PART ONE

Friday.

It wasn't quite planned yet, but Curtis saw things couldn't wait. Using his binoculars he saw how a lean, remarkably blond man was threatening the athletic figure in dark clothes. The red-haired man was standing exactly in Curtis' sight in a poorly lit room. The dark figure stepped backwards, further into the shade, pushed backwards by the unspoken threat from not only Blondie but also four other undetermined persons in the same storage room. Curtis felt his stomach turn when very suddenly Blondie pulled out a gun from under his jacket and pointed it to the shady figure.

"Now! Go go go!", Curtis shouted, the urgency in his voice strengthened by the fear for the dark figure.

Curtis and his team forced their way into the warehouse, at the same time, Spencer's team entered from the rear. There was a lot of noise, flashes of light, gunfire, shouting, cries, doors and windows shattering - the confusion was complete. When the signal was given that it was over, his concern was no longer for the group arrested; his eyes searched the place for a sign of the man he had seen only vaguely.

"Chris!", he shouted. "Chris! Where are you?!" He quickly headed for the place where he had last seen his partner, at the far side of the warehouse. By now all the lights were turned on and the place was flooded with very white light that left little shadows. Curtis called out again, and then he checked as he saw his partner. Amidst hundreds of little shards of glass Chris Keel was lying on the ground, very still. Curtis dropped to his knees at Keel's side.

"Chris?" Curtis' voice was a little unsteady. His partner lay there, eyes closed, a nasty gash running straight over his forehead from above his right eyebrow to somewhere in his very short and spiky hair. Blood ran fast in red streaks over his pale face and trickled onto his clothing, the floor, Curtis' hands.

"Chris?" Curtis tried to will away the trembling of his fingers and clenched his fists to steady them. Then he put two fingers in Chris' neck, in search for a pulse. It was there alright. But this man needed medical care right away!

"Call an ambulance! Agent down! Priority A!" Curtis shouted to the people in the warehouse. Immediately Backup popped up behind him.

"Sam? Where is … What happened… Is he….?" As she saw Chris she was suddenly short of words. Sam Curtis took off his coat and put it gently over his partner.

"Chris, open your eyes. Can you hear me? It's over. We're all here, buddy. Me, and Backup and Spence and a lot of other guys. C'mon mate, you don't want to be caught with you eyes closed now, do you?" Curtis spoke softly, gently, but Backup noticed the fear and anxiety in Sam's voice. She knew he feared for Chris Keel's life. They had been partners for more than three years now and they were a rare breed, the two of them. Just like in the old days the famous Bodie and Doyle were a team that had set an example to many agents later on, they too possessed that unique feeling of two-acting-as-one. From the very first time they were put on an assignment together it has worked beautifully. Their combined skills and talents plus their very different characters melded into one of the best working partnerships ever within CI5. The former head of CI5, the late George Cowley, had been known to search for these characteristics within his group. And so had Malone. It had been a long shot, a gamble to put such opposites together. But it worked. Few agents confided in each other the way they did: their trust in one another was absolute. They were partners. And friends.

And so Backup watched in silence as Curtis hovered above his friend and tried to talk him, to wake up. Then suddenly, a sigh, a whimper.

"Sam..?" Chris' voice was barely a whisper.

"Right here, Chris. It's all over. Can you hear me?" Curtis replied.

"It hurts, Sam… My … head. Sam..?"

"I know, Chris, I know. Lay still, don't try to move. You're a lucky bastard, you are. Or he was a poor shot, that is. Standing few feet away from you and still missing that big head of yours…" Airily Sam Curtis tried to ease his partner. Carefully he brushed away the pieces of glass that covered Chris. It became clear what must have happened. Blondie must have fired, sliced Chris' forehead and the blow must have thrown him backwards - straight through the glass door. The wooden frame still hung in its place, little pieces of glass sticking dangerously out of the timber.

Chris moaned, then asked again with his barely audible voice "Did you… get… him?"

"O yes, we did. The not-so-honorable doctor Adams had enough explosives here to blow up the entire of London. And lots of lovely ammo too, pretty illegal stuff. Scotland Yard and the whole of Interpol will be pleased with this catch."

He looked at his friend, whose face was growing paler by the second.

His voice became even softer, more gently, the worry slipping through the casually spoken words. "Hold on, Chris, I can hear the sirens now. The ambulance will be here any minute. Don't you go to sleep now, you hear? Plenty of time to sleep in your own time, buddy."

Then, everything passed by as like in a dream. Paramedics took Chris away and a CI5 clean up team took care of the rest. Malone ordered him to go home and get some rest but Backup drove Sam to the hospital, where he stretched out on a few uncomfortable seats and reflected on what happened the past months.

It had been a difficult and dangerous assignment from the start. Infiltrate a splinter IRA-division, which called themselves The Clover Group, a gang of terrorists that used arson and explosives as main ingredients of their bloody pie to bring their message of a free Ulster to the world. Find the big man or men behind it. Then try to catch them in the act. And that was what they had done.

Chris Keel had to turn into a bitter and vindictive American widower by the name of Chris O'Donnell who had lost his Irish wife and unborn child to a raping and killing English officer in Ulster. The choice of Keel was obvious: he was American and would not be caught easily as a fraud, whereas the very British Sam Curtis certainly couldn't pass on for either Irish or American.

It certainly hadn't been easy for Keel. He had been alone out there, and many nights Sam Curtis would linger around with his mobile phone in hand, on the verge of calling or waiting for Chris to call. But Chris was careful. These were not men to mess around with, so Sam kept a respectable distance from things. He rented a place opposite Keel's lodgings, pretending to be a software-programmer and thus -if needed- being able to stay in his room for long hours without raising suspicion. Keel took a job as a taxi driver, which provided him with the opportunity to really get to know the town. He spent his evenings in the local pubs and established contacts with the Clover group soon enough. His dark and somber mood, almost menacing, plus the bitterness that he manifested on such nights put him in the picture - exactly what CI5 wanted.

Every now and then Chris Keel and Sam Curtis would get together, for a weekend to relax, discuss matters and think of strategy, accompanied by Backup, on a yacht somewhere in the Irish Sea. It was there that Sam had witnessed how things were affecting his partner. He was having his nightmares again, just like Sam had seen years earlier at Chris' place. He would be quiet, closed and curt almost to point of rudeness and one Sunday morning, when Sam carefully inquired after how he was holding up, he suddenly burst out "that he hated the sons of bitches who did that to women and children." The matter was closed and Chris never spoke about again. Sam was worried that it would affect Keel's cover, but it didn't, not noticeably anyway - after all the man was a professional! Sam tried to back him up as good as possible and one day he received an e-mail message: 'Bingo! One Doctor Adams is the key figure' plus a description of this charismatic, blond, blue eyed man. Keel reported him to be very intelligent, very cautious and very dangerous. "He has a weird idea of compassion" Chris explained to Sam: "First he bombs fifteen innocent people straight to the here-after, then he kills a suffering woman quickly to end her misery!"

Weeks of preparation followed, until the moment that an entire shipment of large explosives would be delivered to the storage room of the large decaying warehouse which had become the head quarters of the Clover Group. From there the material would be handed out to a selected team of accomplices who lived around town. How it came to be was unclear to Sam, but somehow Adams had seen through Chris' cover and had tried to kill him. And now he was in a hospital, and as Sam had seen him, hurt and suffering. His pale skin had been mazed by a red web of blood, deep shadows under his eyes emphasizing the pallor of his face.

Sam only realized how much the fear of loosing his partner had crawled under his skin when his was awoken by a doctor, who had gently shaken his shoulder. He must have fallen asleep despite everything. Now, Sam thought, it's over. He's gone.
"Mr. Curtis? You can see him now, if you want to."

"Is he.. alright..?" Sam asked cautiously.

"Well, he has a concussion and will be feeling nauseous for some time, plus experiencing a nasty headache as well. He's receiving fresh blood and -obviously- feels better. Provided someone looks after him for a few days he may go home tomorrow. He slept well last night. He's an amazingly strong man, by the way. " The doctor friendly glanced over his bifocals, waved his hand to the door that Sam should take and left.

Chris still looked ghastly pale, but his eyes weren't as clouded anymore and his wits were returning as the fresh blood was put into his veins. A thick bandage around his skull made him look truly dramatic.

"Hi.."

"Hi… How did I get here?"

"Don't you remember? Dr. Adams tried to put a bullet in your skull. It's over though. The raid was a success and everyone seems happy. How d'you feel?"

"Bloody awful. Slept well, I think. Got a painkiller strong enough to put a rhino to sleep. But the room won't stay still. Want my own bed... "

And that was what happened. Sam took him home the next day and decided, after Chris - caught by dizziness - involuntarily toppled over straight into his arms, that it would be wise to spend the next fortnight at his partner's home. Chris would be sleeping most of the time, but he certainly could use someone about the house. So Sam went to get some things in an overnight bag and took the couch.

Tuesday.

Sam tried to work on the report of the events of the previous week but was constantly interrupted by people wanting to know how Chris was doing. Sam explained that Chris had been sleeping the entire weekend and that he was still dizzy, but mending. He was almost relieved when everyone headed back for their own places and let him do his work. He started to read the report from the raid, the one filed by men of the local force who had taken the names of the arrested people. It took him a long time to get all the information he needed, and he was surprised at how much time had flown, as Backup stood beside him with her lunchbox in hand.

"Grab a bite?" her dark eyes looked at his face. "Or are you only going eat paper today? I am hungry, you know!"

He tossed the file aside.

Later that afternoon Sam came back from a workout in the gym. His hair was still wet from the shower and he felt tired but great. He had needed the hard physical workout and it had really felt good to use the stiffened muscles again. After that some target practice plus the joy of trying out a new gun: a Sig Sauer 29. It felt heavy but steady.

"A good thing, this piece.", he had said to Williams, the weapons specialist of the squad.

"That it is, aye, maybe might even become standard issue 'round here." the man had answered with a broad grin on his face.

"Mr. Curtis? Could you step into my office and close the door behind you, please. How is Mr. Keel doing?", Malone never beat around the bush.

"Seems somewhat better sir. I've hardly seen him the past few days - he slept mostly. He's not walking much at the moment - still feeling nauseous, I suppose. " Curtis answered.

Malone said nothing. He picked up a remote control, turned on the TV and the VCR and pressed the play-button. A somewhat blurry image appeared, then it became clearer. It was a surveillance tape from a bank from earlier that day and showed a robbery. Three heavily armed men ran in, threatened the employees and clients and had money put into plastic bags. Then, suddenly a brave young man stood up from behind the counter and tried to attack one of the robbers - who twisted round, pulled the trigger and shot the young man straight in his chest. He was thrown backwards by the blast, but in his fall he pulled away the robber's ski mask. Then he slowly collapsed to the floor. The attacker turned around, his eyes wild, crying out. His face was frighteningly clear on screen. Then the three ran off, out of camera sight.

Sam swallowed hard. This COULDN'T be true...!.

"The young cashier who was shot, died within minutes. Well, Mr. Curtis? How can a nauseous man rob a bank?" Malone inquired.

There was no mistake.

The man in the video was Chris Keel.

PART TWO

"It's not possible, Backup. He tried to come to the table this morning and couldn't even walk about in his own house without having to hold on to something to stop him from falling. He can't sit up, let alone rob a bank! It must be a hoax, some kind of sick joke! What am I thinking? Chris? Robbing a bank and killing a somebody just like that?" Sam was driving to Chris' place with Backup beside him. Malone had given him orders to check on Mr. Keel right away and bring him in, before anyone else could. Backup said nothing. She'd seen the video as well.

"It was him alright, you know.." she muttered softly. Sam fell silent. He was too confused to understand this. But as they approached the renovated boathouse that had been turned into apartments he was sure that he would find Chris exactly where he had left him early that morning.

The bedroom was empty, as was the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the entire apartment.

Backup opened the door to the spare room.

"Sam, come see this!" she urged him. He looked into the small room, containing a desk, chair and several cupboards. The floor was covered with his own clothes and the few things that he had packed into the overnight bag. The electric razor lay shattered between the ripped pages of a book; all his clothes were torn to pieces, changed into rags. Every personal thing that Sam had taken along was broken, torn, ragged or smashed. Even the bag wasn't of use anymore. The rest of the room was untouched.

Sam picked up the remains of his heavy leather coat and looked at it sadly, angry and at the same time totally lost as to why this had happened. Backup looked at him and saw the hurt look on his face.

"He's not here, sir" she said into her mobile phone. "Yes, sir… Yes, sir. No, sir.".

"We are to report back at once. We have to work on this. Come on, Sam. There's nothing here." Backup laid her hand Sam's arm, just for a second. "C'mon, let's go."

Wednesday.

Step by step Sam had to go over everything that had happened since he had taken Chris home the Saturday before. For Chris the journey back to England was terrible, so Sam had driven carefully with his partner in the back of the car sleeping most of the time. Sometimes he would wake up, have Sam pull over and be sick by the side of the road. Sam hadn't seen or noticed anything unusual in or around Chris's home. He had put Chris to bed, pulled out the plug of the doorbell and telephone and left him to sleep. He went to work on Monday morning, leaving a sleeping Chris alone. Monday evening Chris had taken off the bandage that he still wore and Sam had helped him dress the wound. He had hardly eaten anything in four days.

"How did he look?" doctor Brooks inquired.

"Pale, still. He seemed to suffer from dizziness more than from a headache. He couldn't focus very well either. But, as I said, I haven't actually seen him that much out of bed. The one attempt that he did make was a disaster: he wasn't ready for a retry for several days."

Brooks nodded. "A concussion is a nasty thing. From what I've seen and what Mr. Curtis tells us I honestly doubt if he was able to do anything BUT sleep."

Sam turned to Malone. "Sir, has the video been checked yet?"

"I put men to work on it the moment it came in.", the older man answered icily. "Do you really think, Mr. Curtis, that I wouldn't have doubts as to what's on that video?"

"Sorry, Sir." Sam murmured.

"Find him, Mr. Curtis. Take every measure you have to in order to do so. And be careful. Miss Backus will accompany you."

A few hours later Sam got a telephone call. It was his cleaning lady and he rushed home. The kind, middle aged woman was very upset. Sam's place was a mess. It was as if someone had been thrashing around in blind agony. Fragments of glass and broken mirrors were everywhere, the couch and comfortable chairs cut open with a knife. The TV was smashed, so was his hi-fi set. Drawers were pulled out of cupboards, their contents thrown all over the place.

"Don't touch anything. I'll call the office and the forensic team." Backup said. Sam sent the cleaning lady home and then sat down in the middle of the mess, waiting for the experts to arrive.

Chris woke, shivering. He was, very cold. His hands stretched out in search of the blanket but he found nothing. And then he realized that he was lying on the floor, not in his bed anymore. It was dark and chilly there. He carefully touched his forehead and felt the stitches on his bruised skin. It still hurt. The bandage was gone. And still everything around him moved awkwardly. Slowly he pushed himself up and sat on the cold floor, his back to the wall. Where was he? How the hell did he get here? What time was it? And what day? Chris felt confusion take the better part of him, took a deep breath to try and calm himself.

One step at the time. First: check the contents of his cell, then check the contents of the cupboard.

When his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark surroundings he could vaguely see that he was confined to some kind of storage room, apparently no longer in use. A streak of moonlight fell into his cell, a rusty cupboard showing in it's ample light. There was nothing else there, except a bucket in the corner of the room, for the obvious purpose.

He managed to get to the cupboard but it was empty. He had hoped to find something that could warm him up a little, maybe some old overalls or so. He was only wearing shorts and a T-shirt. His bare feet felt stiff from the cold. He tried to shout. "Heeee… anyone…??" but his voice was too faint to carry beyond the steel door.

He curled up in the corner of the small room. The effort to get to the cupboard, haul himself upwards and open it took most of his strength. So, even unwillingly, he closed his eyes and drifted off into a confusing sleep again, not realizing that he suffered the after effects of a heavy drug.

As the forensic team started to gather evidence from his shattered house, Curtis took Backup's elbow and led her outside.

"Come on. We'll pay a visit to Mr. Pelgrim. If anyone saw anything, it would be him. Lives on his windowsill, that man."

And Sam was absolutely right. The 79 year old man opened the door even before Backup could ring the doorbell and immediately pulled them inside.

"What's going on, laddie?" he asked. "Did your friend take something from you? Don't you look so surprised - I saw him -and that friend- clearly. He came in just before Eastenders came on telly, it must have been -er...- just gone 10 this morning, though I am not absolutely certain of the minutes there. Oh yes, it's the one with the bristly hairdo, still can't see why he wears it like that. I mean a man of his looks and those broad shoulders should have a proper haircut you know. He was holding something in his hand, is that what all the fuss is about? Because if it is, then I suggest you take a look in them bushes over there because he threw something in there. Would have fetched it meself if me legs didn't mind so much."

And he rattled on, even as the two of them left while thanking him and quickly headed for "them bushes over there". They found a baseball bat, pretty badly damaged. Sam picked it up using his handkerchief and brought it to the forensics expert, asking him to check on that item too. Then he picked up some stuff and headed for a safehouse. He had to spend the night somewhere decent. He hadn't slept in more than 24 hours and was weary to the bone. He desperately needed some sleep.

Thursday.

Chris woke up again, cold and stiffened. It didn't take him long to recognize his new lodgings. It had turned to day, he saw daylight seeping through a small window high in the wall. Too high to reach and too small to crawl through, his mind registered automatically.

Now that he could see more of the place he noticed a small rusty steel desk that he hadn't seen when he woke up earlier. Carefully he got up and pulled the drawers. Empty of course. The desk was screwed to the floor, he saw. No way he could move that thing to the other wall. He had already tried the heavy steel door, but it was firmly shut and probably bolted from the outside. He sat back against the wall and thought of possible ways to get out of here. The odds seemed hopelessly against him.

After some time he heard the sound of somebody opening the door, and then a tall freckled man stepped into the room. He looked at Chris and said: "Ah, Mr. O'Donnell. Or am I mistaken? Excuse the poor accommodation, it's not my usual choice of refuge. But I am not a barbaric man - poor lodgings don't necessarily mean poor food. I've brought you something to eat. Enjoy. I'll be back soon. We'll have a proper chat then." Chris had seen him alone but he heard voices, two or three maybe and knew that more men were in the building.

Chris saw that Freckles had put down a tray with two sandwiches and a polystyrene beaker of tea. He wasn't hungry but realized that he should eat in order to get some strength back into his body. And the tea felt so good inside. He cherished the warmth of the fluid like a blanket.
He did feel better once he had finished eating and started thinking about what to do. As an ex-Navy SEAL and CI5 operative he was trained to handle extreme situations. He let his mind go back: what did he remember? The raid, the sound of CI5 entering the warehouse, the strange warmth that he had felt in his gut when Dr. Adams had pointed his gun at him. Then nothing for a long time, vague images of Sam and Backup and doctors, Sam driving him home and mothering him about in his own house. He could clearly recall Sam helping him change the dressing on his head - he thought that that had been on Monday night, but now he wasn't so sure about that anymore. There was no way of telling how long he had been here or what day it was.

It had begun to rain outside and the room became as dark as the sky outside. That set Chris' mind to working. The room didn't have any lighting, not even a bulb at the ceiling. So when it was dark outside, it was also dark inside. That could be his element of surprise. His eyes would be accustomed to the dark, where the opponents would not see as much as he would and probably -he hoped- would judge him too weak to do anything. That immediately brought up something else: he had but one chance. He WAS weak. But he relied on the adrenaline to start flowing once he made his break for freedom. He listened carefully for some time to see if he could make out where he was or what was behind the door but that didn't help since the world outside had probably also gone to sleep. Or was that a seagull he heard? And..? No... Yes, definitely some kind of harbor sound. He decided that he would take the opportunity tonight, when the world outside would be covered with the dark blanket of the night. He curled up in his corner, wrapped his arms around his legs to preserve what little body heat he had left and closed his eyes.

Sam woke up early, feeling even more tired than before he had gone to bed. He took a shower and breakfast and was already working out a plan for the day when Backup showed up to drive him to HQ..

"Early bird catches rising sun, eh?", she greeted him, slightly altering the proverb to add to the situation.

"Spare me your eloquence, Backup." Sam curtly replied. He immediately felt sorry and apologized in the same sentence: "Sorry, Backup, I didn't sleep that well."

She smiled mildly, apology accepted, and together they drove to the office. Sam didn't say much, he seemed very preoccupied. At the office he put a cardboard box on the table, containing files and a copy of the security video.

"Gonna check this out once more. The files and reports of the last case Chris and I were working on: the Clover Group. Lot of things from Chris' notes that I haven't been able to read yet." Backup looked curiously at Sam, her intelligent dark eyes examining him. "Have you thought of something?"

"Just the feeling that I have overlooked something." Sam answered. He started reading and seemed to forget everything around. Backup had seen this often. Sam Curtis could display a concentration that anyone would envy, he could shut out everything, caught up in his own world, his mind working rapidly on intricate things in a way that no one else could grasp. She sighed, poured herself another mug of coffee and turned on her computer.

Hours passed as the two sat silently together. Sam read, watched the video, read some more, watched again and meanwhile made notes in his small and illegible handwriting, threw away scraps of paper or fished them back up from the waste bin again while Backup's fingers touched the keyboard of her laptop in rapid movements. They both startled as the phone rang. The shrill tone of it drew them out of their mental fortress in which they had been firmly shut for hours. It was Spencer. They'd better come to the meeting room, he told them. There was news from the forensic team.

PART THREE

"The bat was used to smash up the place alright. And it was wiped clean afterwards. But not completely. I was able to pull off a partial and run it through the computer. As that was running I also check some hair and fibers - from what I could gather none of it matches Mr. Keel's. The print should be here any minute if there is something in the data bank." Hardly noticing how relieved the operatives in the room were, Llewelyn rubbed his face after this short speech and then left, murmuring something about sleeping.

A name on the print came up soon enough: James Fitzburn. But more data or a decent picture was difficult to find. There was only an old and badly drawn police sketch. Backup spent long hours in tracking down the name and the address. Sam concentrated on the video and the files again.

Somewhere during the afternoon suddenly: "Got it!" sounded from both sides. Sam saw what he had missed over and over again and Backup had found a connection to Fitzburn.

"I knew I overlooked something! Back… back… index 224, back. Stop ! Now slowly forward. Ho! There!". Apart from the obvious - Keel's face- there was something more that could be seen: a heavy tattoo on his right wrist: plus the fact that he was missing his third finger of that hand. It was only in a flash of time that this showed but once seen, it was clear enough. Sam had it enhanced and printed. It appeared to be some kind of snake, its tail curled around a four leaf clover. It was truly a lovely piece of artistry, and both knew that this was an important lead. But what's more: it proved that the man in the video was not Chris Keel.

Sam looked triumphantly at Backup. She nodded, glad to see some liveliness in Sam's worried face, and then announced her own scoop.

"Fitzburn. I think I've found someone who might know where he is. She agreed to meet us at the Golden Goose in an hour."

"Good", Sam said grimly. "Meanwhile we'll work out a plan to find this tattoo."

The sympathetic woman at the table was short, of average build, had brown eyes and short dark blonde hair, and used little make up. She exuded warmth and genuine interest. Sam immediately took to liking to her. She started talking. Backup had been open and honest with her: a man might die if he wouldn't be found soon, and Fitzburn might lead them to him. Not to her surprise the woman was cooperative at once.

"James Fitzburn?" She raised a single eyebrow in puzzlement. "You've not been updated recently I suppose. He doesn't call himself James anymore.

We met in art school: he -being the freshman- was assigned to me as a protege, I as a senior student was his mentor - we shared a common interest in sculpting. He was talented. He was good, really good. And he was different: older than most new students since he had already been working as a nurse, and he had come to the conclusion that that was not the work he wanted to do for the rest of his life. He needed to create. And he did. Beautiful things.

We fell in love, I finished art school and 'bout a year later when I was earning a more or less steady living, we rented a place in London. But my work stopped and we couldn't live on allowances only, so he took up his old job as a nurse on a part time basis, in a different hospital though. Later on I realized that things started to change when he took that job. He was invited by some of his new colleagues for weekends off, and when he came back, he would be quiet, closed in, keeping himself very much to himself. He became a different man: art in general, sculpting in particular didn't seem to interest him anymore. He lost interest in me too. Of course not in a day's time, but gradually, over the months he changed.

One day he came home with the message that he no longer wanted to be called James, but Padraick it must be. Second announcement was he would leave for his native Northern Ireland and not come back for some time. He told me he had found his roots, finally, and his aim if life was clear: he'd cast out the English from "his" Ulster, by any means necessary if needed.

My mouth must have dropped -I couldn't believe my ears- as he spoke, packed some things and left as if I had never existed. Had those words really come from my friend, who never ever had any political preferences whatsoever? What happened that he spoke of "my Ulster" and what made him change his name into Padraick?

After that I lost track of him. I don't know where he lives or what he does. I never spoke to him again but I did see him on TV once when he was caught up in some wild demonstration that had gone completely out of control, somewhere in Londonderry. "

Sam and Backup had listened carefully - this was interesting enough. But before any of the two operatives could say anything, the woman raised her hand to stop them and continued.

"Not too long ago I stumbled into one of his former colleagues, a woman who I could get along with just fine at the time James -or Padraick if you will- worked there. She told me he used to hang out with one man of the hospital staff a lot. And she had also seen the change in my friendly, creative boyfriend - who had turned into a cold and bitter man. Apparently this charismatic colleague had somehow touched upon a tender spot in James' world. I hadn't realized it before, but James must have been searching for something to hold on to in his life - and that thing wasn't me. He found what he had been seeking, provided by - or maybe even in - this particular person."

Backup nearly pulled the words from the woman's mouth. "Do you know his name?"

"Oh yes. How would I ever forget the man who stole my creative alter ego from me? Sean Adams it was. Doctor Sean Adams."

Sam and Backup left the Golden Goose and started checking out tattoo shops all over town. The fifth try was a hit: someone thought he recognized the artist who had made this pretty tattoo. The artist lived just outside London and went by the name of Azeem Ramparan. They headed for the car, the "let's go" on their faces. Backup called HQ and informed Spencer of their findings. He had news for them shortly after their call: a photo of Fitzburn. He sent it to Backup's laptop and soon the face of a approximately 28 year old man, with a lot of curly red hair and an amazing number of freckles came through. Finally: a face to match the name.

Azeem was an old man, as co-operative as the woman they spoke to earlier - but he didn't have her good memory. He could remember the picture: the design was handed to him on a sheet of paper and he used it as an example. There were several men who had this tattoo, all on their wrists, but he couldn't recall one with missing fingers, neither could he recall faces or names.

"But I must say that the designer gave me an excellent example. That man was an artist alright. That I do remember. Nice house style on the stationary he used too. Classy stuff."

Sam and Backup thought of the same.

"Do you still happen to have that original drawing?".

He smiled, this Pakistani Azeem Ramparan, and in a pleased voice he said, while his eyes sparkled:

"My mind doesn't work as good as it used to do - but my secretary does…."

Backup was already online to HQ. She ran the only valuable data on the stationary - a telephone number- quickly.

"YES! 116, Pellam Docks Bay. It's an address just outside London, near the harbor. Let's go Sam!"

Before Sam could start the car his cell phone rang.

"Curtis", he said, expecting Malone or Spence.

"Sam, come and get me!" the whispering voice of Chris sounded softly and very far away.

"Chris! Where are you?!"

"I don't know. Seems like an art studio. Somewhere near the docks I think. I can hear seagulls."

"Hold on, we'll try to track you down. Are you alright?"

"Sam, hu….Ow!" Click, tuduuduuu….

"Shit Shit Shit!!!" Curtis cried out in frustration.

PART FOUR

Earlier….

Chris had grabbed his opportunity when Freckles came back that evening.

As soon as darkness fell Chris had pulled out one of the iron drawers from the desk. One good hit on the head as the man came in and he would be out cold. The drawer was heavy and had some nasty sharp edges. He couldn't rely fully on his own strength and the momentum of the drawer might make the difference. So Chris waited. Waited for the dark. And for Freckles.

Chris heard his voice from the other side of the door.

"Wakey wakey, Mr. O'Donnell. You and me are going to have a nice chat. I think you've slept enough for now."

The heavy bolts were shoved aside and the door swung open. Freckles stepped inside and immediately received a blow that sent him off to dreamland in a second. Chris heard his cheekbone crack as the heavy drawer hit the man full in the face. He pulled the man inside quickly, closed the door a little and took off Freckles' shoes. The were a little tight, but certainly beat the cold floor. He quickly frisked the man, but - to his surprise - found no gun…

Freckles was wearing a warm sweater and Chris would have given the world to put that on, but he knew that there wasn't a minute to waste. He pushed himself upwards and immediately he was hit by a spell of dizziness. The room seemed to tip over to one side with a swiftness that took him by surprise. "No… no...no, not now…" Chris prayed under his breath. So, panting and sweating he held on tight to the desk until the feeling subsided. Then still shaky, he carefully stepped out of the room. He appeared to be standing on a wooden landing.

The light was dim but Chris could see four more rooms that resembled the one he had been in. Heavy doors that could be bolted from the outside, small unbreakable windows inside. But there was no one around. Step by step he went on, heading towards the flight of stairs at the end and staying in the relative safety of the shadows of this dark landing.

When he reached the stairs he looked down. They had certainly found the perfect place to put him: the only escape meant using the stairs and that ended directly in full light just few feet from his captors, who were sitting at a small table, playing a card game. He took some time to look at the place. It was an old warehouse, but not as big as they usually are, and it was used as some kind of art studio. There were torsos all over the place, faces made from clay or plaster, arms, hands and a lot more. Paintings stood on easels, waiting to be finished. Chris realized at the same time that the strange smell he had noticed in one of rooms, was that of photographic material: fixative or something like that. Had the artist used the small cells as darkrooms maybe?

He knew he had to divert his captors' attention and needed something to help him cause a distraction.

He stepped back into the darkness of the rooms, checked the drawers and the cupboards that were all alike, felt around with his hands and found in one a few -rather large- bolts and screws. This could be of use. Then, Chris took a good aim and threw one of the bolts as far away as he could. And another one. The sound of the bolt hitting a torso startled the men downstairs. One of them, a man wearing a baseball cap, immediately pulled a gun from under his coat and stepped very cautiously towards the sound. "Padraick… Is that you?!" Once again he called his partner and as he didn't get an answer, he snapped at the others: "Dwight, get upstairs, see if Padraick is ok. Nate, keep an eye on the door."

Chris stood pressed against the wall as Dwight came up the stairs. The boy - he couldn't be any older than 17 or 18 - carefully headed for the first door. The real bad guys are not as stupid as they seem to be in films … This boy certainly wasn't going to be surprised just like that, so Chris threw a few screws up ahead in the corridor. The boy froze an instant but swirled around surprisingly fast. He saw Chris emerging from the shadows and reacted fast: "Here!" he cried out, before he was knocked out by a massive blow to his neck. Chris saw a small mobile phone clipped to the belt of the young man and ripped it off. A fast as he could he pressed the small buttons, his movements slowed down by the stiffness of his still cold hands and fingers. For some reason he just couldn't recall Sam's numbers - the concussion kept playing tricks on him! Panic bubbled up inside, he had to dial three times before he heard Sam's voice answering.

"Sam, come and get me!" Chris whispered hastily, afraid of his captors who would very soon reach him, after being alarmed by the boy's curt shout.

"Chris! Were are you?!"

"I don't know. Seems like an art studio. Somewhere near the docks I think. I can hear seagulls."

"Hold on, we'll try to track you down. Are you alright?"

"Sam, hu….Ow!"

"You Bastard!" Freckles cried out as he hit Chris on the head. He fell down, his hands trying to protect his sore and already aching head, but they kept on slamming at him, hitting, kicking - Dwight, Freckles who looked gruesome with one bloodied purple cheek and Baseball Cap. He tried to fight back but he was in no condition to really put up a fight. Until he lost his grip and his consciousness as red balls of fire exploded before his very eyes.

"Sam, we must wait for assistance!" Backup cried out. Her knuckles turned white from holding on to the dashboard as her colleague raced frantically through the traffic.

"No time!" Sam snapped at her. He felt his heart pounding with terrible fear, his stomach twisting into the tightest knot ever. He had heard Chris, scared. He had heard the pain clearly in that very short and brief cry. He knew that it would be now or never. And he had no intention of feeling guilty for the rest of his life, allowing Chris to suffer because he had followed procedures and waited for backup to arrive.

"I'll call the harbor police. They can help us." Backup said and started dialing at once. She had already informed HQ.

When the two of them arrived at the docks, guided to the correct address by NavTec, Sam stopped several yards from the building. It was old, a faded sign on the façade stating that that this used to be a "Timber Factory". Two enormous wooden doors were placed on the front, probably at the time put there to allow trucks and lorries to get in. Another door of normal size was the second and only other thing on the front of the factory.

Backup quickly went round the back and then signaled to Sam, who covered the front side. She had found a small window and carefully they peered in.

Three men were in there, one of them pacing around the room, restless as a predator trapped inside a cage. The second one sat on a chair, reluctantly letting his bloodied face being treated by number three.

"That's our man alright", Backup whispered, recognizing the freckled man from the photo. "Sam... Sam?"

"No time to lose. Come on!", he almost shouted at her.

One look at the heavy doors and Sam knew that he would only kill himself trying to drive through. The doors would easily withstand his Ford.

But not the giant hydraulic shovel that was parked just a little up ahead.

Sam raced to the machine, leapt in, searched quickly for a set of keys in the dashboard, under the seat, the glove compartment and then found it, just hanging from the mirror. Sometimes the obvious wasn't obvious enough, he thought wryly...

With a roaring sound the heavy machine came to life. Sam turned it around on its enormous tires and headed straight for the doors. The machine reacted surprisingly swiftly to his commands and wasn't really that difficult to maneuver. The shovel moved slowly at first but then the weight of the heavy industrial machine picked up momentum and with an incredible noise Sam burst straight through the timber of the doors. He felt the shock of it running into his neck. Backup jumped in directly after him. The man who had been pacing around was hit by one the wooden planks of the doors and lay out cold on the ground. But the two others had jumped aside and managed to get themselves behind some kind of bar. A fierce gunfight started, with Backup and Sam on one side and Fitzburn and number two on the other.

"Sam, look out, above you!" Backup cried out a warning as a third man shot from the landing somewhere above him. He felt something hot slicing into his leg, and a warmth ran down the side of his trousers. One shot and the young man stumbled backwards - straight into an electricity unit. Colorful bright sparks from the short circuited wiring landed on paper and cotton wrapping material. With breathtaking speed a fire spread.

Sam didn't hesitate for a second. Covered by Backup's firing, he turned the shovel, drove up to the torsos, clay and plaster moulds and sculptures and with one well aimed grab he shoved the entire lot into the bucket. Then he turned the machine, drove straight into the bar where the men were still firing and reloading and dropped the heavy material on top of them. Their abruptly broken cries proved they were no longer a threat.

"Sam, Chris is nowhere here! He must be up there! We can't get up there from here!" Backup had to scream out over the noise of the furious, and ever increasing, flames. The stairs were already burning fiercely.

Sam drove the machine into reverse. A bit further back, more to the left, a bit to the front. Then he stopped, left the machine running and climbed onto the heavy iron arms that held the bucket itself. He climbed into it, gaining enough height to climb onto the landing.

"Chris! Chris!". No answer came. Nothing.

Then, in the third room he found him. Unconscious. Limp. Bruised. Battered. Bleeding. Motionless. Cold as ice. Weak....

"Sam!" Backup shouted "Sam, hurry! Get into the shovel!" She coughed uncontrollably , thick smoked was filling the building and bright orange flames licked on every available piece of timber. The fire spread faster and faster by the minute, which was a truly terrifying experience.

Sam was lightly-built, but amazingly strong. He hauled Chris onto his back in a classic fireman's lift and ran to the shovel. Backup had climbed into the cabin, maneuvered the machine closer, the bucket higher and so he could almost step in, with the uncooperative body of his partner on his back. The heat of the fire burned his lungs and the thick black smoke stung his eyes and he knew that they had been just in time.

"Get the hell out of here!" he screamed and Backup reversed and rolled out of the building, into the cool freshness of the night.

The "Timber Factory" building collapsed minutes later.

Sam drank hot coffee as he was approached by Malone.

Malone recognized the strain and worry on his operative's face. He looked dirty and tired and said non enthusiastically : "Hello Sir." His voice sounded somewhat hoarse from the inhaled smoke.

"Good evening Mr. Curtis. I hear things have been rough. How's the leg?"

Curtis just nodded silently. Ok, I guess, that meant. His mind was elsewhere. And he was so tired - weary to the bone.

"Take the rest of the week off, Mr. Curtis. I expect a full report Monday morning."

"Yes Sir. Thank you Sir."

Malone turned around and walked away. But he checked and asked, his voice somewhat softer: "No news from Mr. Keel yet?"

"No Sir."

Only one of the men had survived the fire. Nathan Bellows had made a full statement, explaining everything. Apparently young Dwight had recognized Chris Keel from an arrest on his older brother years before. Dwight had called and informed Adams about "O'Donnell's" identity just minutes before the raid was being held, resulting in the unfortunate shooting. The young man hadn't been in the warehouse as CI5 had made the arrests.

Padraick Fitzburn was notified of how things had happened. He appeared to be Sean Adams' right hand, being influenced as he was in his most vulnerable time - the artist tied hand and foot by the strict rules and regulations of the hospital. Adams had appealed to his sense of patriotism and gradually pulled the man into his grip. Fitzburn admired Adams that much, that he would go through hell for this man.

So when Adams was arrested, Fitzburn took over the leadership of the small group that remained active. First he decided to get back at Chris Keel. He followed him and Sam after being released from hospital. Then, when the moment was right, he forced himself into Chris' apartment, easily overwhelmed him because the man was too dizzy and too feeble to put up any resistance. The syringe with the drug had done the rest.

He'd taken the operative to his studio, where he quickly made a mould of Chris' face - completely with the stitched line on his forehead. He shaped the mould into a latex mask and thus a double for Chris came to life. It was as Fitzburn's former girlfriend had said: the man was talented! Nathan Bellows was approximately Keel's size and weight - but they hadn't thought about the missing finger and the tattoo. The robbery had been a piece of cake. The death of the young cashier was unfortunate but happened to help them put Keel in a bad light. They had also forced their way into Sam's home - trying to make his partner believe that Keel had indeed turned against him, by smashing the place up, using the mask again.

The Clover Group ceased to exist when Chris Keel was saved from the inferno.

Three weeks later.

"Mr. Curtis, please come in and close the door." Malone said.

"I want you to read this file. It provides you with all the information you need as to your new partner."

Curtis looked in complete amazement at his boss.

"Sir..?"

"You heard me Mr. Curtis. You are assigned to a new partner."

"But Sir, Chris is… "

"Mr. Keel is still in Intensive Care. I spoke to his doctors just the other day and they feel that the chance of him waking up soon is getting smaller every day. If -and I say IF- he wakes up, it'll take him months to recover - if he comes back to the team at all."

"For the time being I can work with Backup perfectly well. We've always been a fine threesome." Sam protested angrily and took a step towards the door.

"Mr. Curtis!"

Sam froze, his hand on the doorknob.

"Exactly. And right now: you're missing one. So I'm assigning a new person to your team. I do understand the delicacy of this subject. Mr. Keel was badly hurt and still isn't out of the woods, so to speak. I cannot let you work alone or just with Miss Backup who has to spend more time here at HQ than in the field." His voice softened a little bit. "As hard as it is, you must face the fact that Mr. Keel's in a coma. The signs are NOT good. So…

I expect you to give this operative your full and undivided attention. If Mr. Keel can rejoin us, he will be on your team again."

"Pardon me, Sir, you're wrong!" Sam replied bitterly. "It's not a question IF Chris wakes up. WHEN he wakes, he'll be back!" He snatched the file from Malone's desk and stamped out of the room.

Malone let out a sigh. This was always one of the hardest things to do. Mr. Curtis had always been the cooler type of the two agents. Calm, thoughtful, first thinking, then acting. He would be the soothing factor for the short tempered Mr. Keel. But this situation had gotten to him... He had seen the desperation on the face of Curtis, the anxiety and sorrow he felt for his partner. Keel was in a terrible state. He had seen him, so weakened by the ruptured kidneys, the fractured ribs and skull trauma, the loss of blood, the shock. He was on life support, had been in a coma when Curtis and Backus had found him and hadn't reacted since. Malone had been thinking about this long and hard. Curtis had to be put to work, with a new partner, to get over Keel. Maybe it would take his mind off of his friend and give him something to aim for again. The initial pang of relief when Keel was found, had changed into a feeling of ongoing worry, as the results of his ordeal had become clear.

Sam sat down on the toilet seat, in the private silence of the men's room. He rested his head in his hands. If only he could feel the same certainty inside as when he had spoken those words to Malone.

He felt beat. Disgusted. Weary and tired of it all.

He wanted Chris to walk through the door. Smiling, the dimple in his cheeks showing. Teasing him, their cheerful banter filling the air between them. He wiped away warm, salty tears. He hadn't mean to cry. Somehow it just happened....

God, how he missed Chris.

EPILOGUE

Somebody is reading to me. From the newspaper, I'd say. Sounds like a man's voice. Yes, definitely. It IS a man's voice. I am in bed, apparently.

My throat feels like sandpaper and my tongue has changed into a leather patch. What the hell is wrong with my ribcage? And my head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton balls.

After some time the blurry vision turns somewhat clearer. Have I been drinking that heavily yesterday?

The first thing that I see - or maybe the first thing I actually realize I am looking at - is a daily calendar. Strange, I cannot recall ever having missed my own birthday.

The reading stops. I turn to the voice, a man sitting next to the bed I am in. Dark silky hair, very clear light green-grey eyes. A broad smile divides his face into two. I don't think I have ever seen anyone so happy in my life.

"Hello buddy!" his voice is thick and awkward.

I look at him, not really understanding why he looks so moved.

"Hi Sam. What are you doing here?" my voice is hoarse and barely audible, strange in my own ears.

"Looking after you, of course. Who else wants to listen to you snoring?"

Snoring?

"Glad you're waking up. Six weeks is a long time to wait. Welcome back to the world."

Six weeks?

"I'll get a doctor. I'll be right back."

I see him jumping up happily, his face lit by sunlight that floods in through an open window in my room.

I must be mistaken, but I could have sworn I saw tears?

In the opening of the door he turns to me.

"Chris…?"

"Yeah…?"

"Happy birthday by the way."

I feel utterly lost.

He waves at me, leaving me with the image of his wide, bright smile.

I must have missed a lot.

Elsa - March 2000