ramassy stood. He could tell by the way the man moved that he was a different case altogether from Tommy. He was a big man, tall and leanly muscled, but he had finesse. and he fought coldly, intelligently. No roaring charges or clumsiness here.

They circled each other warily, and Ramassy struck several very accurate blows. Doyle managed to get in a strong kick to the stomach, but it didn't take Ramassy down this time. Instead, he returned a kick of his own that dropped Doyle like a rock. Ramassy's weight was on him in an instant, pinning him down.

It was the worst thing that could happen to a fighter of Doyle's style. His slight frame needed room to work, distance that would let him use his quickness and agility to advantage. Muscle to muscle fighting took his chances down considerably. Ramassy outweighed him by three stone or more. He looked down into Doyle's face and laughed.

"Good try, Little Bit. You're no pansy, that's for sure. But, either way, you lose." His mouth came down hard, covering Doyle's.

Common sense told Doyle he was fighting out of his weight; that he hadn't a chance of winning now that he was pinned. He'd been in enough fights to have some experience with losing. But he'd never been fighting for his virtue before either. He'd find the situation hilariously funny if it wasn't so deadly serious.

Fury, desperation, and a large dose of adrenalin, gave him a new spur of energy. He clamped his teeth down on Ramassy's lip, and the split second of diversion gave him the time to get one hand free and slam it against the man's ear with enough force to nearly pop his eardrum. He followed it with a fist against the side of the ribcage. At this range, he couldn't get enough force behind it to do any real damage, but it was enough to cause Ramassy to gasp and release his hold. Doyle scrambled free and sprang to his feet.

As Ramassy tried to rise, Doyle administered a knee to the chin that sent him sprawling back to the sand, following it up with another kick to the head that put his adversary out cold.

Doyle stood bent over him with hands resting on knees, breathing heavy, but feeling immensely satisfied.

---

Odell pushed the hash around on his plate pensively.

MacKenzie watched him for a moment. "I thought you were hungry?"

Odell looked up, then grinned. "Reckon this glop put me off, didn't it? Give a lot for a nice plate of sausage and tomatoes."

The younger man wasn't fooled. "Did you know him?"

"Who? Oh, you mean the new bloke. Nah, don't think so. Probably reminded me of somebody I've seen on the telly. That mop of curls, I suppose." Odell took a bite of the food, chewing slowly. His fingertips could almost feel the softness of those curls, springy and even silkier than they looked.

Ridiculous.

Yet he felt uneasy, unsettled by it. The strange blankness of his past returned to haunt him again. He'd pushed it aside for weeks now, suppressing the anxiety it caused him. There hadn't seemed much point in fretting over it, after all. What could he do about it? There was a vague emptiness inside him that told him something important was missing. Someone important? But if that was true, why had he signed on to come here? It seemed logical to assume that he had wanted to get away; that maybe he didn't want to remember. In any case, it had been easier to go along with the flow and ignore the problem. He certainly didn't trust anyone enough to admit any kind of vulnerability -- let alone the fact that his life before a month ago was a virtual blank with only occasional unrelated flashes filling in the gap. Luckily his lack of memory didn't extend to guns or how to hold a knife, or any of the other necessary talents by which he presently made his living. On the whole, he'd managed quite well, and had even reached the point where he seldom thought of it at all.

But now this Doyle fellow had made him aware again of just how much he didn't know about his past.

But, on the other hand, neither had Doyle pressed the matter, so it couldn't have been anything too important, could it?

"Got another headache?"

Odell realized he'd been rubbing his temple. He'd become so accustomed to the occasional throb of pressure in his head, he hardly noticed it anymore unless it was particularly bad. "Yeah, a bit. I told you about those little buggers that ran me down in London." Oddly enough, the cold fog, the teenagers and the car blue ... license 346KG seemed clearer to him now than anything else. "Still bothers me, I reckon."

"Maybe you got a concussion or something. It wouldn't hurt to have it looked at."

Odell shook his head. "Nah, it'll pass. Hasn't bothered me so much lately." His eyes twinkled. "Don't worry, mother."

Before MacKenzie could reply, Texan came in the mess tent. He picked up a plate of food and joined them at the table, beginning to wolf down the eggs and hash.

"Where's the new guy?" MacKenzie asked.

"Went off with Rammy. Up to the lake."

Odell's eyebrow lifted. "Ramassy didn't waste much time, did he? Does this Doyle fella know the score?"

"Nope," Texan replied between bites. "Green as a gourd."

Odell felt an inexplicable wave of misgiving. "You didn't warn him about Ramassy?"

The Texan shrugged and continued eating. "Don't let his size fool ya. That little pecker can take care of hisself. He'll have to, sooner or later. Might as well find out now."

Steiger ducked his head in the tent. "The Colonel's back."

Texan shoveled in the last of his eggs and stood. "Better see what's up. Got a feelin' there's something on."

They all left the tent and headed for Vandemeer's.

Steiger spoke to Texan, "Preacher's back, just like clockwork. The Colonel gets in, five minutes later, there's Preacher."

"Spook's got bloody radar," Odell muttered.

"He was cleaning his knife again," Steiger said. "Wonder what he carved up this time?"

"Or who." Texan kicked a rock to one side with particular force. "Shit."

"We don't know for sure it was him who offed Charlie," MacKenzie pointed out. "Vandemeer says it was one of the natives."

"Yeh, well he would say that, wouldn't he? It's his dog, after all. 'S long as Preacher comes to heel, what's he care?"

"There comes the new guy," Steiger commented. "I thought he was with Ramassy."

"He was."

Doyle approached them, looking tired but none the worse for wear.

"Where's Ramassy?" Steiger asked.

"He'll be along," Doyle replied vaguely. "Might be a while, though." His gaze was on Odell again. "Anyplace I can get some food around here?"

MacKenzie jerked his thumb back in the direction of the mess tent.

Doyle nodded his thanks and headed for it without further comment.

There was a moment of silence among the group.

"You don't suppose he took Ramassy down, do you?" Steiger asked in disbelief.

"They said he whipped Tommy Lee," MacKenzie watched Doyle's departure with equal amazement.

"Tommy Lee ain't Ramassy either, is he?" Odell commented. "Still, he don't look like a man who's just had a rough tumble. Not comin' out on the bad side of it, anyway. Still cocky enough."

Texan just grinned.

Tommy Lee appeared at the opening of Vandemeer's tent. "The Colonel wants to see everybody. Find the rest and get 'em over here. New orders."

"Everybody?" MacKenzie asked. "I'll go see if I can drag Bacon out. Somebody ought to go find out what happened to Ramassy."

Steiger headed off toward the lake after Ramassy. Texan glanced at Odell. "Better go fetch Little Bit and tell him what's up. I've gotta finish up on that jeep."

Odell found Doyle polishing off the last of the hash.

"Rotten stuff, eh?"

Doyle put down his fork. "Not so bad. I've had worse."

Odell felt a sharp pang in his head. "...special. Cheese 'n onion." "On white?" "Sort of grey." "I'll pass." ... Odell sat down suddenly. Doyle looked at him curiously but didn't say anything.

Nothing else came to Odell, and he couldn't link the quick flash with anything else, so he refused to let it bother him. It was just another shimmer in the jumbled collage of memories. He brushed it off.

"Vandemeer's back. Wants to see everyone."

"Right now?"

"Steiger went to find Ramassy." He waited for Doyle to say something about that, but the other man just smiled slightly.

"I've time to finish up me coffee, then."

The green eyes were fastened on him again, with that peculiar, puzzled expression, as if he were somehow disappointed in Odell's reactions. Annoyed by the uneasy feeling it gave him, Odell said crossly, "Why d'you keep lookin' at me like that, then? I don't know you from Adam."

The green eyes dropped back to the cup he was holding. "Yeah, you've made that pretty clear." There was a note of chagrin in the voice that exasperated Odell even more.

"You'd best watch it, mate, or I'll reckon you fancy me."

Doyle flushed.

"Let's go," Odell said shortly.

When they reached Vandemeer's tent, everyone was already there, including Ramassy -- complete with a nasty cut on his bottom lip. He glowered at Doyle who ignored him. Vandemeer was talking to an extremely heavy-set man.

" -- once more, and I will shoot you myself. Your vices are your own business until they interfere with mine. Is that clear, Baconni?"

The other man nodded sheepishly and slunk off to the corner.

"That's Bacon," Odell whispered to Doyle. "A real lush. He's been going on benders lately. Dropped off on guard duty last night."

"I take it the skinny one's Preacher then?"

"Yeah. A right nutter, that one is."

Vandemeer spoke, holding everyone's attention. "We are breaking camp immediately. We will be moving north by nightfall. President Ouddeui has been obtaining supplies and weapons directly from Libya. Even more than usual. Much of it is Soviet issue, incidentally. In any case, Gaddafi is taking too much interest in the situation here, and Habre wants that supply route cut off, or at least temporarily slowed." He turned to a native who, unlike the other natives in camp, was dressed in camouflage similar to most of the other mercenaries. "Oddesikna, have the trainees and bearers return to their outfits. We're traveling light, using only the land rovers. Load only essentials. Extra water and petrol. Enough ammo to handle anything we might run into."

Oddy nodded and left the tent.

"It's a big desert, Colonel," Ramassy commented. "How are we going to outguess their direction?"

Vandemeer unfolded a map. "There are certain places they must stop. The oases are marked here. We must keep checking until we find which ones they use -- then we can wait for them. We will set up base here." He pointed out a section on the map. "From there we will check the surrounding area within a night's distance. The NATALOF worked out of the Kufrsa oasis; perhaps they still use that route."

"NATALOF?" Doyle asked softly.

"National Liberation of T'Chad. An old revolutionary force that worked out of Libya a few years back," Odell explained.

"And if they don't?" Steiger asked.

"Then we move our base east, toward the Tebetsi mountains." He folded up the map. "They will be traveling at night, as we will. It is the cooler season, but trucks still overheat at 100 degrees."

"They'll be traveling in a convoy," Steiger pointed out. "We'll probably be outnumbered."

"Yes," Vandemeer agreed unblinkingly.

Steiger looked away uncomfortably. "I just meant ... perhaps we need more men. We could use the Chad troups we have --"

"We want to move quickly. Hit and run. You do not do that with an army." He looked around the tent, surveying each man, summing them up. "Get your gear together. We leave at dusk."

---

As they drove northwest, the dried grass and scrubby bushes gradually gave way to barren stretches. Within a few hours they were traveling through the desert, all sand and rocks. Doyle rode with Texan in the second land rover. Vandemeer, Preacher and Oddy were in the first, Ramassy and Steiger in the third, followed by Odell and MacKenzie. Bringing up the rear was Bacon and Tommy Lee. They kept moving all night, stopping only to refuel and switch over driving.

The sun was up a couple of hours before they located a small oasis to camp for the day. It was very small and dusty, hardly more than a cluster of date palms and a jumble of rocks, but it afforded some shade, and Vandemeer considered it defensible if someone had noticed their passage and planned an ambush.

They parked the vehicles circled around the oasis and covered them with the white canvas to reflect some of the heat.

Made drowsy by the monotony of the desert, Doyle tossed his bedroll down by a convenient palm and tried to sleep. His mind kept working feverishly, however, trying to find a safe way to bring Bodie back. The last thing he had wanted to do was to get farther away from civilization, but unless he wanted to abandon Bodie, he'd had little choice but to come along. There was no way he could tell his partner the truth until they were alone, and except for that brief conversation in the mess tent, they had never been alone. MacKenzie was practically Bodie's shadow, and Doyle thought ruefully Bodie didn't seem to mind at all. There was also the question of whether Bodie would even listen to him once he did get him alone.

While breaking camp the night before, the blue eyes had caught Doyle watching him a few times -- and they didn't look pleased. In fact, he seemed to be actively avoiding Doyle for the most part.

What bothered Doyle the most was that Bodie didn't act like a man suffering from amnesia -- not that Doyle was quite certain how one was supposed to behave. But he was positive that put in the same situation, he would have gone crazy trying to find answers, would have worried the problem like a terrier with a rat until he discovered who he was and how it had happened. Obviously Bodie thought he was Odell, but that was little more than a name and an occupation. How could he bear not knowing the rest? But, then again, it was certainly in Bodie's character to avoid or ignore anything he couldn't explain or understand.

It had occurred to Doyle more than once, that if Bodie didn't believe what he told him, there was no way to prove it -- not here and now. And, after the trouble he'd already had with Tommy Lee and Ramassy, he didn't like to think of the consequences of them knowing he was not what he professed to be. He had his suspicions that some or all of them were wanted by various and sundry government agencies. If they discovered he was CI5 -- well, he would simply have to be careful that they didn't find out. Which meant being extremely careful with Bodie as well ...

The dream had a smoky quality, blurred around the edges. The voices echoed strangely, as if speaking through a tunnel. He was in a pub, crowded with faceless people with empty eyes. Only Bodie's eyes were real, sitting on the stool beside him with that complacent, irritating smile.

"... careful, mate. Got t' be careful. Don't hurry, don't let yourself be pushed, y'know. If I've told you once, Raymond, I've told you a thousand times -- nothin's important, you can't let it eat at you. What'll it all mean in a hundred years, eh? Who'll care then? Just take it easy and don't worry about it."

"It's not so simple, Bodie. Why do you make it sound so simple? Something has to be important to you. You can't go through life not caring about anything, can you?"

"I care about myself, mate. That's about all I can handle. You take on more, you buy trouble. You think the world's goin' to care if you carry it on your skinny little shoulders, Doyle? Do you honestly believe anybody gives a bloody damn?"

"Yes. I think you care."

Bodie shook his head sadly. "You're a chump, mate. A real chump. I'm disappointed in you, son."

"Disappointed? Why?"

"All these years with me, I figured you'd learned something."

"I have. I've learned not to believe you when you say you don't care."

Bodie's smile became wicked, darkness flashed behind the eyes. "Are you so sure of that, Doyle? Or is it just what you want to believe?"

The smoke was thicker now, it tasted like nerve gas, it was choking him, cutting off his air. But he couldn't leave ... not without Bodie.

"Bodie!"

But Bodie was gone, swallowed up by the smothering mist.

"Bodie! Don't leave me ... Bodie!"

---

Odell lay on his bedroll looking up at the sparkle of sunlight through the palm leaves. MacKenzie lay sleeping a few feet away, his face looking absurdly young beneath the beard. He could hear Ramassy and Tommy Lee bickering listlessly over their card game. Bacon had set up a sterno stove and was dumping a can of beef stew into a pot. Texan was on guard, moving in that lanky, boneless amble around the inside perimeter of the oasis, watching the desert for trouble.

He couldn't sleep, although his eyes burned and he'd been up most of the last two nights, on patrol and then driving last night. His eyes moved back to Doyle, who twitched and muttered restlessly in his sleep several yards away.

Odell knew him now. At least he was positive he had known Doyle before. But the one film clip his mind had given him had been so bizarre, he had no idea what to make of it. He saw himself giving Doyle flowers. "I've never had to use flowers ..." That was all. Nothing else. But the image was very strong, and the feeling with it was strangely good. Happy.

He rolled over in disgust. Flowers yet!

His head was throbbing again, worse than usual, and he covered his eyes with his arm to keep out the light. Mac was right; he should have had it seen to while he had the chance. It wasn't getting better at all. He had no doubts that what happened to him in London was the root of his problem; the loss of memory, the pain. But he'd been sure it would all fade in time, that the missing pieces would fall in place. And they were, in a way. He did get these flashes, puzzle bits of past. It was the fitting them together that caused the problem.

And now there was Doyle.

Involuntarily, he turned over again to look at him. That round face, that flattened cheekbone, the reddish brown curls ... all were familiar to him now. Too familiar. They drew him and drove him away at the same time, and he had no idea of why.

He knew Doyle and Doyle obviously knew him. So why the silence? Why was Doyle pretending he made a mistake at first? What was he hiding?

As if feeling the eyes on him, Doyle mumbled something and began to twist and turn on the bedroll. "Bodie!"

Odell was up and at his side in a second, shaking him hard. "Wake up, Doyle. Com'on, you'll have the bloody Arabs down on us, makin' all that racket."

Doyle's eyes snapped open, his hands gripping Odell's wrists. "Christ! I must've been dreaming.

Odell released his hold and sat back. "Yeah, I reckon you were, mate. Not a good one either, was it?"

Doyle rubbed his eyes groggily. "Always feel like hell when I sleep during the day."

"So who's Bodie then?"

The green eyes flickered up, suddenly wary. "What?"

"You were yelling Bodie. I wondered who it was, that's all."

"Oh ... a mate of mine," he paused. "We used to be partners."

"What happened? He buy it? Is he dead?"

"No," Doyle answered slowly. "I don't think so. I hope not."

Odell didn't like the expression in the other man's eyes, cautious but hopeful. Hopeful of what? He had the impulse to ask Doyle to tell him what was going on, but he found he couldn't. Not yet. What would he say, after all? How'd you like the flowers?

Doyle glanced around the camp. "Isn't somebody missing?"

"Yeah. Vandemeer and Oddy took one of the land rovers to look for Preacher."

"What happened to him?"

"Went on walkabout again while everyone was sacked out, didn't he? Does it all the time. I don't think the bastard ever sleeps."

"He went out in the desert? On foot?"

"What d'ya expect? He's a nut-case. The sun couldn't cook his brain more than it is already. Anyway, Oddy said there was another oasis bigger than this one about fifteen kilometers to the east. Preacher might have headed there."

"But why? What's wrong with him anyway?"

Odell smiled. "Don't try giving sane motives to a nutter, Doyle. You'll just drive yourself crazy."

"Is there any grub?" Doyle asked. "I'm starving."

"Yeah, Bacon has some stew on the fire." Odell hesitated. Part of him wanted to ask, part of him didn't, but he began, "Listen, I think I --"

"Hey, Little Bit!" Tommy Lee called over, cutting him off. "Ramassy here tells me y'all like to play games. Says you quit just when it gets interestin', though. What's wrong, Little Bit? Can't folla through?"

Odell looked at Doyle in mild surprise. "What happened with you and Ramassy? You didn't --"

"You hard of hearin', Little Bit," Tommy Lee taunted. "Can't you hear me talkin' to ya?"

Doyle and Odell stood. "Christ, not again," Doyle muttered, face set grimly with a mixture of impatience and irritation. "I hear you," he said flatly. "What d'you want?"

Ramassy said something to Tommy Lee and laughed. Tommy Lee stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned forward belligerently. "Your ass maybe, pansy boy."

Doyle flushed a little and stepped forward furiously. Odell's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Don't let him rush you into anything, Doyle. Lay back. Just let 'im talk. It's harmless."

"You didn't take a shine to Ramassy here, maybe you want different meat, it that it, boy?" Tommy Lee continued. "You just teasin' for it?"

Doyle's temper snapped. He shook off the restraining hand and moved forward, but Odell caught him again.

"Doyle! Don't do it. It's not worth the trouble. You hurt his pride back at the airstrip, and Ramassy's egged him on. Let it go."

"Would you take that?" Doyle snapped.

Odell didn't answer, but neither did he let go of Doyle's shoulders. "Listen, sunshine, if it comes down to a real brawl and you lose, you know what'll happen, don't you?"

"Maybe he'd rather hump the Limey," Ramassy suggested loudly with a leer. "Mac wouldn't mind, would you, Mac?"

MacKenzie had awakened at the first shout from Tommy Lee. Now he stared down at the ground, remaining neutral. Texan was standing off to one side, holding the rifle, but staying out of it.

Doyle turned around to look at Odell, eyes wider. "Christ, is everyone a pervert around here?"

Odell smiled wryly, suddenly irritated by the fury in Doyle's eyes being directed at him as well. "Depends what you mean by pervert, mate. It's a long way from a decent pub and a willin' barmaid. If you mean will Texan or Bacon or Oddy jump your bones, I very much doubt it. As for the rest of us ..." the grin widened and he shrugged. "That's what you get for being such a cute little gollywog."

Doyle stared at him for a moment, for the first time since they'd met he truly looked as if he'd never seen him before. "You son of a bitch," he whispered hoarsely. "You're no better that they are!"

..."What makes you any different than him?" "Because I do it, but I don't like it ..." Odell's grip tightened reflexively on Doyle, shaken by the sudden memory.

"Come on, Doyle." Tommy Lee goaded. "What are you waitin' on?"

Doyle pulled against Odell's hold. "Let me go!"

"No. The state you're in, he'll eat you alive. Wait until you cool off."

"I can handle him!"

..."Since when did you ever handle anything on your own?" "When did you? ... Odell let go of him suddenly, as if burnt by the touch. He stared at Doyle, heart pounding faster. "Go on then, you sod. Handle it."

Doyle was too furious to notice the confused expression on Odell's face, or to wonder why he was released so abruptly. He advanced toward Tommy Lee, anger clearing enough to make him cautious. The rest of the men stood back in a rough semi-circle, watching.

Tommy Lee pulled out a knife and flicked it open. Doyle paused, eyeing it.

"No blades!" Steiger yelled.

"Shudup," Tommy Lee growled, moving toward Doyle.

Odell watched with the rest, but unlike them, he somehow sensed each move Doyle would take before he took it, as if he'd choreographed the steps himself. Knew the feints, the kicks, the blocks, the agile fluid movements, as if he'd watched him fight dozens of times before; knew his style as well as Doyle himself knew it.

Doyle jarred the knife out of the man's hand on the second kick. Doyle's rage was gone now, his actions cool and calculated, intent on proving something. Tommy was careful at first, too, but became increasingly frustrated at being unable to get a hold on the smaller man. A third of the way through the fight, everyone but Tommy Lee knew who the winner would be. Tommy Lee was stubborn, and had his own degree of cunning, but Doyle's style of fighting was too good, too sophisticated for him to match. In brute strength, Tommy Lee was far superior; in intelligence he came up lacking.

It took a while, but Tommy Lee finally went down and stayed down, laying on his face, panting heavily.

Odell was staring at the scene blindly, seeing ... hearing something else entirely. Another quick, disassociated flash of memory, real but too removed to connect it with anything else. He could feel Doyle's body straining against his as he tried to hold him down, just as he had a short time ago. " ... little David like you smashing a Goliath like that ... blow your cover, won't you? ...

The rest of them stood around expectantly, waiting for Doyle's next action. He looked around the circle, puzzled, wiping the streak of blood from his nose. "What is it, then? Anyone else want a try?"

When no one answered, he returned to his bedroll and picked up his canteen, drinking heavily, then washing the blood from his face.

Texan continued on his patrol, with another lazy grin. The remainder of them busied themselves with other things. Except for Odell, who was still staring at Tommy Lee as if in a trance. MacKenzie touched his elbow.

"Hey, what is it, man?"

Odell blinked. "Ah ... nothing." He shook his head. "Nothing."

"Why do you think he didn't finish it up?"

"How d'I know?" Odell snarled. "I don't know anything about the little bastard!"

MacKenzie's eyes widened. "Jesus, what's got into you?"

Odell rubbed his forehead tiredly. "I dunno. Sorry, Mac."

"S'okay," MacKenzie replied, but he looked at him strangely.

Odell returned to his bedroll and dropped down on it, pressing his fist against his head as if the pressure outside would relieve the pressure inside. The words ran over and over in his mind like a broken record. Blow your cover ... blow your cover ... blow ... cover ... What was it from? What did it mean?

He took it from a different angle. Who went under cover? The answer came immediately. Police. And directly after came another flash, shorter but clearer than the last one. Doyle. In a uniform. Doyle. A cop.

His teeth clenched together, and he jumped up and went searching for Doyle. He found him by one of the land rovers, talking to Texan.

"Doyle!"

The tone of his voice made the other man spin around, hand moving as if to reach for a gun. But the hand dropped quickly. "What?"

"I want to talk to you."

"So talk."

Texan looked from one to the other; saw the anger in Odell's eyes, the wariness in Doyle's.

"Now wait a minute here, fellers. We just got done with one row; don't start up another."

Odell ignored him. "You're a copper, ain't you?"

Doyle stiffened. He started to reply and couldn't. He swallowed. "You remember?" he said softly.

"What are you doing here? Who are you, anyway?"

The hopeful expression in Doyle's eyes fell. "I was a cop. Years ago. I'm not now." His mouth twisted bitterly. "What d'ya think? I came all the way out here to nick you for traffic tickets?"

Odell hesitated, suddenly unsure of himself. He had expected Doyle to deny it, lie, anything but admit it so matter of factly. He felt indecisive, and hated the feeling. "What are you doing out here?"

"The same thing you are," Doyle replied firmly, but Odell could read something else in the green eyes, something that came very close to scaring him. Because you are here, the eyes said. For the first time in Odell's relatively short memory, he was nervous. Apprehensive of that look in those eyes and what it might mean -- just another piece of that vast blankness behind him. Only this time his past was standing right here in front of him, and he realized that he really wasn't sure if he wanted to know it.

He stepped forward, poking his finger into Doyle's chest. "Well you just stay clear of me, understand? I don't like coppers -- even ex-coppers. What d'you think this lot'd do if I told 'em you was the law?"

Doyle didn't back off, his gaze didn't waver. "Why don't you tell 'em then, and find out?"

Odell paused again, uncertainly. His eyes met Texan's, who only raised an eyebrow. "They'd tear you to pieces," Odell said sharply. "Don't be a fool!"

"Doesn't seem to bother Texan," Doyle replied calmly.

"Texan's not wanted for murder in two countries like Tommy Lee is; or for rape like Steiger. God knows what some of the rest of them have against them. Whether you're a cop now or not, they'd kill you for the joy of it."

"What about you?"

The question startled Odell. He didn't answer.

Doyle persisted. "Why doesn't it bother you then?"

"It does," Odell snapped. "I told you, I hate coppers!"

"Then why're you willing to keep it from the rest?"

Somehow the entire conversation was going in the wrong direction. Odell felt on the defensive. He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Just stay out of my way, that's all!"

He walked away, feeling foolish and a little lost. Why didn't he tell the others? Why was he so sure Doyle was telling the truth about no longer being a cop? He realized he probably had as much reason to want to snuff a copper as any of the rest. God knew what crimes were hanging over his head -- certainly, he didn't know.

He felt furious with Doyle for disrupting the peaceful cocoon of ignorance he'd wrapped around himself. Furious but strangely protective at the same time. He might feel the urge to wop the little bastard's head against a palm tree, but he didn't want to see him hurt.

He vaguely remembered on some deeper level having seen Doyle hurt before -- and not being able to bear it.

---

Just before sunset, Vandemeer and Oddy returned sans Preacher. No one was particularly surprised or saddened by this, but their