"In three minutes we shall destroy the Houses of Parliament and there's nothing you can do to stop it!"

Doyle struggled against the ropes that bound his wrists. "What good will that do your cause? You'll murder hundreds of innocent people--"

"Innocent! You fool. No one is innocent. It is people like you who brought our world to the brink of destruction. The act of heroism we undertake will prove the justness of our position!"

"You're mad," Doyle spat, disgusted by her and her cause. Had he once thought her beautiful? Now her face was twisted and vicious and her eyes glittered with the insane light of a fanatic. "You'll never get away with it."

She kicked him in the stomach. "Shut up, pig!"

Curling in a ball on the concrete floor, Doyle tried to catch his breath while he racked his brain to find a way to escape. From the corner of his eye he caught a movement in the blackness beyond the dirt-streaked windows.

Bodie. It had to be Bodie.

Despite the pain from their torture and the incredible danger still to be faced, some part of Doyle relaxed. He could always count on his partner to come, swift and deadly, to the rescue. For his part, he would have to find a way to distract his captors while Bodie made his silent entrance into the ruined warehouse.

"Oy, bitch!" Doyle called out cheerfully, "You on the rag or wot?" He gained her undivided attention easily enough, painfully so. Then the windows crashed in and bullets--

"Mr. Dibble? Mr. Dibble!"

He blinked and looked up vaguely, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "Yes, Miss Fliskett?"

"Miss Holly is on the phone, sir. Shall I take another message?"

He signed. "No, I'd best talk to her. Thank you, Miss Fliskett." Marking his book carefully with a scrap of paper, he steeled himself and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Ann."

"Raymond, I've been trying to ring you for simply hours!"

"I'm sorry, m'dear. I've been ... busy."

"Well, if shelving books is more important to you than speaking with your fiancée--"

"Actually, we have assistants for that," he replied mildly. "A head librarian is more concerned with--"

"Fiddle!"

It was strong language for Ann; she was more annoyed with him than he had thought. He wondered what he had done now. "I was going to return your call as soon as I ... uh ... finished my ... uh ... research."

"Ummm."

He hated it when she "ummmed". It reminded him of the sound his stepmother made when he was a teenager while changing his bedsheets; knowing precisely what he had been up to but far too well-bred to acknowledge it, let alone disapprove. A sort of neutral distaste for however be might occupy himself outside her austere presence. He eyed the rather lurid cover of the paperback, feeling a twinge of guilt. Ann's disapproval of his choice of reading material was hardly less extreme than his stepmother's silent condemnation of his adolescent self abuse. A form of mental masturbation, as it were.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Was there something important you wanted to speak to me about?"

"Of course! I had to remind you of Daddy's dinner party tonight. I know how impossibly absent-minded you are, and it would be just like you to--"

"Dinner party?"

"See, you did forget!" Slightly mollified by being proved right, she continued in a less astringent tone. "You know how important this is. We've talked about it a dozen times. Major Digby will be there, and you know there's an opening in his office."

"Ann, I've told you that I'm not interested in--"

"Nonsense. It's a marvelous opportunity. I refuse to stand by quietly and let you waste your potential."

"No. I'm not interested." There was a finality to his tone that silenced her for a moment.

Her voice became sweetly reasonable. "Raymond, darling, please don't be obstinate. The least you can do is be civil for my sake. He's a very influential client of Daddy's. And it won't hurt for you to keep an open mind. I'm only thinking of our future. You don't want to remain a librarian for the rest of your life, do you?"

Actually, he rather enjoyed being a librarian. Most of the time. It was peaceful and quiet and he could daydream for hours, filling out the missing gaps in his favorite mystery and spy novels. And if it was occasionally dull, well, it still couldn't be worse than working as a stock analyst for some pseudo-major who had been exempted from national service for flat feet. But perhaps Ann had a valid point and he was being selfish. He couldn't, after all, really expect her to be happy on a librarian's salary forever.

"All right," he sighed, resigned. "But I'm not promising anything--"

"That's fabulous, darling! Just you wait, everything will turn out much better than you expect."

Ann chattered on, describing at length the wonderful things Major Digby could do for his career and financial prospects if Raymond would merely give him a chance.

He tuned her out and surreptitiously opened his book, scanning the next few paragraphs, eager to see how Bodie was going to foil the terrorist plot and rescue his partner.

"Raymond!"

"Yes? What? I'm sorry, dear, we must have a poor connection."

"I said, I want you to pick me up at eight sharp and wear your dark grey suit with the striped tie. You know, the one I picked out for your birthday."

"Yes, dear."

"And don't forget to stop by the jewelers for my chain."

"What chain?"

She sighed loudly. Actually more of a gusting monsoon of condemnation than a sigh. He hated that more than the ummms. It didn't remind him of his stepmother; it was simply Ann at her most intolerant of his myriad imperfections. They had been engaged for almost five years and those sighs has escalated from one or two a month to an almost daily occurrence. In his darker moments he sometimes wondered why she bothered with him at all.

He took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the ominous stirrings of a migraine. "Oh yes, of course. The chain to your locket."

"At least you've remembered that much. After all, you're the one who broke it when--" She stopped and sniffed. "Well, we won't discuss that."

Jesus Christ, he hated her sniffs worse than anything, even compared to her ummms and sighs. It was her delicate way of reminding him that she was far above his level and was selling herself cheaply when there were beaus of her own class readily available. Ones who wouldn't break expensive gold chains in the heat of passion ... ones that probably wouldn't inflict the heat of their passion upon her in the first place. Although, truthfully, his performance in bed was one of the very few things she had never complained about. Not that she would stoop to speak of something so animalistic as sex.

He quickly cut off the subversive thought.

"I'll pick it up from the jeweler today, I promise."

"Well, I hope so. It's been ready for two weeks. I'd like to wear it with my blue dress tonight. And for heaven's sake, don't lose it."

"I won't, dear. I'll put it in my pocket--"

"Like your keys? And your chequebook? And your wallet? How many times have you lost those in the last six months? I swear, Raymond, you are becoming more scatterbrained every day."

"Yes, dear. I'll be very careful."

"And Raymond, don't you dare bring one of those dreadful novels with you! I was utterly mortified when you were reading some ghastly paperback under the tablecloth at Mummy and Daddy's last Friday."

"Only between courses," he protested lamely.

"That's no excuse. It was awfully rude. It made Mummy positively faint and Daddy gave me such a talk about it. You know they haven't totally accepted our engagement, and you shan't change their opinion if you continue to--"

"Yes, dear, you're perfectly right," he admitted hastily. "I simply wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."

"So you should be! Daddy was totally insulted! Not to mention the fact you came down to dinner in running shoes! Mummy was quite shocked."

"But I explained about that," he said weakly. "I went for a run after work and I must have put them back on without thinking--"

"With your dress clothes? Honestly, Raymond. It's precisely what I've been saying all along. Your head is always in the clouds--or in one of those beastly thrillers you insist on poring over all the time. Perhaps once we're married, I can teach you better behavior...."

He sighed and tuned her out once more, waiting until she wound down her habitual lecture. What she considered his pedestrian taste in literature was one of her favorites; she could go on for a solid ten minutes without taking a deep breath.

On this occasion, he was able to finish up the chapter....

"Bodie, you dumb crud! Where the hell have you been?"

The dark haired man tossed him a raffish grin. "Been waiting long have you, sunshine?"

"Oh no," Doyle snarled, wiping the blood from his mouth before catching the gun Bodie tossed him. "It's just we had such a lovely tea party earlier. Hated for you to miss it."

"So I see. Are you okay?"

"Just shut up and let's go. There's still two of them out there somewhere. Why you let them slip away--"

"Silly me. Should've let the bitch rearrange yer face with her spiked heel."

"Well, Cowley won't love you for the sentiment." Green eyes met blue ones for a tense second. "But thanks, mate."

Bodie shrugged, helping Doyle to his feet. "I'm too beautiful to be seen around town with scarface for a partner. Puts the birds right off, that does."

He surveyed the bloodstained clothes worriedly. "Sure you don't want a quick buzz to hospital?"

"Shut up, Bodie. Let's go."

He had started the second chapter, wondering why Doyle was always so nasty to poor Bodie and why Bodie consistently let him get away with it--sublimating possibly, although Dibble was a trifle vague on what they were sublimating--when Ann finally wound down her speech.

"Well, enough said. I should think I've made myself abundantly clear on this subject."

"Yes, dear," he said absently, then replayed her words and realized she was finished for the moment. "Uh...I hate to rush off, but I still have to go over my notes for the selection meeting on Monday."

"I must run as well. Mister Raoul was able to squeeze me in at the last mo. He's the one who does Di's hair, you know," she added archly. "It's quite an honor."

"You mustn't keep him waiting then, love. Goodbye."

"Raymond! Just one minute. Speaking of haircuts, you should get one today. I know you like to put it off until the last moment, but you've become terribly shaggy. Grooming is everything in the business world, and the Major is quite conservative."

Dibble felt his hair and discovered to his surprise that it was over his collar in back. For once, Ann had a valid point. "Yes, dear. I'll stop at the barbers."

"And my chain--don't forget!"

"Chai--Oh. No, dear."

"And don't be late!"

"No, dear, I won't."

She rang off abruptly.

He hung up the phone, feeling drained, and looked at her photo in the silver frame on his desk. She was smiling in the picture, but even the smile possessed an aloofness and little real warmth.

He shook himself mentally. Ann was a lovely woman and he was well aware of his good. fortune. She was high class, intelligent and had a very rich daddy. She only wanted the best for him--for both of them. He should thank his lucky stars to be engaged to such a woman for five years.

Five very long years.

Again, he pushed away the traitorous thought. Looking out the window at the grey afternoon, a tiny ripple of dissatisfaction welled up somewhere in the region of his stomach. It wasn't anything dramatic or striking; it nibbled rather than gnawed. But he was all too familiar with it.

He wasn't unhappy, per se. He was comfortable. Had a comfortable flat in a comfortable neighborhood, a comfortable second-hand car, and a comfortable, if not taxing job. And sometime in the next few years he would have a wife and 1.5 children. (Or perhaps more since Princess Di was making pregnancy so fashionable.)

No, he wasn't unhappy. But he wasn't happy either.

Vaguely depressed, he picked up his book again, aware it would dispel his obscure dissatisfaction as nothing else seemed to. Bodie and Doyle's world of danger, exhilaration and black humor never ceased to delight him, whatever their questionable literary merit. To him, the characters were alive and vital. Bodie, in particular; the cold, classically handsome exmercenary, who concealed a heart of sweet-cream butter and obviously adored and protected his bad-tempered ex-copper partner.

He was deeply into the next chapter when his secretary interrupted him again.

"Mr. Dibble, it's after three. You haven't forgotten your dentist appointment, have you?"

"Dentist? Uh..." He touched his jaw, but for once the troubling molar was quiescent. "Actually, I was thinking that could wait. I have some errands to run--"

"Oh no, you don't!" Miss Fliskett was firm. "You've been putting it off for weeks and I just confirmed your appointment. Dr. Chauncey is expecting you. It won't hurt a bit. Honestly, you men are all alike. Such babies about a little pain."

"But I have to ..." He trailed off, trying to remember what it was he was supposed to do.

"Whatever it is can wait until after you've had that tooth filled. Now, go on with you!"

He smiled at her shyly, that particularly sweet smile that always melted her just a little. "You're quite right, Miss Fliskett. As usual. I can't remember exactly what else I was..."

"Didn't you have to meet your fiancée this evening?" she prompted gently. Having been his secretary for two years, she was conscious of his lapses--and even more aware that most of them related directly to the said fiancée.

"Oh lord, yes!" He jumped up and grabbed his coat.

"Well, first the dentist. It's Dr. Chauncey on Bond Street."

"Chauncey on Bond, yes. Thank you, Miss Fliskett. You're a treasure."

She blushed prettily. "Oh go on. Here, don't forget your hat and your brelly."

"Thank you. Have a pleasant weekend."

"And you, Mr. Dibble." She shook her head as he left, came back again for his briefcase and then once more for his umbrella which he had laid down when he picked up his case, offering her a vacant smile of apology.

She was very fond of Raymond Dibble, despite his minor flaws. He was the most sweettempered boss she'd ever had. He was easily pleased and, while often scatterbrained, he never failed to treat his subordinates as people, quick to notice a kindness or job well done.

He might even have been a terribly attractive man if he wasn't so painfully shy and didn't plaster his hair down with tonic and wear such undistinguished, dreary suits. And the heavily framed glasses hid his rather splendid green eyes. He wasn't a man anyone would look at twice, but she had the opportunity to observe him every day. There were moments when he moved a certain way, or his eyes were dreamy and introspective that she had actually felt a little thrill of lust. Of course, two minutes later he generally knocked over a pencil box or sneezed explosively into his handkerchief (Mr. Dibble was victim to a variety of allergies), dispelling the illusion.

Still, the man had promise, if only someone could convince him of that fact.

Having met the someday (when-the-moon-turned-blue) Mrs. Dibble, she was convinced that snooty bitch was probably ninety percent of the problem. It was infuriating that dear Mr. Dibble couldn't see how Ann Holly affected him. But men weren't the most perceptive of creatures and Raymond Dibble was hardly the most assertive of the breed.

Shaking her head sadly, she began tidying his desk and checking through the mail he had forgotten to open.

One letter from a publisher puzzled her for a second. While it wasn't unusual for heads of libraries to receive mail from publishing houses, this one seemed of a more personal nature.

Dear Mr. Dibble:

We are delighted by your interest in W. Philip Andrew's series of novels, 'The Professionals'. As you may know, there are now sixteen volumes and we expect a new one in the spring. We enclose a listing price for hardcover editions, with a special pricing allowance for libraries, of course.

Unfortunately, your request for an address on Mr. Andrew must be taken into consideration. Some of our authors are extremely private individuals, and Mr. Andrew falls into this category. We cannot furnish his home address through the mail. However, if you wish to come to our office we would be pleased to arrange an interview with Mr. Andrew for the library circular you mentioned.

Once again, I thank you for your interest and hope to hear from you at your earliest opportunity.

Sincerely,

G. Cowley, Managing Editor Crimson Ink Publications, Ltd.

Slightly bewildered, she clipped the letter to the rest of the stack and left it in his inbox to read on Monday. She was familiar with Crimson Ink only because they published a series of historical romance novels she was inordinately fond of. In fact, most of their writers were of the more sensational variety; the Harold Robbins type. Hardly the thing for the Head of a respectable London library to be handling personally. While these books were a necessarily a part of the collection, they were generally dealt with by others.

The phone rang and she picked it up, forgetting the matter.

---

Raymond Dibble was a very ordinary bloke. It would have been difficult to pick him out amongst the other very ordinary blokes on the double-deck bus. It was the ones with blue hair and safety pins through the nose that drew attention. Another mousey fellow in a brown threepiece suit and briefcase was like a another bush in a thicket. He had never caused any kind of fuss or bother in all of his twenty-eight years.

Except once.

After his mother died, he had a very brief, bright moment of sheer, glorious rebellion. At age fourteen, he became a very small, very mean terror. It only lasted six months or so, but during that time no bully or tough dared to tackle him one-on-one (or sometimes even two-on-one) because the lad was literally crazy. Mad as the proverbial hatter. He had no conception of his size or his limitations and he was very, very vicious. He developed a fondness for switchblades and leather jackets and hard rock music. He learned how to pick pockets and shoplift better than any pro in the East End.

His father, never having paid much attention during the previous fourteen years, found it even more irritating to have to focus on his son now. He was busy with his up and coming career in the postal service and romancing half the female staff and had no time to spare for his delinquent offspring. Instead, he sent him to a social worker. And a psychologist. And a psychiatrist.

It was the psychiatrist that pinpointed the personality change. It was a form of intense role playing, she tried to explain to the bored father. "He thinks he's James Dean. Rebel Without a Cause. Or something of that nature. The child has obviously always had an overactive imagination and a rich fantasy life. The trauma of his mother's death has pushed him into actually becoming some character he admires. That is apparently preferable to admitting the pain of loss he feels. Perhaps if the father would let him open up and express...."

Patrick Dibble's temper and impatience were hardly less extreme than his son's and he wasn't in the least interested in any of that mumbojumbo. He just wanted them to fix the kid and fast. It was embarrassing having to go down to the police station every few days because of Raymond's increasing troublemaking. He figured he had a better way of dealing with it.

So he went home and beat the holy shit out of his recalcitrant son, inadvertently putting him in the hospital for a month.

The homemade cure definitely worked. By the time Raymond was released from the hospital and met his new stepmother, every bit of rebellion was leeched from him. He was perfectly polite and very obedient. He got straight A levels in school and never gave them another moment's worry.

Patrick Dibble often lectured his co-workers on the way to handle kids.

One could hardly argue with success.

No one ever asked what Raymond thought of the method.

He became what was expected of him. Well behaved, polite, industrious. His grades brought him a government sponsored education, and if his father ever bothered to notice that his choice of a career was less than it might have been, he never said. What he did call it was "wimpy" and "faggotty". But neither did he particularly give a damn. He had two other kids by his new wife to think of at that point.

So Raymond Dibble became the invisible man. Competent, never a ripple in the fabric of polite society. The term wallflower had been used to describe him on occasion--when anyone bothered to describe him at all. He was honest and hardworking, but not exactly an aggressive chap, even for a librarian.

They had managed to stifle his personality, but his imagination was far from dead. It took him through those years of grayness, the sail of his secret fantasy catching a new wind with each new book that caught him up. For days or weeks, he, would be lost, ninety percent of his mind in another world, the other ten percent functioning efficiently, if absent-mindedly.

He was not unhappy. When you live so much of your life in a world of your own choosing, you cannot be unhappy. But you cannot be truly happy either.

At age twenty-eight, he was only belatedly beginning to realize that.

"And I owe y' both a drop o' pure malt scotch!" Cowley told his boys, more than pleased with their efforts--although he would never tell them that.

"Just a drop?" Bodie demanded cheekily. "Surely we've earned a fifth. We just saved the Houses of Parliament--"

"Och, y've done yer job an' nothin' more! An' badly, too! Y' should've caught them afore they left the warehouse, 3.7, an' well y' know it!"

"That was my fault, sir," Doyle put in stiffly. "Bodie was only--"

"Do na give me excuses! You nearly made a botch o' it between you."

"Yes, sir," Bodie said bleakly. Doyle opened his mouth and Bodie stepped on his foot to shut him up.

Mellowing again, Cowley gestured toward his car. "But all's well that ends. An' it's ended now. Come on, the pair of you. Y' need a drink."

Doyle shook his head, remembering the redhaired terrorist and how he had been fooled by her high class beauty. And he also remembered putting a 45 caliber bullet between her eyes. "Nah, you go ahead."

Bodie watched him leave, noting the depressed hunch of his shoulders. "I think I'll pass, too, sir." Starting to follow Doyle, Cowley caught his arm

"Leave him be, Bodie. He must work his salvation out for himself."

Bodie stared at the older man, and strangely enough then was almost pity in his eyes. "Did you ever have a partner, sir? A real partner?"

Startled, Cowley stared back. "No ... not the way you mean, I think."

"Alone is the last thing he needs, " Bodie said softly. "I know him, sir. We'll work it out together. Like we've always done."

"Aye," Cowley admitted. "You could be right. It's been a difficult few days. Undercover is seldom easy, and this was.... See he has a doctor look him over. We do na know what all they did to him."

Bodie regarded him bleakly. "No, we don't. That's the whole problem, isn't it?" Cowley watched him go, running a little to catch up to the limping Doyle, eager to be beside him again.

No, he'd never had a partner like that.

Cowley, limping a little himself, his leg giving him its usual pains that he'd almost come to ignore, levered himself into his car. Bodie would sort Doyle out come Monday. He always did.

But who would sort out Bodie?

Finding no satisfactory answer to that, Cowley started his motor and went to drown his doubts in a pure malt scotch.

Raymond closed the book with a sigh and tucked it back in his briefcase.

He had fallen upon "The Professionals" series by accident, sorting through the discarded paperbacks from his library, caught immediately by the passion and electricity of the characters. Being a librarian, he had little trouble tracking down the others in the series. While he had no qualms in admitting that W. Philip Andrew's writing was in no danger of winning any literary awards, he was still entranced. The first dozen or so were wonderful--oh, perhaps the style was basic and less than subtle, but the author had a gift for making his characters live and breathe, and his plots were always exciting, if more than a bit implausible.

Raymond was well and truly hooked before he came to the last few of the series and the quality began to drop. The characters of Bodie and Doyle were still sharp and well-defined, but there was a weariness about them, and the plots were becoming slightly more predictable, as if the author himself was bored.

It was the first time Raymond had ever thought of the author as a person in his own right, someone who created these very real and urgent characters. For some insane reason he had felt an overpowering need to write to the author, to tell him where he was going wrong, where he was missing the perfect track and losing the momentum of the novel. He still found it hard to believe he had actually written the publisher in hopes of contact with this mysterious W. Philip Andrew, because he had no idea what he would say to the man if he ever did meet him. It all seemed very childish now. He wasn't some silly, giddy fan looking for an autograph.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, indulging his favorite pastime--mentally writing the unwritten scenes. Despite the problems with the plot, this gave him a lot of interesting holes to fill up with his fantasies. Those terrorists for instance. They never found out for certain who they were working for or what their real agenda was. They weren't IRA or Iranian or Palestinian. But he felt there was someone else, someone higher directing their motives, using their fanatical disgust of government and the bomb to promote their own cause. The Russians? The Chinese? It left it very open. Perhaps Andrew planned to continue it in the next book. But that was months away. Raymond wanted answers now.

And there was also the tension between Bodie and Doyle in this book that was missing in the earlier work. It was unusual for the novels, which generally had them joking around and going off for a pint or seeking out some willing birds to drown their tension. This time Doyle's only notice of women had been the flicker of interest in the nasty redhaired bitch--typical for him, he had no sense when it came to birds--and Bodie had ignored women totally during the entire novel, focusing his attention on Doyle. That in itself was odd. Or perhaps not so odd. Bodie repeatedly took more of an interest in Doyle's sex life than his own. Morbidly so at times, even though the books kept stressing how gorgeous the dark haired agent was; far more so than his sloppy, jean-clad partner. But this was the first time Bodie's preoccupation with his partner was so evident.

He remembered a descriptive paragraph from an earlier novel and wondered what caught Bodie's fascination.

Ray Doyle was an alleycat of a man. Skinny and sleek, quick and sharp. His hair curled wildly, hopelessly mussed at times, brown with ginger-red highlights that caught the eye unexpectedly. The green eyes were even more catlike than the lithe body; wide and tilted exotically in the piquant face, they were both eternally suspicious and ingenuous all at once. Like the proverbial alleycat, expecting either a saucer of milk or a kick, no inbetweens in his life. All kindness or sudden rejection, with no possibilities let for middle ground. There would be no taming him fully, because for all his naive optimism, he would never trust enough to accept more than crumbs before darting away again.

No, Dibble couldn't perceive Bodie's total acceptance of his partner's off-and-on again affection, laying it rightly to the author's partiality. Certainly most of the books were full of Doyle. His likes, his dislikes, his bad temper and his wide idealistic streak. Always it was Doyle undercover, Doyle being hurt and tortured and falling in love with evil women and being hurt, with Bodie left to pick up the pieces of his partner's shattered heart and battered idealism.

The author, very obviously, favored the Doyle character, but Dibble strongly disagreed. It was Bodie that fascinated him. The author gave little of Bodie's history except for hinting at the dark, terrible years as a mercenary and equally bad times in Ulster. Bodie was set up as darkly handsome, tough and cool, but everything else that escaped about his personality was almost despite the author. It was Doyle that W. Philip Andrew lavished description on, Bodie was shorted considerably. It was annoying, since Dibble wasn't sure he even liked Doyle sometimes. He could be such a moody bastard. Especially to Bodie who only wanted to help.

Okay, that was the way the author wrote the characters, but it didn't prevent Dibble from wishing Bodie would punch Doyle in the nose on occasion.

However, it also made the between-the-lines fantasizing that much richer. He could give Bodie his due in the safety of his own dreams. His favorite invention had Doyle saving Bodie from a terrible fate, comforting him in the pain and .... well, the rest of the fantasy was strangely cloudy.

The bus passed a street sign--Chauncey--and Dibble sat up abruptly, coming out of his reverie. The dentist. Chauncey. Impulsively, he got off at the next stop. He could hardly face his secretary Monday, if he cancelled out again. He walked back up the street, having forgotten the dentist's name. Now, what was it? He came to a discreet sign and the name fell into place. Yes, Dr. Bond on Chauncey street.

Oh, and he had to remember to pick up Ann's chain. It was dead important he not forget that. Absent-minded he might be, but this was a matter of self preservation. Ann would kill him.

---

Gleeson sat behind the battered metal desk and glowered at the other two men. "Awright, somebody better explain how this whole mess started and what the samhell is going on."

Baxter cleared his throat. "Well, sir, we were simply following orders. It all started when You Know Who wanted to raise some extra cash for You Know What."

"Listen, son, I'm from Texas. Speak plain."

"We were selling Star Wars plans to the KGB, sir."

The silence was so intense you could hear a pin drop. A pen did drop, in fact, with a clatter. The Texan took a long moment to pick it up and then began doodling the word "assholes" on a notepad. "You want to run that by me again, son?"

"Not real plans--phony ones. But that was okay, because the Russians knew they were phony and they were planning to sell them to the East Germans because they needed extra money to beef up the effort in Afghanistan. Glasnost has screwed the hell out of their military budget, too."

"Okay, so we were selling shit to the Russkis so they could sell it to the East Germans who are idiots. Correct? Exactly what were we selling?"

"Just some schematics the boys in Washington sent over to look good under a microscope--they had it on a microchip."

"And the Russkis knew it was crap?"

"Yessir."

"And the East Germans?"

"Well, they might've figured it out, because they backed out of the sale at the last minute. So the KGB decided to peddle it to the Israelis who really only wanted it to leak to the Iranians as part of a package deal with the arms thing. Kind of like a commission on the sale."

"But the Israelis didn't know the U.S. knew about it, right?"

"Well, that's hard to say. They don't like dealing with the KGB at the best of times, and they sure as hell hate the Iranians, so they could've been double-crossing them. There's some evidence they were going to pass it to the Iraqis at the same time." He shrugged. "You know how it is."

Gleeson shut his eyes, too long in this game to become actually dizzy by the merry-go-round of modern espionage, but still nauseated by sheer stupidity. "So what happened?"

"Then everyone decided to back out of the deal because of all the recent ... uh ...fuss in Washington. So we were instructed to pick up the chip and destroy it. Except ..."

"Except what, dammit!"

The two agents looked at each other nervously, then back at their superior who wasn't noted for his patience with total incompetence. Oddly enough, neither of them were incompetent agents--on ordinary days. And oh did they long for ordinary days of hostages and bomb threats and imminent world annihilation.

"It's missing, sir."

"What's missing?!" Gleeson roared like one of his beloved Texas longhorn bulls.

"The chip, sir. It's .... well, it's no longer in our hands."

"But I thought it was garbage. What difference does it make?"

Again, the panicked exchange of looks. "Well, sir, those schematics might not be as harmless as we were led to believe."

"And why do you think that?"

"Because someone else wants that chip--badly."

---

If he had been the inimitable ex-Met detective, ace CI5 super-agent Ray Doyle, he would have sensed trouble in the thick London air. Unfortunately, the less-than-perceptive librarian, Raymond Dibble, was oblivious to anything more threatening than Ann's fury if he should happen to lose her chain. He did not, therefore, spot the two men shadowing him as he left the jewelry shop and absently stepped out into the crosswalk against the light. He didn't even spot the on-coming taxi until it screeched to a halt two feet away. Offering a shrug of apology to the cursing driver, he continued on his way, too wrapped up in his fantasies to notice how close he had come to permanent dreamland.

"You sure that's the one?" one of his shadows said doubtfully. "He's a right prat."

"Must be him. He was at the right place at the right time, wasn't he?"

Reaching the bus stop, Dibble absently tucked his paper under his arm and tossed his umbrella in the trash.

"You can't be serious. Him?"

"Shut yer yap. It's gotta be him. Lissen, we're gettin' paid for a simple job. Now let's get on with it."

Dibble sat down on a bench, fingering the chain around his neck. It felt strange. He wasn't one to go in for jewelry, but this seemed the most logical way to make sure Ann's necklace was safe. He felt a bit self conscious about it, however, and tucked it under his collar.

He wasn't looking forward to the evening and was wishing something would happen to give him a good excuse to miss it. Appendicitis, perhaps.

As was his habit, he avoided thinking about it by continuing his Bodie and Doyle daydreams. Now if he had written the book, he would have had--

"Pardon me, guvn'r, d'ya 'ave the time?"

Dibble looked up. "I believe it is ..." He trailed off as he noticed the gun pointed at his face, partially concealed by a folded newspaper.

"What say you tell me about it in the alley there, eh?"

For a man with such a vivid imagination, Dibble was finding it difficult to cope with reality. He blinked owlishly at the man. "I say, you don't intend to actually rob me, do you?"

The man glanced around nervously. "Shut yer mouth. Get up an' get movin'."

"Well, if you insist. But I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. I never carry much cash." He got up and moved obediently toward the alley. "I think I've only got about ten pounds--"

Shoving him forward, the mugger growled, "I told yer to dummy up, runt."

Dibble's face flushed angrily. "There's no need to get personal about this. If you want my wallet, just--"

"Watch his 'ands, Sammy." Another man stepped out from the dimness of the alley. "He could have a shooter."

"I'm watchin', I'm watchin'!" He pushed Dibble up against the brick wall and began searching his pockets and patting him down while the other man went through his briefcase. When the search became somewhat personal, Dibble protested and received a backhand slap. "Okay, where is it?" Sammy demanded.

"Oh, very nice," the accomplice snickered. "Sure, he's gonna tell you all about it. Dinnit you listen to anythin' the man said? This feller's a professional. He won't talk."

"Well, did you find anything in the case?"

"No, but I'm not sure exactly what we're lookin' for. What's this dingus look like anyhow?"

In all the years he had lived in London, Dibble had never even been mugged let alone robbed at gunpoint, but the stage of stunned disbelief was fading rapidly. He tasted blood from the cut on his lip, and the coppery flavor infuriated him. What was he after all? A man or a mouse? He stepped away from the wall, refusing to be intimidated. "Now, see here--"

The fist impacted his stomach like a sledgehammer, and he doubled up, emitting an airless little squeak.

Definitely mouse, he decided, wondering if his lungs would start working before or after he threw up. Amazingly, it didn't even hurt much, except for the odd sensation that his bellybutton was plastered to his spine.

And then--"Ohmigod..." The pain rushed in, swamping him, owning him. Red dots flashed before his eyes as he dropped to his knees.

Not content with such minor damage, Sammy began putting in the boot, kicking him repeatedly. "Try an' jump me, do ya? Just try it agin... Just try--"

"Oh, leave off," the other man said irritably. "You'll 'ave the coppers on us with that racket. We don't have time to mess about. Let's just take everything an' let the boss man figure it out."

Sammy offered another stomp for good measure. "Wot about him, then?"

"Whad y' think, ya dumb lout? Do I have to do all the bloody thinkin'?"

They're going to kill me, Dibble thought numbly. He tried to move, but discovered that even lifting his head was an effort. The pain was so intense it was like an overwhelming burden weighing him down.

It occurred to him that Ray Doyle would have figured a way out of this--or at least count on Bodie to come to the rescue.

Suddenly his sense of aloneness was almost more of an agony than the physical injuries.

And then Sammy smashed the gun butt against his skull and a quiet, unassuming man named Raymond Dibble faded away forever.

---

Gleeson leaned back in the creaking wooden chair and looked at the one tiny window the basement room possessed, watching as a fly rhythmically beat its brains out. He knew exactly how it felt. "Let me get this straight. This--probably useless--microchip is missing and the only reason you're worried is because somebody else is hot on its trail?"

"Yessir."

"But you don't know who?"

"Not really, sir, no."

"Not the KGB?"

"No."

"Not the East Germans."

"No, sir."

"Or the Israelis?"

"No, sir.

"Then WHO??"

"We don't know, sir."

"You don't know a hell of a lot, do you? So how do you know this was important enough to pull me off vacation on my ranch? Sounds like a load of bullcrap to me! Are these fuckin' plans Star Wars shit or not?!"

"No, sir, we're pretty sure they're not that."

"Then why is everyone's jockey shorts in a knot? What are they?"

"Actually, that's the trouble. We're not sure what they are. It seems there was a slipup in Washington. Basically, when this started they just called up the patent office and told them to dig up some unregistered electronic plans from the stacks and transfer them to microchip. They did. But they have no record of what they sent. I think the file was ... uh ... shredded, sir. You know ... when the unpleasantness over Colonel Nor--"

"I get you," Gleeson growled. He sighed heavily. Damn Ollie North; the man had the smarts of a headcheese at the best of times. "So what you're saying is that chip could inadvertently contain some very vital information."

"Yes, sir. We think it could be serious."

"And the KGB have figured out that we lost it?"

"Well, they cancelled our weekly dart match."

Gleeson shook his head in disgust. "You fellas have been in Limeyland too fuckin' long." The agents looked properly chastised, but Miller spoke up in their defense, "Face it, sir, things have been pretty slow since Gorbachev started all this glasnost shit. And England hasn't been a hotbed of international conspiracy since Philby took a powder. How were we supposed to know?"

"IT'S YOUR GODDAMN FUCKING JOBS TO KNOW, YOU SHITHEADS!"

Brave, bold men who wouldn't have flinched under communist torture melted into cringing puddles.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

Their superior grunted and lit a cigar. The smoke hung in the unventilated room in a grungy blue haze. "Okay, from the top. When did you first smell something sour about this asshole operation?"

"Last night, sir. Dibbins was set to pick up the chip at the regular drop, but.... well, he got sick."

"Sick how?"

"Diarrhea, sir. Bad curry at this Indian restaurant ... Anyhow, he was forty-five minutes late at the pickup point. There was a mixup and the middleman screwed up the courier's instructions. There was a 4:30 appointment for Dibbins and ... he ... uh... gave the chip to someone else by mistake."

"Jesus. What happened? A sellout? Did the Russkis get in there first? Or the Arabs?"

"Uh...no, sir. We think it was a librarian named Dibble."

---

He woke up with the most appalling headache. When he sat up, he let out a little yip of pain and clutched his head, encountering a stiff bandage. He groaned and blinked, trying to get his bearings. Although everything was fuzzy, he could tell he was in a hospital ward; the bed to his right had a man hooked to an amazing number of tubes and the chap on the other side was sucking oxygen through a mask.

A nursing sister the same color and approximate size of Mt. Fuji came bustling over to his beside.

"Now, you put yerself back down agin. You've had a nasty crack on yer head and the doctor wants to keep you for observation."

"What happened? Where am I?"

"You just be still. We wanted to ask you that, love, when you feel a tad better. A bobby found you in an alley near the entrance to the Underground, plucked naked except--" She took something from the bedside table and handed it to him. "You were wearing this. They removed it before they did the x-ray."

He took the chain from her and stared at it blankly.

She pushed him back deeper into the pillows and straightened the bedclothes busily. "Poor lamb, you've bruises all over. Robbed, were you? Oh, the world is nastier every day. Wot's yer name, then, love? We've not been able to contact yer family yet. They have to be worried sick."

"Name?" He blinked again, still looking at the chain. "Uh... Ray... Raymond..." He groaned again as his head throbbed wildly.

"Oh, you've got a whale of a headache, I've no doubt. A concussion, the doctor said. Not so bad, but hard enough, mind you."

She picked up the chart and scribbled on it. "Ray Raymond, you say? What address, love?"

"I..." He rubbed his eyes dizzily. "How long have I been here?"

"Since yesterday evening around seven. Is there someone I can call for you?"

"I'm not... that is... I'm sorry, I can't think clearly right now."

"Poor lad. A good thump like that can scramble a body's wits for a time. You just rest. We'll see what the x-rays show. Here's something for the pain. The doctor will be by on rounds in an hour or so. Rest now."

The incredible pounding in his head gave him no other option.

---

Gleeson glowered at the hapless agents. "So you're telling me this ... this librarian just walks in and picks up a top secret microchip and walks out again."

"Uh, yes, sir. His name is Dibble, you see, and that was so close to Dibbins .... Well the courier has a speech impediment anyway, so the middleman didn't catch the name very clearly, and then this Dibble waltzes in at the right time, saying that he was expected and all, and he ... well he looked so ... incredibly ordinary and average, the middleman just assumed it had to be our man--undercover, you see. He said nobody really looks that mundane and mousey unless they--"

"I get your point. So he gives him the chip."

"Yes, sir."

"So who is this Dibble?"

"Raymond Patrick Dibble. We don't have a file on him, but it was easy enough to trace him, because he filled out the patient chart with his name and address and place of business--the works. And they actually checked out. We spoke to his secretary, a Miss Amelia Fliskett, and she told us that Dibble did have a dental appointment at 4:30, only it was with a Dr. Chauncey on Bond Street. Not Dr. Bond on Chauncey. He's a harmless civilian from all accounts. A regular milksop type."

"But this harmless librarian walked away with top secret military information?"

"Uh...it seems that way, sir. At least, we have to believe so because of the interest the other intelligence agencies have suddenly taken. From all reports, they're buzzing like flies. Everyone from the KGB to the BOSS."

"But you don't know why?"

"No, sir. Unless .... well, whoever shredded the file originally ... a spy, sir? Was this a double-blind?"

"Thank you, Baxter," Gleeson said sarcastically. "You've enlightened my slow wits by this brilliant observation. Why do you think you're wasted in fuckin' Britain?"

Baxter felt his six foot frame easily reduced by several inches. Gleeson wasn't a particularly cruel man, but his compassion was severely limited at the moment. "So where is this librarian, dare I ask?"

Wishing he had drawn duty in Greenland--and positive it was a gloomy certainty before the week was out, Baxter responded, "He's vanished, sir."

"Naturally. Why should life be simple? What else do you know about him?"

"Not much, I'm afraid," Miller spoke up reluctantly, accepting it was his turn to take some heat. "After he left the pickup point, he disappeared. Didn't return to his flat or the library or show up at his girlfriend's. Her name's Ann Holly, from a very respectable family. Lots of money, from what I've uncovered. Father influential in Whitehall through business contacts, but nothing vaguely fishy about it. She checks out clean as a whistle. Dibble does, too, except for a few minor juvenile offenses. Lower middle class background; his father's retired from the post office. Also clean."

"So our red friends picked him up?"

"No, I don't think so. It wasn't until after we lost him that they began to get interested. The same with the other agencies. And once the Israelis twigged something was up, all hell broke loose. Now, everyone with a diplomatic dog license is out combing the streets for the lost lamb. And I'd swear none of us fucking knows why."

"You're wrong," Gleeson said flatly. "Somebody knows."

"But we don't actually know for sure the chip has any information worth chasing," Baxter commented.

"Obviously you're not willing to take that risk, or I'd be back home barbecuing spare ribs, correct? Well, you listen, you two bags of shit, you'd better find this Dibble fast and first. If somebody else has him, you grab him back, whatever it takes. Otherwise you're gonna find yourselves sitting in a CIA post in Paducah doin' wire taps on Brownie troops!"

---

This time when he woke his head was clear, if still aching. It was more like the distant rumble of thunder in his head than incapacitating pain. He could function with the pain. A man learned to deal with it in his business. It came with the territory.

He lay very still on the bed and scoped out the ward with narrowed eyes. It was quiet except for the sound of various apparatus and the clink of a bedpan at the far end of the room. He was in hospital, but he couldn't remember how he came to be here. Still, wasn't hard to figure. The villains got to him. But had they found what they were after? And what was it? As he moved, something tickled his arm and he looked down. A gold chain was caught in his fingers and trailed down his wrist.

Ah ... this was it. It was important. Somehow he knew it was. He couldn't afford to lose it. Life or death.

Ann would kill him.

A bolt of black pain shot through his head and he whimpered just a little, covering his eyes. When it passed, all he could remember was the importance of the chain.

He had to protect it at all cost until Cowley told him where to deliver it. He thought idly about swallowing it, but idea of the retrieval process didn't appeal. Instead, he opened the clasp and put it around his neck. Obviously, the enemy didn't realize its importance or they would have taken it when he was helpless.

His first priority was to get out of here and find Bodie. His cover was obviously blown. Maybe Bodie's was as well. He could be in danger.

There were no clothes in the cupboard beside the bed; further proof they had taken everything and left him for dead.

Well, Raymond Doyle was bloody hard to kill.

The urgency to find Bodie got him up out of the bed. Across the aisle was a teenager obviously in for a drug OD, and Doyle borrowed his gear without a qualm. After all, he was working for Queen and country. It was theft in the line of duty. Let the guilt come later as it always did.

The jeans were almost too tight, but the t-shirt and the leather jacket fit well enough, and the sunglasses helped his headache. His vision was still blurred, but that was typical for the bang on the head he must have suffered. He reckoned it would clear up soon enough. It had to.

He had a job to do.

---

Gleeson saw the look on Baxter's face and was almost afraid to ask. He shut his eyes, already resigned to the fact this was going to be a fuckup from the word git-go. "Awright, spit it out, son. You've lost him, again?"

"Yes, sir. It seems the subject was picked up by a London policeman in an alley and taken to a Good Samaritan Hospital as a John Doe. He was naked, stripped clean. And unconscious, sir."

"And?"

"Well, it's a busy hospital, sir. Mostly derelicts and drug overdoses. They tend to lose track of patients rather easily it seems. Most of them are John Does. Both coming in and going out."

"And he went out."

"Under his own steam apparently. The chart says he had a severe concussion, although not life threatening. Somehow he got past three nursing stations without being spotted. A nurse says he gave his name as Ray Raymond. That's all they have."

"And the microchip?"

"Whoever attacked him could have found it," Baxter said bleakly. "But I don't think so."

"Why? If they stripped him clean, they must've looked the obvious places."

"Just a feeling, sir. And there's still too much action. Too many people beating the streets."

"And the even curiouser question, where did Dibble disappear to? And why?" Gleeson asked absently.

Baxter was far too smart to answer. He might want to have children one day after his duty in Iceland or Antarctica was complete.

Gleeson chewed on his cigar for a moment. "I think you're right, Baxter. I don't think they got it. This little Limey librarian still has it. I don't know how or why or who he's working for, but he's slicker than catshit."

"So it's a deep cover," Baxter mused. "Whoever he's working for. Very deep. We can't find a fuckin' bleep in his life to account for it. Except for that stuff when he was a kid, he's been the most incredibly boring guy imaginable. I mean, we can't even find traces that he's rented porno films."

The older man scowled. "We have two possibilities. Either he's an innocent dupe, or he's been saved all this time for something very, very big. Which means that microchip could contain something far more vital than either you or I ever dreamed. And somebody else knows what it is and thinks it's worth blowing a cover this deep and solid."

Interested, Baxter stared at him. "What do you think, sir?"

"I think we can't take a chance either way. We find him."

"And?"

Gleeson looked surprised. "And kill him, of course. Then take him apart very slowly. The worst that can happen is that Britain is out one librarian. Maggie Thatcher won't lose any sleep over it."

---

W. Philip Andrew stared at the page in front of him and frowned. If he stared at it long enough, he was sure something would materialize. But it was becoming harder and harder. Not because he didn't have ideas. Those he had in plenty, but the actual writing was becoming a real bitch. Mostly because it had occurred to him that he wasn't a particularly good writer.

It hadn't bothered him much in the first few years. Ignorance is bliss, and he had been incredibly blissful. It had seemed so simple to churn out a book every two or three months, letting his imagination and bits and pieces of his varied life pour out on a page. An easy and surprisingly lucrative way to make a living. Far superior to actually dodging bullets and sleeping in mud-soaked ditches.

Unlike a lot of writers, he truly did write from experience. He just carefully kept the reality from reaching the pristine pages of his books, aware that would kill every pretension of romance and glory. There was nothing in the least romantic about being shot at by total strangers--even less about being hit. And small glory to peeing your pants in sheer terror when a grenade blew off just about three feet away from taking you out too. Or the smell of corpses lying two days in the African sun, bloated with gas and filled with happy green flies.

Oh, yes, he wrote about what he knew. And knew what not to write.

Easy, tidy villains, and nice clean bullet holes and the white hat riding off in the British sunset. A little twist of uncertainty, perhaps, to keep the liberals happy. That was his Doyle character's job and he did it so very well. Exquisite guilt, almost sensually attractive angst and scads of remorse. Agonizing over the grey areas, and looking so marvelous while he did it. Those scenes almost wrote themselves, Doyle being his favorite character and so easily swayed into maudlin outbursts, complete with a glisten of tears in the cat-green eyes and the listlessly drooping curls.

But no one wanted to read the real truth, the real blackness, and Philip didn't blame them in the least. From personal experience he knew reality sucked.

So for four years he had churned out the glamorized version. A little blood, a few drips of gore, some carefully choreographed guilt trips for generic wallowing--racial hatred, terrorists with a cause, nuclear weapons, drug addicts with no hope, kiddie porn, struggling third-world nations, IRA, gangsters, mobsters, and back to fuckin' terrorists. He'd run the gambit, and what was the latest popular boogieman? A threat on the Royal Family? Jesus Christ.

He pushed his chair back and lit a cigarette.

It was so much easier before he realized what a crummy writer he was. Before he had actually tried to do something that was "good". Well, that novel died a very natural death. He'd discovered the hard way that trying to write for real was a hell of a lot tougher than spewing out stories like he had around a campfire--a talent quickly learned out of self defense to keep the hard boys off his back. Keep them amused, laughing, interested. Strange how it worked, but it did. Once you told someone a story, they were less likely to beat the shit out of you or do even more unpleasant things. It set you apart from the pack for some reason. Either because they thought you were quicker or more clever, or because they wanted another story. Amazing how terror could sharpen your wits--at least it had his.

But after four years of safety, the residual fear had faded and he was beginning to run dry. Worse, he was beginning to look back on the things he had written and recognize what drivel it was. It had set him up very nicely financially, enabled him to leave the SAS with dignity intact without ever admitting he had lost his nerve. But now that he knew he was incapable of writing anything decent, the other well was running dry, too.

Cashing his royalty checks from the earlier novels didn't make him unhappy. But it didn't make him happy either.

He was bored.

Halfway through his newest effort--started after his abortioned attempt at a "real" novel--he lost interest. Even his favorite character, Doyle, was snapping with much less fervor at his ox-like partner. Doyle was obviously bored, too.

Unfortunately, Cowley was expecting the completed manuscript--last week. And he had already spent the miserly advance the Scot had given him as a down payment on the secondhand Ferrari sitting in his garage.

He put out the cigarette and moved his fingers back to the keyboard. If he was feeling rotten, he'd let Doyle take it out on Bodie. That always made him feel better.

---

Ray Doyle's blurry vision could only pick out the overlarge "C" and "I" and the number "5" on the door that read:

Crimson Ink Publishing, Ltd.

#5

The pretty receptionist looked up as he entered.

"Hullo, Betty. I've got to see the old man right away. Is he in?"

Startled, she just looked at him. "Pardon me? Do you have an appointment with Mr. Cowley?

"Of course I don't have a bloody appointment! I've been undercover. Listen, if he's tied up, all I really need is the address of the safehouse Bodie's using. I've lost my RT and I have to get in touch with him."

"Safehouse?"

He leaned on the desk, looking cool, calm and vaguely threatening. "Listen, sweetheart, I don't have time for games. This is important. Where is Bodie?"

"Bodie?" Being a temp, she was momentarily flustered. The man obviously knew what he wanted and she needed this job very badly. "Uh ... wait, there's a note here about setting up an interview with Philip Andrew for a Mr. Dibble. I know he writes those Bodie and Doyle books, doesn't he? Are you Mr. Dibble, from the library? Is that what you've come about?"

Doyle chuckled richly. "Is that the name he's using? Philip Andrew? Oh, very droll. So what's the address, darlin'? I don't have all day."

"You are Mr. Dibble, then?"

He looked her up and down, very male, very predatory, like a hungry tomcat.

As a temporary, she wasn't quite sure of the proper procedure, but this man looked nothing at all like a librarian. "I'm not sure if I ... Mr. Cowley's at a luncheon. But he should be back in a half hour or so--"

Doyle straightened with blinding speed, all sun-warmed languor vanished. "I don't have time to bloody wait! I need that address!"

Eyes very round, she dug out the file and handed it over timidly.

Doyle snatched at it and then--oddly enough--squinted at the letters. He rubbed his eyes angrily. "Dammit!" Then thrust the file back at her. "What's it say? I'm still all blurry. Come on, Betty, snap it up!"

She swallowed and read the address to him, wondering if life in the publishing world was always so fraught with tension.

Doyle's sudden grin was chip-toothed and charming. "Very posh. Lucky Bodie. Thanks, love. Tell Cowley I've picked up the merchandise and we'll call in as soon as the coast is clear. I think they're onto us though. Transport to point C may be tough going. And we don't even know where point C is yet."

"My name isn't Betty, it's Irene. Did you say your name was--?" But he was gone.

She felt a lingering pleasurable tingle. He was a little scary perhaps, but oh so sexy. Those jeans were practically indecent, and the knowing, hot look in those wide green eyes doubly so. It had all happened so quickly, she'd hardly had time to take it in, but now her memory replayed the sensual movement of his lithe body, the exotic face and the tangled, somewhat greasy mop of curls.

Irene began to hope this temporary job would last long enough to see him again.

---

Philip almost welcomed the door buzzer. At least it got him away from the uncooperative typewriter. Maybe he should switch to a computer? Perhaps a blank screen would be less intimidating than a blank page.

"Yes?"

"Come on, sunshine, it's me."

"Excuse me?"

"Open the fuckin' door!"

Philip stared at the grillwork of the speaker as if it would explain the last sentence. "What did you say?"

"Oh, Jesus, I don't know the friggin' password this week. Come on, mate. You know it's me. I'm tired and I hurt like hell. Just open up, okay?"

Philip opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, realizing he had no idea what to say. Or even what to ask. This was the most totally bizarre exchange he'd had in years. "Who is this?" he asked warily.

An expressive groan emitted from the speaker, and the disembodied voice finally answered. "Who am I supposed to be? Uh ... oh shit ... Dibble, right? And you're ... Andrew." A nasty chuckle. "That's right. Philip Andrew." For some obscure, reason, he gave the name "Philip" a very campy twist.

Confused, irritated and intrigued, Philip took another moment to gather his thoughts. "Who did you say? Dibble?"

"Christ on a crutch! It's starting to rain out here, you know. Let me the fuck in." There was a tense silence, then the voice sharpened. "Is something wrong, mate? Is somebody with you? I'll go around back."

"Back?" He was on the third floor with nothing but a balcony and a straight drop to the street in back. The man was obviously a lunatic. He made a face and started to switch off when the voice came through again

"Bodie! Are you okay?"

Philip's hand stopped in mid-gesture. Bodie? Could be a coincidence, of course. But the name Dibble did ring a bell. Some shithead librarian Cowley was pissing on about who was mad about his books. Cowley was hoping for some big buy, no doubt envisioning all the libraries in England purchasing grosses of hard-bound copies of the entire series. Philip thought it was a load of rubbish, but Cowley had said something about the man wanting an interview. This surely couldn't be the man--or could it?

"You're Dibble, that librarian chap?" he asked cautiously.

A gusting sigh. "Yeah, that's me, Raymond Dibble, have library card will travel. Bodie, will you stop pissin' around."

Shrugging, Philip unlocked the door. At least it shouldn't be boring. "Push."

"Thank you so much," came the sarcastic reply as the door buzzed open.

Three minutes latter came a thunk at the door. Philip opened it and the intruder brushed by him, furious and wet.

"You wanner tell me what that was in aid of? I thought you were in trouble up here. It's not funny, Bodie. We've got trouble here and we don't have a lot of time for your friggin' practical jokes."

"Mr. Dibble, I presume?"

"Oh, bugger off," the other man snapped. "My head is killing me and I ache all over. I'm going to have a hot shower and some clean clothes. We can fill each other in on the details later. Ten minutes, okay?"

Before Philip could do more than open his mouth, the man had located the bathroom and slammed and locked the door. Two seconds later the water sounded and a voice began singing a very flat rendition of Rolling Stones' "Get Off'a My Cloud".

He had never had his bathroom commandeered before and wasn't entirely sure what to do about it. Breaking down the door seemed a tad extreme. Dibble (or whoever he was) couldn't stay in there forever, after all. Just to be on the safe side, he went to the desk and retrieved his faithful Walther PPK. He hadn't used it for more than target practice in four years, but a nutter was a nutter. They usually weren't violent, but one could never tell. Bemused, Philip waited.

Ten minutes later, the man appeared from the steamy bath wearing Philip's dressing gown, his curls dripping water. The green eyes raked over his host without emotion. "Good, you're tooled. Hope you've an extra. They nicked mine when they jumped me. No, don't say it. I know I was lax. But I didn't know they were this close, did I? They must've blown my cover. Cowley'll have my balls on toast. Still, looks as if you're safe. I eyeballed outside for at least an hour and didn't see anything shaky. I think you're still clean, sunshine. Though not for long. If they twigged me, they'll find this place soon enough. We'd better move house."

"Who the hell are you?" Philip finally managed to get in.

He was ignored as the other man opened his closet and rummaged through his clothes. "Nice wardrobe. Why do you end up with all the cushy jobs while I end up playing a librarian in polyester? The ol' man's blue-eyed boy you are. Jeez, these trousers will swallow me. Well, I can make do with the jeans I suppose." He darted back to the bath and returned wearing the skin tight jeans, and pulled on one of Philip's more expensive silk shirts. He tucked it carelessly into his jeans and helped himself to clean socks from Philip's dresser.

Philip had kept the gun trained on the man the entire time, but realizing it didn't even faze him, he ruefully let it fall. This had to rate as one of the strangest afternoons of his life--even including Africa--but he had to admit he was no longer bored.

"Would you please stop ruffling through my drawers long enough to tell me who you are?" he asked politely.

The teasing grin thrown his way surprised Philip. Not only was it engaging, there was a sultry touch to it as well. "Since when have you needed a formal introduction for someone to go through your drawers? I've known you to encourage complete strangers." He waggled his eyebrows. "If they're built."

Philip looked at his gun and looked back at the man whose head was now buried in a towel, briskly fluffing his wet hair, oblivious of the weapon's threat. If this joker really was Dibble, Cowley had a lot to answer for giving a screwball his address. Now he just had to figure how to get rid of him without upsetting the poor sod.

He headed for the phone in the living room. A nice padded wagon with nice whitecoated attendants would be in order about now.

"Don't."

Hand on the receiver, he froze, gripping the gun tighter as he turned.

The man leaned against the door frame, giving a last swipe before tossing the wet towel aside and shaking loose his damp curls. "Better not use the phone. Might be tapped. RT would be safer."

Philip stared at him and suddenly something clicked into place, like a crazy lock or an insane puzzle piece. The red-brown curls, the brilliant green eyes, the tight jeans and careless looseness of wiry muscles, the sensuous mouth that smiled at him with lazy pleasure.

"Bloody hell! You're Ray Doyle!" He wasn't sure how the words escaped, because his throat closed up immediately thereafter, leaving him speechless.

"Oh very amusing." Doyle snapped. "I know you thought it hilarious when the Cow made me trim me hair and slick it back. Well, it was okay for a while, but the cover's blown now, so I might as well be meself again."

Philip sat down limply on the couch, eyes glued to his creation come to life. But Ray Doyle wasn't real. It was his fantasy. A creature of print, not flesh and blood.

The logical answer came to him and he was suddenly both inexplicably angry and oddly disappointed. "Okay, very nice joke. Murphy set this up, didn't he? Well, you've done a marvelous job. But enough's enough. Drop the act."

The green eyes turned to him, cold and the jaw was set angrily. "That's not funny either, Bodie. Murph's dead."

Philip blinked, stunned for a minute until belatedly remembering that he had killed off Murphy's character in his last book--being irritated with his agent at the time and finding it a painless and satisfying revenge. Cheesed Murphy off no end. He swore he'd get him back. So this was it. Murphy had never been less than thorough.

"Listen, this was a great joke. You can tell him it worked a treat. Now give me back my shirt and beat it, okay?"

For a split second the other man looked confused and his hand went up to his head, wincing as if in pain.

"Are you okay?" Philip asked, concerned despite himself.

"I... yeah ... fine. They really did a number on me, mate. When I woke up in hospital, I wasn't even sure who I was for a bit--" And abruptly, almost gracefully, he slid to the floor, out cold.

Philip reached him in an instant, feeling for the pulse. It was strong and regular, but the face was pale. He picked up the slight figure and moved him to the sofa. Whatever was going on, he was beginning to believe it wasn't a put on. As he looked more closely now, he could see a darkening bruise nearly hidden under the curls at the temple, and another on his arm. Pulling up the shirt revealed even more. None of them seemed serious, but Philip was familiar enough with these type injuries to see the man had been beaten rather severely sometime during last 48 hours.

He got a wet cloth from the bath and put it over the young man's forehead, trying to decide what to do. He should call an ambulance, he supposed, although he had no idea what he would tell them. That a madman burst into his flat claiming to be a character from a novel, took a shower and then passed out on his carpet?

The idea of this being a practical joke had evaporated with the faint. That wasn't acting, and neither were the bruises. Whatever was happening here was serious.

So it was back to the nutter theory. But looking down at the defenseless face, he found it strangely difficult to call for someone to cart him away to the funny farm. Perhaps it was no more than ego, but it was oddly flattering that someone would choose one of his characters to adopt in his madness. And Philip couldn't quite dismiss that first rush of adrenaline he had felt when he recognized this as his Ray Doyle.

Poor, mad boy that he was, he was still so amazingly close to everything Philip had envisioned as Doyle. Even more curious, all the things he hadn't even thought of were here now, fleshed out and total. He hadn't invented the chipped tooth in front or the uneven cheekbone, but now that he saw them, it was Ray. His Ray. And the mental picture he had unconsciously cherished for years was suddenly solid and wonderfully real. Even if Philip called for the ambulance and they took him away in a half hour, this would now and forever be his image of Ray Doyle.

The man stirred slightly on the couch and murmured something unintelligible. Then the green eyes flickered open. Seeing Philip, he smiled, easing back again.

"Uh...Bodie... M' sorry. Passed out on you, didn't I? Christ, my head hurts."

"It's okay," Philip told him soothingly. "I'll call a doctor." His wrist was caught before he could move toward the phone.

"No! Don't be stupid. I'll be all right in a minute. We can't waste any more time. We've got to get out of here before they find us."

Philip took the urgent hand from his arm and unconsciously held it, feeling an odd melting inside as he looked into the bright green eyes. Poor little bugger. Sick and lost and confused. It must be horrible.

Philip had never thought of himself as a particularly soft hearted man--quite the opposite, in fact. But sympathy and pity swelled up in him now, and he wished more than anything that he could help this man. This boy. For he hardly looked much older than that, so pale with hair curling wildly, eyes far too large in the fine-boned face.

Irritated at the unfamiliar wash of sentimentality, Philip pulled away and went to the phone. Time to get someone else to take charge of this pretty dimwit.

Before he took in what was happening, the phone was knocked from his hand to the floor. "I told you, we can't afford to use it! Don't you ever listen to me! It might not even be wise to use RT at the moment. I've got the chain, but until we know who and where to deliver it, we can't afford to take chances. I think we're on our own on this one."

Philip took a deep breath, trying to maintain a sense, of calm. "Listen .... uh ... Ray, I think you need help, okay? Just let me call for an ambulance and you'll--"

"Bodie, will you use your brain for a minute. I know I'm not okay. Christ, I can't even see straight--everything's all fuzzy. But we can't afford to worry about that now." He located his leather jacket and jerked it on. "Let's get out of here first, okay? Cowley's playing this very close. They wouldn't even acknowledge me at headquarters. It's got to be an Operation Susie."

"I beg your pardon?"

Doyle (or the incredible facsimile thereof) put his hand to his forehead, the pain obviously still intense. "Bodie, I didn't want to tell you, but I can't remember a whole lot about the op. I was hoping you knew more, but I guess Cowley kept you even more in the dark than me. Bloody typical. Still, I know we've got to keep running until Cowley gives us the signal. Or until we know who's safe to deliver the baby to."

"Signal? Baby? Susie who? Listen, Ray, sit down. You need to rest--"

"Don't you think I wish I could afford to?" Doyle snarled, jerking away. "Bodie we've wasted enough time."

"You're safe here," Philip said comfortingly. "Now why don't you just--"

There was the ping of glass cracking and a low thwummping sound. Doyle pushed him down flat on the floor.

"Jesus, that was close. I told you they would find us," he said ruefully. "I just didn't reckon it would be this quick."

Numb, Philip noted the bullet-size hole in the balcony glass, fanned all around with cracks. Then he turned to survey the matching hole in the paneling no more than a foot from where he had been standing.

"I don't believe this. Someone just shot at us."

Doyle spared him one sarcastic glance. "Thank you for the news flash." Then scrambled over to the coffee table on his stomach and seized the discarded gun.

It took only a second for Philip's own instincts to kick in. He reached the weapon an instant after Doyle. For a moment they tugged for possession.

Doyle relinquished it reluctantly. "Dammit, don't you have another gun?"

"No! And keep your bloody head down!" Philip rolled over and grabbed for the lamp cord, jerking it out of the wall. While it was still late afternoon, the storm had dimmed the natural light outside and accentuated targets in the brighter light. The action was so automatic, Philip didn't even think about it.

"Good move, mate," Doyle approved. "We might even make it to the door."

Philip glared at him in the dimness. "And go where the fuck? I don't even know what's going on."

Doyle considered it. "There must be a service entrance to these swanky flats, yes?"

"Yeah ... but--"

"So we take the stair down a couple of flights, duck in the service elevator and make our escape through the boiler room."

Forgetting how bizarre the whole situation was, Philip nixed the idea. "They could be watching the back. Bound to be. Front, too."

"And sides. So what's left, eh?"

Another bullet tore through the room and they both scrunched down.

"Whatever it is," Doyle commented sourly, "we'd better do it soon, or they'll just march on in here. You're not putting up much of fight."

Philip held his temper with an effort. "Gee, sorry about that. What do you want me to do? I don't even know who the hell I'm supposed to shoot at, let alone why."

"So let me have the friggin' gun, dammit. I'm a better marksman than you--with small arms anyhow."

Appalled, Philip protested angrily, "What the hell makes you think that? You have no idea what kind of shot--"

The next bullet--or series of bullets--dissolved the window in a shower of glass. "The roof," Philip decided suddenly. "The building to the east is close enough. We can jump."

"Oh, that's just peachy. You know I hate heights. Okay, let's go."

---

Thirty minutes later, W. Philip Andrew found himself sitting in a filthy alley filled with high smelling garbage and trying to catch his breath.

His companion was doubled over trying to do the same.

"You think we lost them?" Doyle asked, pushing back rain-soaked curls.

Personally, Philip welcomed the rain, certain that the rubbish they were sitting in would smell far worse without its dampening effect. As his heart slowly returned to a semi-normal beat, he faced the other man.

"Who the bloody hell are you?"

"Listen, mate, I'm sorry they tracked me. You're right, I shouldn't have come to the safehouse. But I didn't think I had a lot of choice, see? Like I said, we're on our own on this one."

Philip turned his eyes heavenward, wondering what he had done to deserve this. The man was mad as a hatter. He thought he was Ray Doyle. He thought he was Bodie, for god's sake. Neither of which were real people because, damn it all, he, W. Philip Andrew, had made them up in his own tiny mind. Okay, that was all perfectly reasonable. The man was mad and mad people had delusions.

But unfortunately that didn't explain the unavoidable detail that someone really was shooting at them. Philip knew this for a fact because he had been shot at before and hadn't liked it any better than he did now. It pretty much summed up why he tossed over the soldier business and became a writer in the first place. Being shot at was a bitch.

So maybe it wasn't Doyle (or the Doyle-like person) who was crazy. Maybe he was hallucinating. Or dreaming. But dreams didn't smell this bad. And if he had flipped, he was certain he wouldn't be shivering in the rain with a cuts on his arm from glass shards and a weak ankle from landing badly jumping over a bleeding rooftop.

It was too much like the old joke--yes, I'm paranoid; but there really are people out to get me.

"Do you know what I reckon?" Doyle offered thoughtfully. "There must be some kind of code engraved in this chain. Rendezvous points, targets, somethin' like that. They risked coming out into the open because they know we're onto them. But why didn't Cowley brief us? It doesn't make sense, mate."

Philip let his head fall back against, the wall and began to laugh, and couldn't stop laughing. He knew there was a hysterical edge to it, but he couldn't help it.

"Well, I'm glad you find it amusin'," Doyle sniffed. "I, for one, am bloody tired of being a chump for CI5."

Still chortling, Philip looked at him. "What's this chain you keep talking about?"

Doyle hooked his thumb under it and pulled it out of his collar. "It's got to be the key to the whole thing."

Philip sobered abruptly. Perhaps it was at that. If nothing else, it might be a way to trace this pathetic fellow's identity. "Do you remember where you got it?"

The green eyes narrowed in concentration. "I think ... yeah, this jeweler on Bond Street."

"Well, that's a good place to start." Philip stood and reached his hand down to help the other up.

Doyle looked puzzled. "But why...? Oh, I get it. Backtrack, right?" He tapped the side of his nose knowingly. "Very smart, mate."

Philip sighed. "Just come on."

They stopped at a pub first, Philip needing the fortification. The barkeep eyed his wet form doubtfully. "Still pouring down, is it?"

"'Fraid so. Two pints and a couple fingers of whiskey."

"Right-oh, mate." Juggling the drinks, Philip moved toward the table at the rear. The Doyle-person grinned at him happily, as if they'd done this a hundred times before. Doyle slid one of the pints toward him and made a grab for the whiskey glass. Philip stopped him.

"Oh no, son."

"What d'you mean, no? I'm of age."

"Just barely. Cheers." Philip downed it in two long swallows, and made a face. "Ah, that's better."

"So what about me?" Doyle demanded irately. "I'm cold an' wet and--"

"You've a bang on your head," Philip cut him off. "Terrible thing for a blow on the head, liquor. The beer's more than enough. Shut up and drink up."

Doyle grumbled and slurped at his glass, wiping away the froth with his shirt sleeve. "Cheap bugger. Who made you Dr. Kildare?"

"Necessity. Now listen, you say you got the chain from a shop on Bond Street, yes? Who was the man who gave it to you?"

Doyle looked thoughtful. "Another agent, I'd say."

"Why?"

"The look in his eyes, kinda shifty."

"So not one of the good guys?"

Doyle glanced at him. "God, Bodie, everyone in our business has shifty eyes. Just look at you."

"Thanks. I think." He patted his shirt pocket and came up with a half-crumbled and soggy packet of cigarettes. "Shit. I'll be back in a sec--"

"Excuse me." A man came up to the table, dark haired, dark eyed, with a definite Israeli accent. "May I speak to you please?"

Doyle looked him up and down rudely. "What do you want?"

"Maybe we can do a deal, you and I?"

"What kind of deal?"

Philip started to speak and Doyle held up a hand silencing him. "Spit it out, chum. What do you want?"

"You know what I want. It is only the price we must discuss. I will pay well."

Philip looked from one to the other, bewildered. It was the strangest pickup he'd ever seen. He had to admit that Doyle looked a bit like a hustler at the moment, with the wet, skin tight jeans, the brown leather jacket and the half-open silk shirt (his shirt!) that displayed the rather nancy-looking gold chain and an expanse of sleek chest hair. The green eyes were witchy and seductive as they slid over the Israeli. "You must want it pretty bad."

"It is ... of interest, yes. Others may not ask so nicely."

"Like the blokes coming through the door now?" Doyle responded, acidly sweet.

The Israeli swung around and uttered a word in Hebrew that even Philip understood. There were three men at the door, all of them superficially resembling their companion in coloring, but something screamed a totally different nationality. Arab.

They approached the table and the Israeli lifted his chin. "Yusef, I heard you had been recalled. Your preoccupation with pretty white teenage boys, wasn't it?"

"It is your sense of humor that will be the death of the Jews," the biggest one grumbled. "What is it you want here, Malichai?"

"What else, Yusef? Merely a peaceful drink. And you--of the Moslem faith--what can you possibly want here in a pub?"

"Information." His gaze shifted to Philip and Doyle. "A small talk with these two--" Doyle interrupted everything by turning over the table and delivering an elbow into Yusef's muscled midriff and tripping Malichai onto the other two.

"Bodie--come on!"

Philip, trapped deeper in the booth, wasted an entire half second gaping at the resulting havoc. The falling Arabs had landed in a pile of out-of-work foundry men, who didn't care a lot for foreigners at the best of times. Apologies in Arabic didn't quite cut the mustard. The fists began swinging and the melee increased geometrically. Only the Israeli had the presence of mind to slither under one of the tables and catch Doyle's arm as he darted toward the rear exit. Only a few steps and a couple of right crosses behind him, Philip caught part of the exchange.

"Don't be a fool! They'll find you."

"Not till I want them to," Doyle snarled, and twisted the man's arm in a classic hold and tossed him back into the rabble. "Come on, Bodie!"

Watching the Israeli fly across the room with an almost artistic grace, Philip's eyebrow lifted. There was a lot more to this Doyle-like man than met the eye. But so there also was to the Doyle of print. That had been part of his charm.

More confused than ever, Philip followed him out into the alley. If was empty except for more garbage. It was still raining listlessly. The overcast sky made it difficult to see in the shadowed dimness between the buildings.

"'Ey! Where are you?" He felt a twinge of anxiety. He didn't particularly want to lose the little madman. Not until had some answers to what was going on anyway.

"Pssssst." A curly head appeared around a dumpster. "What's wrong with you, Bodie? The coppers will be here in--"

The distant sound of sirens proved his point.

"Move it, dammit. We can't afford to waste our time answering questions. Particularly since I don't have my I.D. Do you?"

"Do I what?" Philip asked blankly.

"Your CI5 I.D., you berk! Did you leave it back at the flat?"

"Silly me. Yeah, didn't think to pick it up when we were being shot at. Maybe if we clap our hands real hard Tinkerbell will bring it, eh?"

Irritated, Doyle started to speak, but his expression changed in a flash and he grabbed Philip and shoved him down behind the steel barrier of a large trash bin. The ping on metal was unmistakable.

"Jesus. That's twice you've saved my life."

"Hold yer thanks for later, sunshine," Doyle said grimly.

"I wasn't thanking you, damn it, I just want to know who the hell's shooting at us!" Another bullet ricocheted off the alley wall and landed uncomfortably near his feet. He inched back up against the dumpster. "Who the fuck are you?! What do they want?"

"They want the chain, what else?"

Another bullet impacted the brick wall a few feet from Philip's head. "And inside, the Israeli? That's what he wanted? I thought he was making a pass at you!"

The look Doyle gave him was scathing. "Bodie, are you sure it wasn't you got the lump on the head?"

"I'm beginning to wonder," Philip mumbled, as another bullet clanked against the dumpster, reminding him of their situation. "So if that's all they want, give 'em the bleedin' chain already! This is insane!"

Doyle eyed him ruefully. "Oh very funny. What would the Cow say about that, eh?"

"He doesn't exist! It's part of a book. There is no George Cowley or CI5 or--"

They both ducked as rust and shards of metal scattered around them.

Doyle was amused. "Sell the story to him, mate. He seems a reasonable sort." Another barrage of bullets sent a protruding mass of garbage falling over their heads, chopped into confetti.

"Okay, that's it. Now I'm pissed." Philip wiped limp lettuce from his hair and drew the gun from his waistband. He motioned for Doyle to move over to give him a better angle. Doyle hesitated.

"Give me the gun, mate. There's only one of them from what I can tell. On the roof opposite. I can take him out."

Philip studied him doubtfully. Still, from the elevation and trajectory of the bullets, it made sense. The sniper had a clear view of the alley. They were helpless behind the trash bin and it was only a matter of time--and the sniper's ammunition--before they were plugged.

"Who is he?" Philip asked, not really expecting an answer.

"Russian, I'd bet," Doyle replied, flattening himself even more against the dumpster. "Russian-made weapon, anyhow."

"What?" As far as he was concerned it was some bloke trying to put a hole in him; he hadn't been particularly concerned about his nationality or the make of his weapon. Another barrage of bullets made him stop and pay attention. Doyle could be right. It did sound like a AK-47. Russian? Jesus, what the hell was going on?

"Give me the bloody gun, Bodie," Doyle gritted out, "before it's too late."

It didn't make a lot of sense, giving a madman a loaded weapon, but then again none of this was exactly sensible.

Hell, why not? Doyle might be nuts, but he obviously had a better handle on the circumstances than he.

Philip handed over the Walther with an ironic bow. "Be my guest."

The next thing he knew he was being showered with glass from the sign over the delicatessen above them. The neon A in EATS was history. Thereafter followed the destruction of two streetlamps and a window.

He grabbed for Doyle. "Give me that damn ... gun ... back!"

Doyle let it go reluctantly. "My eyes .... geez, my sight's still all screwed up."

"No kidding," Philip grumbled. "Exactly how much can you see, anyway?" He pointed to the opposite wall and the faded sales bill proclaiming a local punk rock group called "FLYING PIGS" in large scarlet letters. "How much can you read of that poster?"

"What poster?"

"Oh lord, and I gave him a gun," Philip groaned. "Okay then. So we hang tight and wait for the coppers to handle it."

"Christ, Bodie, before they make it out here, he'll have got at least one of us. You know that!"

This was a distinct possibility. Every shot was inching closer and the gunman was zeroing in his ricochets. And a spent bullet could kill a man as sure as a direct one. The assailant seemed inordinately patient about it, obviously realizing there was nowhere for them to run. Sooner or later they would either have to make a break for it, or he would luck out on a side-shot. The coppers would spend too much time clearing up the fight in the pub. And odds are they wouldn't be armed anyway. They were ruddy sitting ducks.

"Oh fuck it." He pushed Doyle to one side and waited until the target took another potshot. Cleanly, sharply he narrowed on the shooter and pulled the trigger. There was a cutoff screech and a dark form dropped two stories to the littered floor of the alley.

"You got 'im."

Philip stared down at his gun, stunned. "Yeah, I got him." Oh yes, he got him. He remembered the feeling. Oh, God, what have I done?

He turned to one side and threw up.

Several seconds, or several minutes, or several years later, he felt gentle hands on his shoulders.

"Bodie, we have to move. The coppers'll be out any minute. We've gotta get away from here."

Pulling out the edge of his shirttail, Doyle wiped Philip's mouth, steadying him. "It's okay, sunshine. Come on, we don't have time to mess about."

Philip looked at him, feeling empty, physically and mentally. "That's my shirt."

Doyle chuckled. "You're okay. Come on." He pulled the other man up and they made their shaky way out of the alley into the wan sunlight.

Philip couldn't remember when it had stopped

---

The next time Philip could think clearly, he found himself in a very nasty hole-in-the-wall cafe. "Why are we here?" he asked listlessly. "Where are we?"

"I was hungry. And so must you be."

"No."

"That's a first," Doyle teased, then his smile faded at the distraught expression in the blue eyes. "Hey, mate? What is it?"

"I killed him. Don't you understand?"

Doyle was puzzled. "Of course you did. He was trying to kill us. No big deal, Bodie."

"No big deal? Are you mad--no, you are mad. And so am I, obviously." He buried his face in his hands.

"I don't get you. This is hardly the first--"

"No, you're right," Philip cut in blackly. "It's not even close to the first. But I thought I'd done the last, y'see. I thought that was over and done with. Years ago..."

"Years ago?" Doyle's expression was even more bewildered. "I don't understand."

Philip waved a hand in dismissal, finally beginning to get a grip on himself. He kept forgetting who he was dealing with. "Never mind. Let it go. I know you can't understand--"

"Not unless you tell me, no!" Now the green eyes were angry. "You always say I won't understand, and how can I when you don't tell me jackshit? Did you know him, Bodie? Is that it? Was it someone from your old mob? Or ... Africa?"

Philip wondered idly if there was something to that old adage about getting up on the wrong side of the bed. What about the wrong side of the Twilight Zone? "No, Ray," he said patiently. "I didn't know him. He was a complete stranger. I just don't happen to get a kick out of shooting people, okay?"

"Bodie, stop it. It's me that always worries about this kind of thing, not you!"

Philip looked up at the distressed man across the chipped formica. "Oh, yeah. That's how I wrote it."

Ignoring the words, the other man reached out his hand and touched Philip's. "Don't do this to yourself. He would have killed us. You know that."

Somehow his hand turned until their palms met and fingers interlaced. For a long time they looked at each other, their hands holding tight.

"I know it bothers you, Bodie. I've always known that. I'm sorry I've been so cold about it but sometimes you have to be or it'll eat you alive. That's what you've told me all these years, isn't it?"

Philip didn't answer. He just stared into a face that seemed so uniquely familiar to him it was as if he had known him for a lifetime.

Then the waitress appeared bringing tea and sausage sandwiches and they jerked apart self-consciously.

---

They left the cafe and stood on the corner waiting to flag down a taxi. One pulled up across the street and Doyle darted out to catch it, saved from being turned to pudding by Philip's quick hand on his collar jerking him back only inches from a passing bus.

"Listen, let me lead the way, okay?" Philip pleaded, his heart still in his throat.

"Why? What's wrong?"

Philip sighed. At this rate, bullets were only a minor hazard. "Never mind, Mister Magoo. Just stick close, please?"

They entered the cab and Doyle instructed the driver to go to Bond Street.

"Maybe we should just go by my garage and pick up the Ferrari," Philip wondered aloud.

Doyle snorted. "Yeh, but let's swing by and check up on my Maserati first."

Philip opened his mouth then shut it. Being at a loss for words was becoming a chronic condition this afternoon. But then he'd never dealt with a madman on a personal basis before. He leaned back in the seat, deciding to let the situation evolve at its own speed. At least until he discovered Doyle's true identity.

They rode in silence a couple of miles until Philip felt an itchy sensation at the back of his neck. He glanced around. The car behind them was unfamiliar, but some instinct told him they were up to no good. He told the driver to make a couple of turns. A few minutes later, the black sedan reappeared. A little farther back, but unmistakably the same car.

"Trouble?" Doyle murmured.

"Maybe." Philip leaned forward and told the driver to speed it up and turn right two streets up.

The driver shrugged and obeyed. Their shadow stuck to them faithfully. Philip leaned back and considered the situation. Whoever was following them probably didn't want his autograph. What they wanted was Doyle, or the man who thought he was Doyle. After two gun battles, it was a bit difficult to maintain disbelief. Whoever this fellow really was, he had obviously made a lot of nasty enemies. The most logical step to avoid trouble was to ditch the troublemaker.

Toying with the idea of getting out and leaving the other man to deal with the consequences, Philip came to the reluctant decision that he couldn't abandon him just yet. The man thought he was Doyle and that presented Philip with the responsibility (however esoteric) of keeping him safe. At least until he could relinquish custody to someone more capable. "Turn left and then right," he told the

"Wha's up, guv'nor?"

"A big tip, if you do as you're told," Philip snapped.

"Right-oh!" And he gunned it, making the cab lay rubber and endanger sensible traffic patterns. When they still didn't lose their persistent tail, Philip set his jaw tightly. "Okay, pull over here." He tossed a wad of bills at the cabbie and pushed Doyle out. They pelted down an alley and up a fire escape, the sound of squealing tires and slamming doors following them as the other car came to a sudden stop.

Doyle glanced at Philip, then used his boot to kick out the glass of a window. They crawled through into an empty flat and ran past the missing door into a hallway of peeling wallpaper and the smell of old urine.

"Downstairs," Doyle suggested, and they ran down the rickety steps and out the back. The back alley wasn't much different than the side except it contained more rubbish. They could hear footsteps thundering on the stairs.

Philip gestured, and Doyle melted back against the wall, waiting.

The man that came through the doorway was beefy and breathless from his quick climb. Philip put him down with a quick flip and punch.

The second man confronted Doyle, who whacked him in the jaw with his fist, then stared at his crumpled hand in consternation.

"Ow!" Doyle looked back up at the man towering over him, who was holding his jaw and looking peeved. He swung at Doyle. Doyle ducked. A brick wall turned out to be even more painful than a jawbone.

The accent was German, the words unrepeatable in mixed company. He went after Doyle again, but the smaller man was too quick to catch, leaping up to catch the fire escape and landing a swinging kick squarely in the chin.

Philip paused in his movement to intervene, watching as the man hit the wall and slipped down it wearing a dumbfounded expression.

Philip was almost as amazed. He stepped over and looked down at the two unconscious men. "That was pretty good. Where did you learn to--"

Doyle wasn't listening, already busy searching the pockets. "Just like I thought, East German, right?" He squinted at the I.D., then shook his right hand, wincing.

Philip took the I.D. and inspected it. This was the first tangible evidence he had of how deep they were in the shit. "I don't believe it. East German, diplomatic bloody immunity. So what the hell's he doin' chasing us? Chasing you." He looked at Doyle. "Israeli, Arab, Russian, now East German. What are the hell are you into, sunshine?"

Doyle was still nursing his bruised hand, sucking on the scraped knuckles. "I told you, it's bigger than we thought."

Philip let out his breath and dropped the wallet. "Oh yeah, that's fairly clear." He took another deep breath and tried to think logically. "Okay, let's trace this back as far as we can. You think it's the chain they're after. Let's find the place you got it."

---

"That's it, across the way." Doyle peered around the corner. "The shop near the hairdressers."

"Okay, let's go talk to the proprietor." Philip started to move and Doyle caught him suddenly and thrust him flat against the alley wall.

"Wait! Jesus, I think that's one of them. I know it is!"

"What are you talking about? Who?"

"That bird, see? The redhaired one going in."

Philip peered around the corner of the building. The woman was petite, with a pretty but sharp face and a Sloane Ranger style of dress. She looked very put out. "One of whom?"

"One of the terrorists. I remember her." His face was bleak and troubled. "She'll know me.

"This from the man who keeps walking into traffic? How can you possibly see her from this distance?"

"Not her face... the way she walks. The way she--" He broke off and took a shaky breath. Philip was surprised to see that Ray suddenly looked very afraid. Even more so than when they were being shot at. "I just know her, Bodie. She's trouble. Trust me."

"Okay, but she don't know me," Philip assured him calmly. "Will you stay right here while I check it out?"

Doyle seemed ambivalent.

"Ray, promise me? Stay right here, okay?"

"Okay, but be careful."

Philip crossed the street and entered the jewelers, wondering why the hell he didn't call the nearest bobby and point out the madman in the alley. Well, he might just do that. After he found out a bit of information. Like who the hell this Doyle fellow really was and why somebody--hell, everybody--was shooting at him.

The redhead at the counter was being extremely obnoxious--typical to the species of bitch he recognized.

"I told you, I'm Ann Holly and my fiancé was supposed to pick it up Friday afternoon. He's disappeared and now you're telling me you neither have my property nor any record that it was collected. What kind of establishment is this?"

The clerk was leafing through his files, looking harassed. "I'm so sorry, Miss Holly. But we don't have anything--"

"I'll have you know my father is a very important man, and you will be more than sorry once--"

There was a screech of tires outside, a crash of bullets that smashed the plate glass window, and then a thud of something solid hitting the counter and bouncing off, rolling with an uneven thump toward the back of the shop. Philip had dropped to the floor at the sound of the car, yanking the girl down with him in reflex.

Now he stared at the small pear-shaped gift and what little breath he had left was used to scream the word, "Grenade!"

He grabbed up the hysterical woman and shoved her out the front door and down behind a parked car. The explosion blew out the last fragments of glass in the windows and most of the rear of the shop. Nearly deafened, Philip shook the debris from his hair and sat up.

Ann Holly was screaming shrilly and he was very tempted to slap the shit out of her. Instead, he tried to ask if she was hurt. Her answer was another wild-eyed scream.

Luckily his hearing was muffled.

He didn't hear the sirens approaching either.

---

"I've told you, my name is William Philip Andrew. I'm a writer. I don't know anything more about the explosion than I've already told you."

"Yes, indeed. A writer. And one of your characters has come to life. Very gratifying, I'm sure." The Scotland Yard detective smiled at him across the cluttered desk. Detective Sergeant Delaney had just been promoted three months ago, and this was the most interesting thing that had occurred so far. "Does this happen often?"

Philip slumped back in the hard chair and rubbed his face, wincing as he brushed over a scrape on his cheek from the blast. "Like I told you before, this fellow thinks he's a character from my books. I don't think he is. I think he's sick. And in trouble. And he's still out there somewhere."

"But instead of taking him to hospital, you decided to visit a jewelry shop where a terrorist bomb just happened to blow?"

"It wasn't a bomb, it was a grenade. I've told you that, too. That lady--the one in the shop. She must've said--"

"Miss Holly is under sedation at the moment. From what little we've made out so far, you used her rather brutally."

"I saved her life! There wasn't a lot of time to be a gentleman about it!"

"Ummm." Delaney wrote a note on the file then got to his feet and leaned heavily against the desk, staring down at the other man.

"You don't happen to have a cigarette, do you?" Philip asked hopefully.

"Perhaps, if you would give me some straight answers."

Philip chuckled. "Christ, what incentive do your lot use with hardened criminals? Hold out bathroom privileges?"

Delaney frowned and jerked out a desk drawer. He offered Philip a cigarette and lit it for him. Philip nodded his thanks as he inhaled deeply, his eyes amused.

"Okay, I confess. I killed the Kennedys and Bambi's mother."

"Good. That Bambi case has been open for years."

Philip blew a smoke ring, his amusement fading. "Do you really think I'd make up a story like this?"

"Well, you are a writer and writers are .... fanciful. Would you believe it if you were in my shoes?"

"I dunno. I guess not."

"You keep insisting it was a grenade, not a bomb. We don't have the forensics reports yet. So what makes you so sure, eh?"

"I saw the bloody thing!"

"Of course you did."

Philip was very glad he hadn't mentioned anything about the shooting in the alley. Somehow he didn't think they would buy his point of view on the matter. Oddly enough, no one had asked him about it. Perhaps because they didn't connect the two events or ... because the body had been swiftly removed by someone who wanted the incident kept private.

"Why, Mr. Andrew, does a writer have the need for the hand gun we found in your possession?"

"I have a license for that."

"Yes, indeed you do. Interesting."

Not for the first time, Philip was wondering exactly what kind of mess he had fallen into. "Listen, I've been here for four hours and we've been around this a dozen times. Just call my agent--no, he's in New York. Call my publisher, then. George Cowley. He'll tell you who I am."

"Oh, we know who you are, Mr. Andrew." He picked up a file and leafed through it. "CID came up with quite a bit of information on you. Obviously, you are very familiar with grenades. And guns. And bombs. In fact, you used to make your living killing people for money, isn't that correct?"

Philip froze. "I wasn't an assassin, if that's what you mean."

"But you were a mercenary at one point--what, eight years ago?"

"Ten years, actually. And my record is clean. I was also in--"

"The Paras and the SAS, yes, we know. And left rather abruptly to pursue ... other interests."

Grimly, Philip repeated, "I'm a writer. I've told you everything I know."

"Yes, all about this crazy person who thinks he's a some kind of supercop and is being chased by unknown assailants. Forgive me if I sound skeptical."

"You can't hold me."

"Hold you, Mr. Andrew? Tut-tut. Surely a public-minded private citizen like yourself will be happy to cooperate with the authorities. It seems MI6 would like to have a word with you as well. They're sending over a man to pick you up."

"I've said all I have to say until I have a lawyer present." He stubbed out his cigarette in a paperclip dish on the desk. "I want a phone call as well."

Delaney's eyes narrowed in irritation at the action, but was too much of a professional to let it push his temper. "But you're not under arrest, Mr. Andrew. Not yet, anyway. Not until you give up these fairy stories and present us with some--"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Come!"

A sergeant stuck his head in. "The MI6 bloke is here, sir."

"Well, send him in."

A second later an oddly familiar voice made Philip stiffen in his chair. "Is this the suspect?"

"Yes, uh ... is it sergeant?"

"We don't have rank in MI6." Doyle flashed an I.D. "Name's McCabe. Have you got any information out of him yet?"

The detective looked puzzled. "But I thought MI6 did have rank--?"

"New policy," Doyle snapped. He looked Philip up and down. "He looks peaceful enough. Any trouble?"

"No, sir. But he's been telling some pretty tall tales."

"They all do," Doyle replied laconically.

"Now wait a minute," Philip interjected. "You don't understand. This is the man I was--"

"May I have the file?"

"Yes, sir. It's all here."

"Will you listen to me!" Philip demanded. "This is the man I've been telling you about--"

"Now, don't give me any trouble, son," Doyle warned darkly. "I don't wanna have to use the cuffs."

Philip looked from Doyle to Delaney and buried his face in his hands. "I don't believe this. I just don't fuckin' believe this is happening."

Doyle snapped his fingers impatiently. "Come on, I don't have all day."

"You'll need to sign this," Miller held out a clipboard.

"Of course." Doyle scribbled on it. "Thank you for your cooperation, Detective."

"Our pleasure, sir. Anything else we can do, just let us know."

Philip was laughing again and didn't have the strength to protest when Doyle levered him out of the chair and out the door.

"Be careful of him," Miller warned. "He's an odd one."

Doyle nodded wisely. "I'm always careful."

---

As the taxi moved away, Philip asked weakly, "Where next? Oz?"

Doyle leaned forward and directed the driver to Victoria Station. They were silent for the rest of the journey. Philip didn't even bother to ask where they were going. At this point, he wasn't sure he even cared. He was tired to the bone, his bruises ached and he was sure his clothes were starting to mildew. By his watch it was only a little after 11:00 p.m., but this strange day had lasted an eternity already.

They got out of the cab and Doyle looked at him expectantly. "Pay the man."

Philip patted his back pocket. "Uh...they still have my wallet at the station."

"That's just great," Doyle growled, going into his own pocket for the brown wallet he had flashed at the Scotland Yard man earlier. "You owe me, mate."

Philip didn't have the energy to answer that. But he did have a question. "Okay, what are we doing here?"

"We have to hide out somewhere, right? I thought we'd play with our trains a while."

"Trains?" Then he remembered and groaned. "Jeezus, that was just a bit in a friggin' book! My friggin' book! You don't honestly expect to spend the night in an abandoned railcar, do you?"

But Doyle was already crossing the empty tracks toward the dark warehouses. "Come on, and watch yer step. It's black as shit out here."

"Listen, why don't we just go back to my place, eh?"

"Don't be an ass. They'll have it staked out."

"So let's get a hotel room. I'd sell my soul for a hot bath, dry clothes and some food."

"Stop thinking of your stomach, Bodie. You don't have any money, remember? And I don't have a whole lot." He wrenched open a rusty door of an abandoned car. "Here, this one looks okay."

Eyes adjusting to moonlight through dirty and cracked windows, Philip followed him down the narrow passage. Doyle kicked open a compartment door. "Here, first class. Just your style, mate." He dropped down on the torn vinyl seat and let out a long breath. "I don't know about you, but I'm knackered."

Philip sat down across from him. "Where the devil did you get that I.D.?"

"After you were stupid enough to let yerself get nicked after the blast, I followed them to the station. Once I knew where they were holding you, I nipped over to Whitehall and picked a few pockets until I came up with something useful. I tried calling Cowley from a payphone first, but I got a disconnect reading. They must've bugged out of the old HQ. Something's up, mate. I think it's bigger than either of us figured."

"Picked pockets? At Whitehall? Well, you should have plenty of money."

"No, I gave the ones back I couldn't use, of course. Told 'em they dropped them. Very grateful, they were."

Such selective honesty seemed about as reasonable as anything else had that day. "How did you know you'd come up with MI6?"

"I didn't. Actually, I was hoping for some kind of diplomatic card or some kind of military credentials. But I got lucky with MI6. Didn't need to adjust my wardrobe much, and that saved some time."

"I take it you also made the call alerting them to the pickup?"

"Of course. They would've been a lot more suspicious otherwise. This way, they practically breezed me through. Glad to see the back of you, I'd imagine."

"Thanks," Philip replied sarcastically. "So now I'm a fugitive from Scotland Yard thanks to you."

"How can you be a fugitive? They never formally arrested you, did they?"

Philip had to concede that. "But they thought I was a fruitcake when I told them about you. So at the very least they'll be looking for me with a butterfly net."

"Told them what about me?"

The moonlight spilled over the uneven cheekbones, accentuating the perfect nose and soft curve of his mouth. For a long moment Philip just stared at him, feeling again that peculiar softening in his gut.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," he said softly. Then, "I take it your head is better?"

"Yeah ... well, mostly. It comes and goes, and I still can't see for shit. You should've seen me trying to make out the print on those I.D.'s I lifted. If this keeps up, I'm gonna have to get glasses, mate."

"Ray," Philip asked gently, "how much do you remember?"

"Of what?" The response was suspicious, wary.

"Of anything. Of who you are. Who I am. All of it."

There was a moment of tense silence, then Doyle let out his breath. "You know me too well, don't you? Okay, so I'm a little confused at the moment. That bang on the head, I suppose. There are ... pieces missing." He paused, troubled. "But I know you, Bodie. Better than anything, I know you."

Surprised at the answer, Philip wanted to know, "But why Bodie ...I mean me ... specifically?"

"I dunno. Jeezus, do we need to talk about this now? I'm knackered. We need to get some sleep. Tomorrow could be rough." Doyle curled up on the seat, using his arm for a pillow. "Goodnight, Bodie."

Philip had no idea what to do now. He couldn't think clearly, and the sudden ache in his throat made it difficult to speak. Finally, he whispered, "Goodnight, Ray," and lay down himself. Things had to make more sense in the morning--they could hardly be more bewildering.

---

Morning brought little enlightenment, but at least Philip thought of a place they could go. Getting out of the City for a while seemed a good idea. He didn't want to face a repeat of the previous day.

"My aunt lives in Kent. A little village not far from Epping. Do you have enough money to get us there by train? We could walk from there."

"I think so. I didn't know you had an aunt, Bodie."

"Bodie doesn't," Philip said irritably. It was 6:30 a.m., his clothes were dry but stiff, his bruises were developing bruises and his stomach was sure his mouth had gone on strike. "Philip Andrew has an Aunt Elizabeth with a country house in Kent, okay? She's a tad eccentric, which considering our current state of affairs is a distinct plus."

"Ah, another safehouse. Terrific."

Philip rolled his eyes and surrendered to the inevitable. "Well, let's move. The next train's in a half hour and they're liable to pick us up as vagrants the way we look at the moment."

---

"Now, Miss Holly," Gleeson said kindly, "Tell us everything you know about your fiancé."

"There's nothing to tell. He's a librarian. I don't understand any of this. He just vanished in thin air. He was supposed to pick me up Friday evening and... Well, he sometimes forgets things, but not this badly. And then I find out that they've given my lovely gold chain away to maybe an utter stranger--it goes to a locket my Daddy gave me on my 21st, you see--and that Raymond didn't even go home that night. No one has seen him since he left work at 3:00. I'm really very worried. This simply isn't like him at all. And I have no idea who claimed my chain, if it wasn't Raymond--"

"Tell me, Miss Holly, has Mr. Dibble ever offered any views on communism?"

"What? No, don't be silly. Goodness, he voted conservative in the last election. What's that got to do with--"

"Has he come into any money recently?"

"This is ridiculous! If you know where Raymond is--"

"That's just what we're trying to ascertain, Miss Holly. Please be patient. This man who saved you from the bomb blast, a Mr. William Philip Andrew, had you ever seen him before?"

"I should say not. A very rude man, if you ask me. I have a dreadful scrape on my arm where he pushed--no THRUST me to the pavement. My doctor tells me it might even leave a scar."

"That's a real pity, little lady," Gleeson said absently. "So you had no knowledge of this man prior to this incident?"

"No! Now when are you going to find my Raymond? And my gold chain?"

"As quickly as possible, I assure you, thank you for your help."

As soon as the door shut behind her, Gleeson propped his boots on the desk and looked ruefully at Baxter. "Lordy, what a bitch-on-wheels. Enough to turn any man a commie. I'm almost beginnin' to feel sorry for this Dibble feller."

---

Before they reached the station, Philip made a decision. While he had no idea what was going on, if the chain Doyle kept talking about was so important, the most logical move was to get rid of it as quickly as possible.

To which purpose he expended some of Doyle's ill-gotten gains, purchasing envelopes, stamps and the rental price of a locker at the station.

"Give me the chain."

"Are you sure--"

"Give me the bloody chain."

Doyle handed it over reluctantly. Philip put it in an envelope and stowed it in the locker. He presented Doyle with the key. "You, however, may keep this ... for the moment. Give me some change."

"More? You've already--"

"Oh, please. I know I wrote you as tight, but a few p. won't--"

Glaring, Doyle slapped some change in his hand. "I'm not tight, I'm careful."

"Thank you, Mr. Exchequer."

"You're welcome. Just remember where you got it. What're you going to do?"

"Call Cowley."

Doyle sighed. "About time. Do you think he'll give us any answers this time?"

"Not that Cowley--Oh, never mind. Stay here, okay?" He went into the kiosk and shut the door, keeping one eye on his unpredictable madman.

"George? Listen, I don't have much change, so I've gotta speak fast. I'm in trouble. There's this feller that thinks he's Ray Doyle and--"

"Philip, is that you, man?"

"Yes, it's me. Just listen, dammit. I told you, I'm in trouble. There are people shooting at us. I can't explain it now, but I'm sending you something by post. It's a key. I don't know if it's important or not, but keep it to yourself, all right? Put it in your safe until I tell you different. I don't know what else to do with it."

"Philip, what are you talking about? What's going on?"

"I've no idea, except that it... Well, I simply don't know at the moment. But when you get that key, put it in your safe, okay?"

"This is very irregular, Philip. I think you should--"

The pips sounded in the receiver. "I've gotta go. I'll call you when I can and explain ... as much as I can--"

The line cut off.

Philip hung up the receiver with regret. Cowley had been his only link with sanity--which was a sad state of affairs when he thought about it. The man was still living in the Empire. Still, Cowley was the best bet he had of any real help since Murphy was out of the country.

"What did he say?" Doyle asked brightly as Philip came out of the kiosk.

"Give me the key."

"What?"

"Give me the key to the locker."

"Why?"

"We're sending it to Cowley." Leaning against the booth, Philip scrawled the address on the envelope. He tucked the key inside and dropped it into the nearby mailbox. "Okay, we're free of it now. If it's the chain they're after, we're clear of it."

Doyle looked at the mailbox, then looked at Philip. "You think it's something else? Not the chain?"

Philip grinned. "I think I should've put you in an envelope and mailed you to Cowley."

"Oh, you're a riot, Bodie," Doyle grimaced.

"Aren't I just. You should see it from the other side of the mirror, Alice."

"What?"

"Never mind. Come on, we'll miss the train."

---

It was a long walk from the village to Aunt Elizabeth's country house. Philip had forgotten that. Or actually, he never knew it because he'd never been forced to walk before. Now his feet hurt and the gloriously blooming countryside didn't appeal in the least.

Doyle seemed to agree. He sneezed explosively at least a dozen times, and his eyes were watering.

"What's wrong? Hay fever?"

"Don't be stupid. I don't have-- ACHOOOOO"

"Silly me," Philip mumbled. "What can I have been thinking?"

"How much further?" Doyle demanded grumpily, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Philip made a face. "Do you have to do that? It's revolting."

"Just answer the question, Miss Manners. Where the hell is this house?"

Philip stopped and pointed. "There. You can see the roof over those trees. Maybe another mile."

"Cowley better give us a payrise for this," Doyle complained, taking the opportunity of the halt to remove a pebble from his boot.

Philip patted his empty pockets mournfully. "Christ, I wish I had a cigarette."

Doyle glanced up frowning. "Since when did you smoke?"

"Since when--?" Philip shut up, surrendering once again to the inevitable. "Never mind. Just hurry up, will you?"

"Sod off," Doyle growled, struggling with his boot.

Philip stared down at his companion who was sitting on his behind in the middle of a country lane, curls tumbling over his forehead and a look of total concentration screwing up his face as he tugged off his tight boot. His shirt was open, revealing an expanse of lightly furred chest.

Despite himself, Philip grinned. "Gawd, you're cute when you're pissy."

The green eyes tossed up a few daggers. "Pleeeze, it'll go to me head, all this flattery. " He shoved the boot back on and reached up. "Com'on, give us a hand."

Philip helped him up, holding the arm a minute longer than necessary, feeling the wiry muscles and the warmth of the skin.

I wish I knew who you really were, he thought suddenly, wistfully.

They continued down the lane and Philip pushed the idea from his mind. The man was balmy. He couldn't forget that. The trouble was, the more time they spent together, the harder it was to remember. Doyle was the most comfortable companion Philip had ever known--and these were hardly comfortable circumstances. But he found himself losing track of those circumstances, falling into an easy, homey relationship with man as if he'd known him for years.

Ridiculous. This idiot thought he was Bodie. And treated him like Bodie--or the Bodie he envisioned in the strange workings of his troubled mind, because Philip couldn't remember ever writing Bodie that clearly. While he'd used his own life experience as a skeletal background for Bodie, he'd seldom went into detail of it, finding it either too boring or too upsetting to dwell on. But this man seemed to see so much more than had ever made it to paper. He didn't know how or why, but time and again Doyle would say something that would draw him up short in amazement because it was right on the mark, going dangerously beneath any surface gloss he had given Bodie and directly to W. Philip Andrew himself.

Even more unsettling, he found it impossible not to be drawn to this man who was Ray Doyle. He embodied everything Philip had ever wanted in a friend. Why shouldn't he, after all? The blueprint was there in the books and he was faithfully following it. Irascible, tenacious, snappish and sarcastic--all salt to season the rock-solid goodness of the Doyle character. And all window dressing to conceal the depth of loyalty and affection that both the characters books found difficult to express. Or that Philip had been unable to express in his own life. And he felt it now, coming from this stranger. An intangible warmth and sweetness that melted some long frozen core inside.

It was a disturbing thought, and he shut it out ruthlessly. Once at Aunt Elizabeth's, he would call in a doctor and have Doyle--or whoever he was--taken care of. And then he could figure out who was trying to kill them. Or kill Doyle rather. Perhaps he got mixed up with the mob; a bad gambling debt or something.

But the mob didn't generally use grenades.

They reached the house before Philip came to any definite decision on his course of action.

"Nice," Doyle approved.

Elizabeth was working in the garden at the front and was delighted to see her nephew. She was a very tiny lady with carefully styled hair with only a hint of blue in the white-rinse. She had the face of an angel, and big dark brown eyes. "Philip, it's been ages, dear! What brings you out here?"

"It's a long story, Elizabeth. This is ... uh... Ray Doyle. Friend of mine. We're in a spot of trouble."

Her eyes lit up. "How exciting. What kind of trouble, dear?"

"I wish I knew. I was hoping we could spend a night or two and figure it out."

"Of course. How do you do, young man?"

Doyle smiled sweetly. "Fine, thank you ma'am. Do you work for Cowley then?"

She looked at Philip quizzically.

"I