DAY ONE

Telephone.

In a different world, in a parallel universe, a telephone rang.

It took Chris Keel more than a minute to wake up enough to understand that it was HIS telephone that was ringing. It kept on ringing. Insistently. Nagging at him.

It's my day off. I will NOT answer that. Call somebody else. Sam. Or Backup.

It was still ringing.

He picked up the phone reluctantly, his body still craving for sleep, since he'd been without it for two days and two nights and needed the rest desperately.

"This better be good..." he murmured with a voice that was still thick and drowsy.

"At exactly one o'clock this afternoon a bomb at the headquarters of CI5 will explode. You have 40 minutes to evacuate the building."

Silence. Then once again the taped voice spoke the same message.

39 minutes and counting

Chris sat up with difficulty. He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to make sense of what he had just been told. Absentmindedly, he dialled HQ. To his astonishment, he heard a pre-recorded message: "This number is no longer in use. Please contact your local directory services."

He must have hit the wrong button, so he pressed the number again.

"This number is no long..."

Chris broke off the call, disbelief forming in his greyish blue eyes.

He pressed the 1-key - the shortcut to Sam's mobile. Out of service, the display showed him. That meant that Sam was either out of reach or the phone wasn't turned on.

He called Backup. No answer.

He called Sam at home. After impatiently waiting for 30 seconds he heard a click and then Sam's familiar, polite voice. "This is Sam Curtis speaking. I am unable to answer your call. If you leave a message after the beep I will call you back."

"Sam... Sam pick up the damn phone. It's urgent...!" Chris broke the connection angrily when there was no response.

He called Malone at the office and got the same message again. He didn't know any private numbers for Malone, so that was no use.

Now what?

He bit his lower lip, thinking for another second or two.

Time to leave. He got up, jumped into his jeans and a pair of sneakers, hastily put on a sweater and snatched his leather jacket from the chair where he had thrown it just a few hours earlier.

35 minutes and counting

Chris sprinted towards his dark blue Ford Focus, parked close to the graveyard. It was a brand new car and he had had to suffer comments from many people about its size. Sam's teasing remark that "size does matter" had provoked a laugh from Backup and a beautiful red glow over Chris' face.

But the small car was remarkably fast, the gears were smooth, and as usual CI5's best had made sure the engine was a whole lot more powerful that it would appear. But this was no time to think about the CI5 car pool.

Concentrate, Chris?.

He was just about to open the door when he stopped, his hand holding the key inches from the lock. He recalled Sam and Backup standing next to another car, one that had been wired, while he'd climbed into it and activated the device. Backup had defused it: one of her many remarkable skills. All the same, the experience was one that he would not forget - and it had made him more aware of expecting the unexpected. And this business with the phone call was more than unexpected.

So, Chris dropped onto his belly to the ground, scanning the chassis from underneath. Then he carefully moved his hands over the frame of the Ford, searching for irregularities, but to his relief he found nothing. He jumped up again, took a deep breath and got into his car.

It leaped forwards as he hit the accelerator. He smacked the mobile phone into a dashboard holder, pressed the hands free button and redialled. Same story, again and again.

The worried feeling inside grew as the minutes passed. Maybe this was just a hoax, or somebody's weird idea of a joke - but then somebody had gone to a whole lot of trouble to get it done. Could there be a logical explanation for him not being able to reach HQ? No, there couldn't.

Maybe the place would really be blown to kingdom come in less than half an hour.

He drove on automatic pilot, his mind racing as he tried to think of what to do.

28 minutes and counting

Of all the places, why did CI5 choose central London to have their HQ? Certainly a killer for traffic, Chris thought bitterly. He pounded his fist on the wheel, frustration taking over.

"Move!" he shouted to no one in particular. He turned the corner and raced on, unaware of the furious gestures that pedestrians were making at him as he mounted the pavement to pass other cars.

Another turn, another crossroads, then he hit the brakes to avoid crashing into the last of a line of cars waiting for road workers to clear the way.

"Shitshitshit?" Chris cursed, then gave a yank at the wheel and headed for the pavement, only to come to full stop after some two hundred yards as five bright yellow containers blocked his way. Not even a small car could get past them! Back - fast!

A lorry was unloading somewhere behind him and he was trapped.

He jumped out and started running, faster, faster all the time, almost knocking over people who stopped to stare as they saw the athletic young man practically flying over the pavement.

Chris counted the streets, the blocks, how far he still had to go and what little time he had left. His feet and legs seemed to move as independent, self controlled limbs - and rapidly growing fear pushed him forward. Faster, faster. Time was ticking away at twice the normal speed. He had to get there before...

Then he saw the woman on the bicycle.

22 minutes and counting

As Chris was ferociously riding the bike that he had snatched away when the woman had parked it against the window of a butcher's shop, his mind wandered to CI5. To his life there, his work and his partnership with Sam Curtis. The strange combination of their two so very different characters worked out better than one would have guessed - Chris certainly hadn't expected that.

It had been strange to come to England. After the tragic events that had happened at his wedding he had given up looking for a place to settle down. His life had become empty and without purpose, and there had been times that he had been on the verge of taking his own life - just by walking straight into the line of fire. Or by volunteering for pure suicide missions.

The one thing he never expected to happen had slowly crept up on him: the hurt became less intense. It had lost its sharp edges and turned into a dull pain that was never completely gone, but which became bearable over the years,, and Chris had slowly moved on with his life. Things had changed quite drastically when he was approached by CI5.

The very British Sam Curtis was in most ways his complete opposite. He was calm and steady, reserved, tactful, impeccably tidy, and sophisticated in many ways. Beneath that lay a well-trained and highly disciplined operative. He had learned to trust Sam. And he had come to like him very much. Deep mutual respect and friendship for one another had moulded the two into one of those rare teams that were so valuable to an organisation like CI5. He knew that, although Malone, characteristically, would hardly say so.

The thought of Sam - and all the others - being inside a building that was about to blow up made Chris crazy with fear. He looked at his watch. If only he could stop it from running, if only he could get there faster.

17 minutes and counting

The bike was much too small for Chris and soon every muscle in his body was protesting as his legs pumped around and around. But it helped him get to HQ much quicker then going on foot. A sturdy wind in his back pushed him forwards even faster in this one-way street - his mind was completely focussed on how to get to HQ, now, and he even forgot to keep one thing in mind. Basic driving skills learned years ago in America pushed away the relatively new discipline of driving to the left in his frantic dash, so he didn't even see the black Cortina that came from the right - and hit him at full speed.

Chris flew over the bonnet, smacked against the windscreen and rolled off on the other side. The woman in the car sat motionless, totally shocked, her hands clenching the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles turned white. To her obvious astonishment, and before she even had time to realise what happened, Chris staggered to his feet came over and brusquely opened the door.

"I'm so... sorry... I...I..." the shocked woman began to apologise but he shoved her aside.

"I need your car. Move over. I'm okay - move over, I said!". He didn't feel okay, but that didn't matter. His head must have hit something, for one of his eyebrows had split open, and the mixture of sweat and blood was getting into his eyes. He must look a mess, it occurred to him, hardly realising that he'd been hit by a car in his frantic haste.

Chris pushed down the accelerator, the heavy diesel only responding slowly. Thank God to be in a car again. The blow as he had collided with the Cortina had stunned him for just a second, knocked the breath from him, but the adrenaline was keeping him going. He knew his way well around here, and manoeuvred fast and steadily.

The woman in the passenger seat looked at him with big, frightened eyes but didn't say a word. Chris, however, constantly glanced at the tiny dashboard clock. He bit his lower lip, impatiently wiped away the pink fluid that prickled his eyes and hurried on, his jaws tightened and probably frightening her, but there was no time to explain.

11 minutes and counting

There was no sign or logo on the façade of the CI5 office. The building was inconspicuous, plain, and looked just like one of the many offices around town. As he saw it in the distance, Chris felt a little spark of relief mix with the fear - he was here now, ten minutes to go before one o'clock. Time wasn't on his side, but he should be able to get them all out.

With screeching brakes, he stopped inches from the main glass door of HQ. He was in such a hurry that he almost fell out of the Cortina. The woman in the car had not spoken, only looked around with frightened eyes as he had raced her car through the narrow side streets. He was glad she kept silent - obviously she'd decided that the best way to get out of this alive was to have him let it his way. She'd probably seen the blood on his sweater - he could feel it himself, but discarded the fact as unimportant.

Chris pushed his code onto the little security lock and waited impatiently for the door to click and unlock. Nothing happened. No, no, this could not be possible ... he tried again but he knew in advance that the second attempt also would be in vain.

He pounded at the glass door - knowing it would be no use to try and shoot it to pieces because it was thick, bullet-proof security glass. He pounded again. Rita Burroughs, the receptionist, must be able to hear and see him since she was only a few yards from the glass - and she did. She looked surprised at first, then worried as she noticed his crumpled appearance.

"Open up, Rita! Open the door!" Chris shouted from the other side of the glass, his hands pressed flat against it.

Although she could not hear him, she understood him perfectly and she pushed a button below her desk to open the door. But it didn't react.

He hit the bell button that would enable him to speak with her if she switched on the intercom.

"Rita, open up! Hurry!"

"I'm trying Chris, but it's not working!"

In a flash he saw Sam walking down the hallway.

"There's Sam. Get him! Go! Go! Hurry!"

7 minutes and counting

Sam saw Chris on the other side of the glass and instantly realised there was trouble.

"Open the door, Rita."

"It doesn't respond, Sam," Rita said. "Chris can?t open it from the outside either.."

Sam got to Chris who looked pale with exhaustion. He saw the face that was covered with dirty sweaty streaks, mingled with blood from an ugly wound just above one of his eyes and as Chris' coat fell open the dark red stains became visible.

"Sam, the place's been wired! Get the hell out of there!" Chris screamed through the speaker.

Even from where he was standing Chris would be able to see the shock on Rita's face, Sam knew, but the receptionist nodded as Sam snapped out instructions, not hesitating a second. Code one hundred - a complete emergency evacuation.

6 minutes and counting

Sam pulled and pushed at doors and windows - everything was firmly shut and it was impossible to get any of them to open. They were trapped like rats. There seemed to be no way anyone could get out - or get in, for that matter.

Sam had reached that conclusion within seconds, and immediately picked out a few agents to start searching for whatever device was intended to blow the place. If he was going to meet his maker, then he'd go down trying.

Backup crouched on hands and knees around to find a bomb in the office. Other agents did the same in different sections of the building. The main group had tried to get out through one of the carefully concealed emergency escape exits, but those were jammed as well.

Dave Artley went down the basement with a laser cutter. While others were gathering around him, he began to burn them a way to freedom through the steel supply door.

5 minutes and counting

Chris saw Sam shouting orders, and felt totally useless, smashing his hands against the plate glass with impotent fury. What could he do? Every door and window in the office operated electronically - the security measures intended to protect them all were about to become their own Nemesis!

"Sam! Try to override control of the front door! You'll need Backup to help you from Rita's desk!" he shouted through the speaker.

Sam realised Chris had a point there, and barked at Rita to find Backup and then go to join Artley's group in the basement at once. The receptionist looked at him, the calm of her face unnoticeably turning into fear. But somehow, she managed to maintain her poise and ran away to get Backup.

4 minutes and counting

The ghost of an idea slowly bubbled up inside Chris. He closed his eyes, trying to grasp the thought as it flickered off again.

Concentrate, for Christ's sake. What did Sam say? What had he been shouting to the others that had triggered an idea? Quickly? what was it?

The basement. The lid! Now he knew. Sam was screaming at Rita to get down to the basement. The escape tunnel leading from there ended up in the rear of HQ, to the left. And there was a heavy iron cover to it - like a manhole cover anywhere in the world.

He spurted away, crossing the distance at an unbelievable speed.

He jumped over the fence, his body suddenly sending warning signals of pain in his pelvis that he had not been aware of before. Then he saw the lid. The grass was trampled and ivy placed back over it in a casual way, but he did recognise the signs. A heavy footprint not far from the lid caught his attention. And suddenly he became fully aware of what was going to happen. The place was going to blow - from the basement as well.

Somehow, their enemy had used some kind of clever trick to block all electronic devices, but the basement door could be closed from the inside and outside, without electronic gear. So their enemy had welded the cover shut - cleverly foreseeing that they would try to get out through the one place where there were no high tech devices.

Chris dared not even touch the lid, afraid it might be booby-trapped. He jumped up and noticed something black and unidentified in the chaotic garden, just inches from his feet. He grabbed it, using his sleeve to pick it up, thus avoiding getting his prints all over it. Then he pushed it into his pocket and ran back to the front.

3 minutes and counting

They worked together fast. Backup gave orders, and Sam followed instantly. She was the true technician, he knew he could trust her fully on this. While she sat under the heavy marble desk, fiddling with the wiring, Sam took apart the control at the door. The system was connected and one could not open without the other.

Then a bang on the window startled him - Chris.

"Sam! Tell Dave to get the hell out of there. The basement is wired as well. Get them out of there - tell them to go somewhere central without doors and windows... the pool... or the gym!"

The dark-haired agent jumped to the intercom and barked a few words into it.

The calm, solid voice of Dave Artley sounded:

"Copy that. We'll go to the gym."

Somehow, the calm voice reassured Sam - a little, but it did. There was still a chance that they could get out. The gym was well chosen. It had a so-called "floating floor", installed to reduce the noise to a minimum and to prevent injuries. Between the flooring and the concrete were layers of insulation that might just soften the blast. Or maybe the pool was a safer place... Oh, Christ - how could anybody find a solution when time was running out?

They had to open the front door? had to get the people out.

2 minutes and counting

"Connect C3 to 5T"

"Connecting C3 to 5T. Done."

"Er.... 7 beta blue to... er... 9 orange."

"7 beta blue to 9 orange. Done," Sam repeated as Backup told him what to do.

"Cut the green wire and connect it to ... number 7."

"Okay, cutting the green wire and connecting it to number 7."

No click, no sound.

"Nothing?" Backup's voice sounded a little muffled from below the desk.

"Nothing!" Sam was getting worried. This was their second attempt - and this one hadn?t worked either!

"Okay. Just a second." Backup stayed calm.

It had begun raining. The world outside had turned grey and sombre and all the time Chris had been hopping up and down on the other side of the door. Sam looked at him and smiled reassuringly, reading the frantic worry on Chris' face.

Catweazle. You look like Catweazle, Chris. Clothes torn to rags, dirty, smudgy, your hair sticking out every way, that bewildered look, the fretting and jumping. God, am I actually thinking about Catweazle? Here I am, trying to save my life and that of my colleagues and all I can think of is my partner's sudden resemblance to a television character from my childhood, Sam thought wryly.

But Sam's mind worked perfectly well. He repeated and performed Backup's orders rapidly and precisely. His entire mind was set to survival, set to perform the highest effort - and a little door inside his brain had just opened up to relieve some of that tension.

60 seconds and counting

Backup punched in a few codes on her mini palm. New calculations, fresh round.

"I've got it, Sam. C5 to E2!"

"C5 to E2."

"Connect blue D7 to orange 15."

"Connecting blue D7 to.... orange 15. Gotcha."

"Disconnect switch 9 Kilo"

"Disconnecting switch 9 Kilo now. Ready." Sam blinked his eyes as sweat suddenly stung them. From the corner of his eyes he saw Chris still standing, waiting. The running feet in the corridors behind him told him that Dave's group was in the gym.

30 seconds and counting

Chris' stomach was contracting and twisting. He swallowed hard, breathing heavily to try to keep his feelings under control. Behind him, the lady in the black Cortina had begun to push people away.

"Go away!" she screamed at the gathering crowd. "There's a bomb over there. Go away! It's gonna explode! Go away! Get out of here!"

Suddenly she grabbed Chris' arm.

"You should find shelter too. Come with me!" her dark eyes were worried and to his surprise Chris recognised genuine care for him. He pressed her hand. "I can't leave. You go. Quickly."

She looked at him for just an instant, sadness showing in her eyes. Then she turned around and ran for the other side of the street.

10 seconds and counting

"Backup??" Sam's voice came hurriedly.

"Sam, connect green A to red 12." Backup spoke fast, still calm.

"Green A to red12. Done"

"Pull switch 3 left. Now!"

"Pulling switch 3 left."

"Just a second... wait... wait...initialising... wait"

5 seconds and counting

Suddenly there was a buzz and the door unlocked.

4 seconds and counting

Sam jumped back to the marble desk to get Backup up from underneath it. She would have been stiff from the uncomfortable position she'd been in - he knew she wouldn't be able to get to the door in those seconds.

He grabbed her arm, pulled her up and they ran towards the door that Chris held open for them.

One o'clock.

The blast was immense.

Every major exit had been wired and all of them exploded in the same second. Doors and aluminium windows frames were torn out and thrown high into the air. Glass windows were reduced to millions of pieces, large and small, spit out into the surrounding area like an erupting geyser. Dark red bricks that had been the major components of the sturdy building were gulped into the air and they broke into hazardous, sharp missiles as they hit the pavement.

The enormous pressure picked Backup, Sam and Chris up and flung them twenty five feet through the air before it smacked them on the ground. Glass, bricks and metal came down like a crazy rain, littering the pavement with shards of what once had been the proud HQ of CI5.

As the clouds of dust and smoke drifted away, the damage slowly became visible. Practically all the outside walls and rooms of the building were gone - only a small inner part was still standing. The gym and the swimming pool were amazingly intact. It offered spectators a bizarre sight - a surrealistic painting of partial destruction.

Within seconds, a large group of men and women came staggering out of the ruined building into the rain - Dave's group. They had taken refuge in the gym and the swimming pool and since there were no direct exits there, the explosions had been just far enough away for them all to survive. Coughing from the smoke and the dust they were shocked, but in one piece.

Richards saw Sam sitting up carefully, looking a little dazed, and carefully touching his arms and legs to search for injuries. He was shaking his head to clear it. Backup lay semi-conscious in the wet grass. Richards ran to her and as he spoke to her she opened her eyes, unable to believe the unbelievable.

"Did we make it?" she muttered thickly. "Shit, I can't hear anything much?"

"Yep! Everyone's safe. Are you all right, Tina? Stay down, an ambulance is on the way."

She couldn't hear what he said, Richards realised, but he hoped she'd understand that the news was good. She leaned back and closed her eyes, vaguely noticing that someone covered her with a warm coat.

"Chris, are you alright, buddy? Where are you? Chris?" Sam looked around, his head still spinning and his ears half deafened from the blast. Then he saw his friend, on the pavement, just a few yards further.

On hands and knees, he crawled over there, his breath catching as he turned the motionless figure over to his side. He carefully touched Chris' shoulder as he bent over him.

"Hey Catweazle. Hang in there, okay? The ambulance is coming, you hear. They're all out. Every one came out alive. You've got credits for that, Chris. You hear me?"

This looked bad. Very bad.

DAY TWO

Malone entered the hospital in the early hours of the following morning, after returning from Brazil to find his HQ in pieces. He found Sam Curtis sleeping across three fairly comfortable chairs, covered by a blanket that a thoughtful nurse had provided him with. Malone watched him with a slight feeling of relief. He looked dirty and exhausted even in sleep, but relatively unharmed. He cleared his throat and touched Sam's shoulder, and his agent jerked awake.

"Sir..." he greeted Malone a little drowsily.

"Good morning, Mr. Curtis. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Just a few scratches and bruises. "

Suddenly, he became aware of where he and his eyes registered sudden fear.

"Chris? Is there any news yet?"

Malone shook his head, gestured Curtis to stay seated and took the opposite chair.

"I don't know, Mr. Curtis. I just arrived. Would you care to tell me what happened yesterday? From your point of view I mean?"

"What do you know, sir? Before I start telling you what you already do know?" Curtis tried to stifle a yawn and failed.

"I was contacted by Richards and Spencer yesterday, only minutes after the explosion. A special salvage team has started right away and they're keeping me up to date on their progress. So I know the general story but I want to hear the details from you, first hand."

So Sam set off to telling what happened the day before. Malone listened carefully and did not interrupt him.

"Backup had to stay the night, just to be on the safe side, sir. Apart from a slight concussion and some glass cuts she came out just fine. But Chris...." Sam stopped, his voice faltering suddenly when he relived the second he'd seen the piece of glass that had buried itself into Chris' face, and the blood. So much blood....

Malone saw how this affected Sam Curtis and in a rare display of humanity, waved him to the bathroom.

"Clean yourself up a little, Mr. Curtis. I'll see if someone can get us some tea. And some information about Mr. Keel."

Backup swung her legs over the side of the bed with just a little less enthusiasm than normally, but the light feeling in her head didn't get worse and she felt steady enough to get dressed and get out of here. She had a foul taste in her mouth - caused by either what the doctors gave her or maybe it was the bitter aftertaste of yesterday's events. Somebody had been kind enough to put some fresh clothes in the cupboard. Usually that would be Chris. He had a key to her apartment - he sometimes took care of her cat. Sam couldn't do that - he was allergic to cats and sneezed violently every time he'd been around one. So Chris was the chosen one for the spare key. Had he been in there? She couldn't remember.

Vaguely she could remember the screaming sirens of ambulances after the explosion, but she could not recall if that had been for her or if more people were hurt. She assumed there must be. The blast had been huge, and it would be a miracle if there were no casualties. After vaguely remembering Richards' voice and dimly hearing sirens, she'd not been aware of much more for hours. At that moment, she had a pounding headache, slight dizziness and an overwhelming feeling of wanting to sleep.

Once the doctor arrived and chided her for trying to get out of bed, she did just that, with the help of more medication. She was too tired even to argue.

She had just buttoned up the last one of her blouse as a knock on the door made her look up. Not too fast with the head movements, Tina, she reminded herself, wincing.

It was Malone. How did he get here this quick, all the way from Brazil? Behind him was Sam, looking pale and tired but - to her relief - in one piece.

"Ah, good morning, Miss Backus. Up and ready to go?" Malone spoke pleasantly. Suspiciously pleasantly, in fact. "How do you feel?"

"Good morning, sir. A headache, but I'm fine. Hi, Sam - what about Chris? "

When he didn't answer her right away, she knew something was wrong. Her dark eyes searched his and saw the trouble in them.

"Mr. Keel is in recovery," Malone told her. "He can't have visitors yet. "

"What's happened to him? Sam?"

"He...he was hit by a piece of glass. In the head." Sam's usual calm was failing him. "It's bad, Backup." He swallowed, and she wished she could reach out for him to touch his hand, just a slight gesture, to show her compassion, but Malone blocked her path.

"Mr. Curtis, it will be at least two more hours before you can see him. Go home, take a shower and get something to eat. Miss Backus, are you up to a little work already?"

"Yes, sir. I can get started right away."

"Good. Mr. Curtis, do as you're told and report to the emergency address tomorrow. In the meantime, keep me informed on Mr. Keel's progress. And get some sleep. I shall need your services too. We shall find the person behind this. Soon."

Sam sat besides Chris' bed. His friend looked terrible. Part of his hair had been shaven away and a long swollen line of stitches disfigured the shape of his head. His right eye was covered with a large white eye pad that was taped to his face with an adhesive. It had light pink spots here and there.

Sam's mind drifted off to everything he had been through with Chris. He could be so difficult, so annoyingly stubborn and restless, but he was also one of the few people Sam knew who was almost always in a good mood and who could make him laugh any time of day, no matter what the circumstances were. He had a sense of humour that Sam envied. In fact, he admitted to himself, he cared one hell of a lot about the American. The cases they had worked on in the past had brought them close together and he had come to rely on his partner's strength, his skills and talents. But this was more than just professional teamwork. Their skills combined made them an excellent team, but their individual capacities, the fact that they were open to each other's ideas and suggestions and their genuine concern for one another had added just that little extra to make the partnership outstanding.

He owed Chris his life - on several occasions, though Chris would not listen to that. Chris had put his hand on Sam's shoulder once and looked him in the eyes as he spoke, without any light-hearted banter for once. "Sam, you've been my guardian angel more often than I can recall. You've saved my life more than once, just as I try to keep you in the land of the living as well. That's why in this line of work, you get a partner. So stop thanking me, and never feel you owe me. Looking after each other's back comes with the job."

Chris stirred.

"Chris? It's me, Sam. Can you hear me?"

Soft mumbling sounds came out of his partner's mouth. He wanted a drink, Sam somehow understood, and passed him water.

"Sam? Wha.... how...wha...?"

"You're in hospital, buddy. You nearly got your head cut off by a piece of flying glass. Luckily your skull was just a little too hard to crack."

Chris blinked with one eye. It hurt, apparently, because he winced and quickly closed it.

"The bomb?" he croaked after a few minutes.

"No casualties. Everyone got out okay. You did one hell of a job there, Chris. Nobody would be here if you hadn't made it in time. HQ's a mess, though. Oh, and Malone's back from Brazil and we'll working on who did it. "

"Head hurts..."

"I bet it does. You've got more sewing work on your head than an average quilt has. Get some sleep, okay? I'll tell the nurse you were awake. I'll be back tonight."

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"'s Backup alright?"

"Yep. She's just fine."

Silence. Sam saw Chris' face relaxing and knew he must have fallen asleep.

The temporary office had been put together with amazing rapidity. Even as the CI5 staff met, the salvage team worked in other rooms on re-installing backup equipment and other material that had been rescued from the chaos.

Malone, Backup and Sam, plus various others, were sitting around a large table. It was damp and warm in there, and most of them looked as if they were feeling it. Ties were loosened or taken off, sleeves rolled up and hair that had been neatly combed earlier that day looked limp and ruffled.

Sam let out a long sigh, shuffling the papers in front of him. They had been going over what happened yesterday again and again. Time after time, he meticulously described the time between spotting Chris in front of the doors and the blast. Rubbing tired eyes, he glanced at Backup and saw how tired she looked, too. And yet her fingers were - inevitably - flying over the keyboard of the laptop.

"I've been writing down all the suggestions and possibilities that we've come up with so far. Here's a brief summary.

The bomber and timing: We must assume that the bomber was in sight of or close to HQ, since the doors and windows were only blocked from the moment Chris tried to get in. We know this because several employees entered and left the building between 12.30 and 12.50. As soon as he saw Chris coming, he must have used his magic trick. That would suggest him being around the premises. Therefore, we must interview all persons in the nearby surroundings of HQ. Door-to-door work.

Tampering with the exits: As to that - we're still in the dark. High technological jamming equipment? Unknown so far.

Motive: unknown. Terrorist action? Vendetta? Payback for something for the past? Not likely to be just a random bombing. Did the bomber know Mr. Malone was out of the building at the time the explosions would set off? Was he aiming at one person in particular or the entire organisation? We need to dig into files about explosives specialists.

Explosives: all exits were wired. The biggest one was probably the bomb in the basement. But as far as we can tell right now, the wiring was only on the outside. So did our attacker enter the building to get it installed? That seems unlikely. On the other hand: did he know the place? He chose the basement for the biggest charge, knowing we'd head there when modern technology failed us and we'd need to use the door there. The lab in Manchester is working on the explosives."

Heads nodded.

"Chris might be able tell us more," she added. "But so far he's not up to answering any questions."

She turned to Malone. "Sir, your turn."

She sat down again, closing her eyes.

"Thank you, Miss Backup. I think we have a few things to go on from here. The salvage team has already put all possible equipment in our temporary office. Start working, ladies and gentlemen. I want reports tomorrow, same time. Dismissed, except you, Mr. Curtis."

Sure, Sam thought wryly, except me.

"Mr. Curtis, I want you to go to Mr. Keel and try to get him to talk. He's the one who can provide us with answers. Wake him up if you have to. This lunatic might just try again, and we must do everything in our power to stop him." Malone's voice rose as he spoke, anger taking over.

Sam left for the hospital. The world outside had turned from day to night and he hadn't even noticed.

Chris was still asleep when Sam entered, and it seemed more than hard to have to wake him. Coffee in hand, however, he pulled up a chair and sat down.

"Chris, wake up. Orders from the old fox."

No movement. Sam looked a little more carefully, seeing the bruises that had started to show. Chris looked vulnerable and pale as he lay there, unaware of Sam's presence.

The biggest question in everyone's mind, Sam knew, was how Chris could have known about the explosives. Some witnesses had testified that they had seen him running through the streets of London and that his car had been found somewhere on a sidewalk, abandoned. It was one big mystery - as was the entire case, Sam thought wearily.

He took the chart from the end of the bed and managed to decipher most of it. Severe bruising to the pelvis and ribcage, massive contusions all over his right side. They'd told him a little about the head injury, too.

Oh shit, Chris, this really isn't good.

There was extensive damage to the right eye, apparently. He was lucky that they'd even saved it, but they still didn't know if it would function. And if it didn't? He'd be out of fieldwork forever.

It's not fair. He saved us all.

"What's not fair?" a hoarse voice came from the bed. Sam realised he must have spoken out loud.

Sam dragged out his impassive mask - or at least tried to.

"Hi, Chris. Nothing?"

"Hi."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like somebody tried to blow me to the hereafter." This was a good sign. Chris was regaining his old sense of humour.

"Hurt?"

"Nah, not too bad. You'd be surprised what kind of goodies they have here. " He moved his hand slightly, indicating the IV. "Special cocktail, so I'm told."

"Well, lucky you. Looks like it's one way of catching up on your sleep, too."

Chris started to chuckle, but immediately felt the consequences and held his breath as pain hit him.

"Getting run down by a car didn't help," he explained.

"Hit by a car?" Sam couldn't hide his surprise.

"The black Cortina that you must have seen standing there."

Sam fished a small tape recorder from his pocket, took a sip from his coffee, and nodded his head.

"Whenever you're ready, Chris."

DAY THREE

morning

Sam pushed the stop button on the tape recorder and a silence fell between the men and women in the room. So that was how Chris had known.

"Does anyone recall being unable to make phone calls? An unusual silence in the communications traffic? Phone, fax, e-mail?" Malone inquired, putting words to the puzzled feeling that everyone shared.

"I called you, sir. At approximately 12.45 hrs. Not a single problem, no irregularities there," Spencer replied thoughtfully.

"And I called Backup. On her cell phone, at about the same time. I was in Leeds," Fry added.

More agents remembered using the normal communication lines.

"So, that would mean that somehow the calls from Chris' cell phone and his regular phone at home were jammed. Is that possible, Backup? Martin?" Sam asked the technician who had been scribbling vague drawings on a scrap of paper. Then he met Malone's eyes and immediately a thought struck him.

"Shit! Chris' home! Chris has an answering machine. You all heard what he said - the phone kept ringing until he answered. So..."

Backup had already understood what he was aiming at and pulled a phone towards her to call forensics.

"Our bomber must have turned it off. He's been in Chris' place."

Within minutes the first call came through. Phone records were checked and it seemed almost impossible, but it was true: somehow every phone call that Chris had made to try and reach HQ was blocked, both from his normal and his mobile phone. That would indicate someone who knew his way around the telephone system.

noon

Sam and Backup had gone back to the area near the destroyed HQ. It looked strange, unearthly almost - the sight of the destruction crept under their skin, leaving behind a very unpleasant sensation.

Like salesmen, they had gone door to door. As instructed, they and a whole team of others spoke to people all around, trying to find any witnesses at all who might have seen anything untoward.

The team worked as fast as they could, but they were hindered by lack of infrastructure; information, computers, data, everything that had been destroyed during the explosion would take some little time to replace. And the longer they waited, the fewer the leads might become. People would forget what they may have seen, other clues would disappear, and any other telltale elements would fade into insignificance with time.

In a way, they had been lucky because of the heavy rain. The fire had not had chance to spread and much of the shattered building could slowly be searched, each fragment examined for evidence.

The shoe print in the garden that Chris had spoken of had partially been wiped away by both rain and the blast, but it turned out to be a special kind of man's shoe, size 9¹/_2. A small piece of an "Elephant" logo on the sole was still visible, and they soon discovered that "Elephant" shoes were a brand specially designed for people with deformed feet. The partial print had proved that this pair were still fairly new, and even permitted a rough estimate of the man's size and weight, although at 1m80 and 80 kilos, this only told them that it was someone of average height and size.

evening

It was late and silent in the temporary office. Most of the agents had left.

"What d'you say, Backup, shall we call it a night?"

Backup closed her eyes as Sam put his hands on her shoulders and massaged them softly.

It was not something Sam was used to doing - under normal circumstances he was far too reserved for that. However, the recent shock had brought them closer, and he felt he could do this without giving her the wrong impression. It was a friendly gesture and she knew it.

"Thanks, Sam. That feels so good. I just can't tear myself away - like if I'm glued to the screen. I just want to find whoever did this. "

"Yeah. You're not the only one," Sam said, almost to himself.

"Have you been to see Chris today?" Backup asked, her eyes still closed.

"No. I wanted to stop by on my way home, but I dunno if I should disturb him this late. It's well after midnight."

"Poor Chris. He looks pretty bad"

"Yeah."

Neither of them mentioned the possible damage to his eye, not wanting to put their fears into words.

Sam rested his hands on her shoulders for just a few seconds more, feeling some small comfort from the physical contact.

"C'mon, Backup. Time to go home. Switch the damn thing off and let's get out of here."

DAY FOUR

Around midday

Chris stepped out of bed carefully. He had had his share of injuries over the course of the years, but this eye was turning out to be a bigger problem then he thought at first.

With vision in only one eye, since the other one was fully covered with an eye-patch, Chris bumped into chairs, bedsides, cupboards, and doors. He tried to pick up a mug of coffee and instead knocked it over, spilling the coffee all over the table. When trying to clean up, he knocked himself against the table. He tried to write and couldn't keep the words in a straight line. He tried to read and found it was irritatingly tiring. He sometimes even experienced a feeling akin to seasickness.

Annoyed, he put on his clothes after a careful shower, while his mind drifted off to the conversation he had had yesterday with the ophthalmologist. It was a sever injury, he had said, and Chris would have to wear the patch for at least two months (two months, he'd cried out in utter disbelief). His patient need to comply with the instructions, however, the doctor had added. Light would be extremely painful to the eye and the one thing that did shield it was the patch. Intensive treatment would help, but there was no way of telling what the verdict would be in two months.

Chris checked his mirror image.

I look like Frankenstein, he thought, although not with amusement. His pallor, the stitching that ran over his partly shaven head, the multi-coloured shiner bruising around his eye too big to hide under the eye-patch. Yes, Frankenstein with an eye-patch.

Sam had brought him some clothes and a baseball cap, being thoughtful as ever. He couldn't find his leather coat, so he assumed it had been taken away to get it cleaned and repaired or maybe it was beyond cleaning and repairing, but he did find a little plastic bag that contained everything he had had in his pockets. Keys, some receipts, an empty notepad, package of gum. And then he saw the little dark object. He grabbed the telephone.

"Sam? Come and pick up me up. I've got something here that I'm certain is important."

Sam drove as Chris sat beside him eating a greasy burger. Hospital food was exactly a gastronomic experience - at least they both agreed on that much when it came to eating. So a quick stop at a burger bar was tolerable under the circumstances.

"How come you didn't tell us about that before?"

"I didn't remember. Sorry. It just hit me as I saw the things in the bag," Chris answered with his mouth full.

"No problem. You probably weren't in much of a state to remember it all. Do you know what it is?"

"Not a clue. Looked very out of place there. That's why it caught my attention."

"Well, we can figure it out soon enough. Did the doctor release you or did you walk out of your own accord?"

"Bit of both. If I've got to feel sore, I might as well be sore at home or at work. At least there I don't have to lie in a bed and feel useless."

"What's new, eh?" Sam sighed theatrically. "How's the eye, Captain Hook?"

"Fine. Thought of Frankenstein myself. Thanks for the cap. Hides the nasty things on my beautiful skull."

It did not escape Sam's attention that Chris avoided the subject of just how bad the injury was.

Chris was greeted happily by everyone, except by Malone who raised a suspicious eyebrow as he saw the agent's appearance. The American took himself off to the back of the temporary briefing room, avoiding Malone and trying to look inconspicuous.

Sam hung a photo on the white board and they all looked to see what it was - the tiny item Chris had found in the garden, and which Sam had photographed before sending it to the lab.

"The first thing forensics could think of was that this is some piece of a sound system, a dish antenna maybe. Anybody?" Malone asked.

One of the agents, Donna Hartcourt, stood up and walked to the board to examine the photo more closely.

"A friend of mine specialises in sound equipment, although he's up North. If I can get a copy of this, I can contact him and see if he has any ideas."

A few moments later, the appointment was made and Donna headed straight for her car, accompanied by Sam. Backup was working with Spencer, so Chris decided to go along too, anxious to see what he had found.

All three of them, after being welcomed by an expert in the field, quickly appreciated the man's knowledge and his precise explanations after he had taken a great deal of time to answer all their questions. His final conclusion was that the object was possibly part of an experimental ultrasound parabolic antenna. Such devices, he told them, could be used to divert and re-direct sound transmission, such as those from Chris' phone - and they were only produced, in experimental form, by two firms in England.

Driving back to London, they called Spencer and Backup to focus their search on the new information.

evening

"Miss Backus, how are we doing?" Malone popped up behind Backup and startled her.

"Spencer and I have been going over the two firms that manufacture material for sound transmission devices, sir. They were very willing to co-operate and they sent us a list of invoices and orders from the past two years. We're working on that right now."

The breakthrough came when they were cross-referencing the data with that of the manufacturer of the special type "Elephant" shoes, which Backup and Spencer had visited that afternoon. There were extensive records of invoices, and there were only very few names of recent purchases by individuals. The woman who helped them came up with the names and addresses of 54 persons who had bought a pair of the special footwear over the last six months. After filtering out the size and the specific type, only four names were left.

One of the addresses also showed up on the "ultrasound purchase list".

Backup and Spencer looked at each other as the computer displayed an address in London.

Malone reacted with a grimace. He looked at the names, at the address again, then turned on his heels and quickly headed for his office.

"Sir, do you want me t..."

Malone cut off her sentence. "Tell Mr. Curtis to meet me at rendezvous point five. Right away."

He strode out of the room, looking occupied and worried.

later that evening

The address was a quiet street in the suburbs of London. The house was disappointingly average at first glance: a small, well cared-for garden, a tool shed and plastic garden furniture. When they entered, the living room and kitchen looked like thousands of others like them. And the whole place was empty.

The only unusual thing was the apparent haste in which the place had obviously been abandoned.

"Something or somebody warned him," Sam said, thoughtfully.

"Yeah," Backup said. "But who? How?"

Sam just shook his head. So many questions still to answer.

The two rooms upstairs, however, brought the real surprise. The bedroom was filled with books, magazines, articles, newspaper clippings and other reading matter, stacked floor to ceiling. Backup looked at the titles.

"Sam, there's probably more here on terrorism, explosives, high tech, computers etc. than we have on the CI5 archives," she said, staring almost breathlessly at the piles of paper around her.

Sam tried the room next door and had to force the lock to get in. He stepped into the strangest sanctuary he had ever seen. Backup showed up behind him but he didn't even hear her as he gazed speechlessly at the opposite wall.

An enlarged photo of himself was pinned at the centre. Around it, countless photographs were either pinned or pasted to the wall as like some sort of bizarre collage. Together with those came a myriad of notes and comments, written in red felt tip pen on the photos or even directly on the wallpaper. Altogether, nearly the entire wall was covered.

Backup stepped closer, to see a picture of Malone marked with a thick red cross and the word USELESS written over it. On the other side, she saw her own image, and the same word, with a question mark between brackets.

"There must be at least ... what... 200 photos up here," she said slowly, staring at them and then back to Sam, who seemed mesmerised by what he had found. He had been captured in every possible situation: at work, at home, at the gym, on holiday, with friends or women he'd dated, with Backup and with Chris.

"He's been keeping an eye on me for at least 9 or 10 months," Sam said softly. "Look - photos from my holiday. Then there's Eva - she left for South America last September. That was the last time I saw her. Christ - and this one's my living room. That one shows a dinner party at least six months back. Shit, Backup. He's been stalking me all this time. He wants me."

Backup nodded slowly, frowning.

"Look! Look at this. Obviously, Chris isn't useless."

There were almost as many pictures from Chris put up there as there were of Sam, also with added comments. The information was as thorough as it was complete: innumerable scraps of information, no matter how insignificant, were on the wall. And all in red, reminding Sam suddenly and vividly on the blood covering his partner's face after the blast.

Forcing himself to remain calm, Sam opened a cupboard and found sound and video tapes, all categorised, labelled and neatly organised. They slid one into the recorder, and he saw himself yet again. And Chris. The last label of them all was marked only a few hours before, which made Sam shudder. Looking at Backup's face, he saw her asking the same question that he was asking himself. Where was the stalker now?

Backup put her hand on Sam's arm.

"Sam, where's Chris?"

"At the hospital. He had to report there. He bumped into the door at the office on the way in and a few of the stitches didn't hold. He..." Sam swallowed, aware of the danger. It was time to have a little talk with his partner.

He looked at Backup and suddenly his eyes turned hard.

"Chris is a bloody fool. He thinks he can come to work, but he really is the one that's useless. He's no use to me or to any of us. I'm going to tell Malone to get him off active duty. Call the forensics, would you. We need to have this room analysed."

He turned on his heels and stormed out of the building, leaving an astonished Backup behind in the room.

DAY FIVE

morning

Sam had to face it. It was now or never, but he hated himself for what he was going to do.

Chris arrived a little later than Sam, and threw a puzzled glance at his partner.

"I thought you'd pick me up," he said. "I had to call a cab."

He sat down, knocking over an empty mug. He smiled a little sheepishly as he righted it, but then realised Sam was looking at him with obvious irritation.

"Go home, Chris. That eye's useless. We contacted your specialist. "

"NO way, buddy. I'll lose it if I have to sit staring at those walls all the time."

Chris obviously didn't register anything yet, Sam thought, feeling sick.

"Chris, do I have to spell it out, or shall I call Malone? " Sam pushed a little harder.

"What? You're starting to sound like Backup." He cast a short glance at Sam, then turned back to read the information on the paper in front of him.

"Chris. I asked you nicely. Now it looks like I have to tell you. Get out of here." Sam felt sweat on his palms, now. But now the message was getting through.

"You're not serious, are you?" his one-eyed partner asked softly, amazement showing now. "C'mon, Sam?"

Sam snapped at him, his voice curt, precise and sharp as a razor blade.

"I don't want you as my partner, Chris. I don't even want you around me at all. You are a liability to me, to the others and to yourself. That eye's ruined your timing. You can't shoot straight - or even walk straight with one eye, meaning you're useless in the field. All you'll do by staying around is to get somebody killed, or yourself. And I, for one, refuse to end up dead simply because you refuse to accept that your career with CI5 is over."

Chris was staring, now.

"I've talked to Malone about it, and he agrees. Apparently he's willing to offer you a desk job. Oh - and Chris - and since it's taken you so long to figure this out for yourself, I'm beginning to think that piece of glass hit you even harder than I thought. "

Chris who was never short of words, was speechless.

"Close your mouth. You look like an idiot. And drop the key to my flat into reception on your way out, would you."

Sam turned to look at the file, glad that unlike Chris, he didn't blush, or he would have been purple. Instead, his heart was pounding as if he'd just broken the CI5 seven-mile track record.

What he had expected least of all, though, was the way Chris just stood and retreated in silence. Without a word, or even the slightest flicker of that explosive temper. Sam's last impression was a white face, racked with pain and sheer incomprehension.

Chris didn't look back as he left, but Sam couldn't help following him with his eyes. What he saw was his closest friend walking away, shoulders stooped, and head down, looking old and infinitely sad? and betrayed.

As the door closed, he fought hard to get his emotions under control, trying to swallow away the tears welling up in the silver-green eyes.

I'm so sorry, Chris. So sorry. Forgive me.

Sam pulled the door shut behind him, turned the corner where his car was parked and was all of sudden confronted with the American, who blocked his way through.

"What stunt did you try to pull there?"

The voice was lightly irritated, but not angry - yet.

"You still here?" Sam replied icily.

"Jesus Christ, Sam. Cut the crap!"

Sam looked Chris straight in the eyes and spoke slowly. "Get. Out. Of. My. Life. Period."

The American's tone rose just a little. "Like hell I won't. What is this? You want me out? After you told me I saved the life of every one inside HQ the other day? "

"SO WHAT?" Sam's voice sank an octave. He spoke slowly, softly, contempt and disdain radiating from his face and his words.

"Does that mean I owe you? You stupid son of a bitch! I saved your life a dozen times. You got me into more trouble than I ever encountered in my entire life before. Let me tell you something, Chris Keel. I always thought you were a pain in the ass. I knew you were a loser from the very first day I laid eyes on you. I put up with you because I had to. Oh yes, I hid my dislike for you with professional ease. But now that you can no longer be of any use, there's no need to keep up appearances anymore."

"You bastard!" Chris began to turn red. His good eye showed a dangerous glow.

"Let this get through your thick skull, Keel. I only work as part of a perfect team. You are a cripple now - an invalid. I DON'T want to carry you. I can't afford to. You're a pathetic idiot if you think we can still use you now."

A self-contented little smile accompanied Sam?s last words.

"Goodbye Chris. Go and sell ladies underwear. Plenty of opportunity to sob about your dead bird and still see the pussies."

That final insult was the last straw. Chris swung his fist straight to Sam's jaw. But Sam, who had expected that, was faster and the knuckles only lightly touched his skin. He aimed a single blow to Chris stomach.

Chris couldn't have put up much of a fight, as he was still very weak. But the American was so enraged that he jumped aside and planted the side of his hand in Sam's shoulder. It brought a cry of pain and surprise, and before they knew it, they were rolling over the ground, fighting with a deathly fury. Keel, in poor shape, was hardly a match for Curtis but fought with the stubbornness of mule and the force of a tiger.

Finally, Richards and Malone, alarmed by the noise, appeared and dragged the two apart. Malone was furious.

"Mr. Keel! Get in that taxi and get the hell out of here before I kick you into it myself. Mr. Curtis - we will be discussing this in the morning."

Richards tried to help Chris up. Trembling and panting from the exertion, the American shoved the helping hand aside.

"Goddamned, leave me alone!" was the last thing they heard as he slammed the taxi door and disappeared into the night.

The following morning

Backup frowned at her screen, and then knocked on the door of her boss' office.

"Sir? Can I ask you something?"

"Come in, Miss Backus. What is that you want to ask?"

"I'm curious as to how you got to recognising it so quickly yesterday, sir. About the names, I mean. I found the house owner John Modall on the MI6 payroll, but Tristram Bell?"

Malone placed the tips of his fingers together and nodded.

Tristram Bell, he explained, was an MI6 agent who died in the line of duty, years ago. Malone had recognised the name immediately. Bell had been killed and Modall injured, amid a case that had been a joint venture between MI6 and CI5.

Backup listened intently, but she couldn't help but glance at the white envelope on Malone's desk, either, since it had Chris' handwriting on it. Malone saw her looking, and nodded.

"That's Mr. Keel's resignation. He's come to his senses I think."

One week later

Days of intensive searching had followed after the discovery of the house. But John Modall had disappeared and no attempt to find him had been successful. Sam had moved to a safe house, knowing that the next bomb could well be placed in his own apartment. Modall had spent a great deal of time and trouble stalking him over the past year, and was hardly likely to leave his business unfinished.

Sam, of course, thought about little else than that case nearly seven years before. He, too, had been injured and had spent weeks in hospital, floating between induced coma, unconsciousness and sleep. He learned much later that Tristram Bell hadn't survived the shooting and that John Modall was still in a coma and not likely to come out of it.

During and after his recovery, he had visited the silent man in the bed every once in a while. Then the opportunity of joining CI5 had come along, and he had taken it, and after numerous missions abroad had lost touch. He'd heard that Modall had finally come round and left the hospital, but Modall never contacted him, and he'd let the relationship slide.

Obviously, as soon as he was able, he'd filed a report about the gunfight that had formed the climax to it all - and which had been the result of a carefully set trap. The only thing that had prevented even more casualties, he also knew, was CI5's intervention - and he'd stated that clearly in his summary of events. Oh, he'd been younger then, and probably not fully aware of just how unpopular his words had been with certain colleagues. But what he had written had been clear and honest.

The whole chapter had been closed even before he moved to CI5, and he'd given it little thought ever since. One thing he was well known for, he admitted to himself, was his ability to put the more unpleasant side of his work behind him.

Finally, the case started to break. The first reactions on the APB had started to come in, including information that John Modall had been spotted. Slowly, the net was tightening, and Sam was desperate for the whole affair to be over now, and his nightmare with it.

He'd tried to put the matter with Chris out of his mind, but it just wasn't working. Backup had found him on the passenger list of a flight to New Orleans a few days previously, and had told him. Sam had just shrugged his shoulders, adding that he wasn't at all interested.

Backup had gaped at him in disbelief, but didn't comment.

Then, a couple of days later, his cell phone rang as he was driving.

"Curtis."

"Hello, Sam." The voice tickled his eardrum and shot straight into his brain, opening yet more doors to memories that had been hidden for years. Seven years, in fact.

"John. John Modall," he said slowly, suddenly unaware of the traffic around him.

"Ah, I notice you still recognise my voice. How are you doing these days, Sam? Still CI5's award winning stallion?"

"I'd feel better without you interfering with my life." Sam answered calmly, while all the time his mind was working at a speed powered by fury.

The melodic, warm baritone voice came through again - and somewhere along with the other thoughts, Sam decided that Modall would be an asset to any men's choir.

"Well, well. In that case I suggest we meet. Talk a little about good old days at MI6."

"And you think I want to talk you?"

"Oh, but I'm sure you do. I know you. You want to see what the vegetable from seven years ago looks like today. You want to know why I mess around in your life. And how."

He was right and he knew it. "Where are you, Sam?"

"Close to Westminster Abbey," Sam replied, knowing it had to be now or never.

"Then meet me at 7, St. Martin's Courtyard. You've got twenty minutes."

And Modall was gone.

Sam began dialling at once, but then stopped. Modall would probably be monitoring his calls or blocking them just like he had for Chris. His methodical mind working rapidly, he set off, and stopped at the first phone box he saw.

"Angelica? It's Sam. I've got no time to explain. I want you to do me a huge favour..."

Afternoon

The address - 7, St. Martin's Courtyard - turned out to be a house from the beginning of the 20^th century, but now sadly dilapidated. Scheduled for demolition, it already it had that special atmosphere of impending doom.

Sam forced his way through the fences that were supposed to keep intruders out, and very cautiously stepped up to the house, gun drawn. Slowly, carefully, he pushed open the door.

Once, it must have been beautiful, with high ceilings and intricate plasterwork. Tall doors led to other rooms, with stained glass windows and richly patterned wallpaper. Now, though, it smelled musty and damp, and dust swirled up into rays of sunlight falling from the windows. Graffiti had been sprayed onto the walls, windows had been shattered and most of the inner walls had already been taken down, leaving messy heaps of bricks, tiles and dust.

"Up here." A voice came from the first floor.

Sam moved slowly, catlike almost, surprised at his own calm. He took the stairs one by one, every muscle and every fibre in his body focussed on what was happening. The first floor was in a ramshackle state as well: huge sections of the walls and floor were missing, making the whole place look like air holes in a giant ice cube.

"Hello, Sam."

"John." Sam looked at the man who sat, relaxing, on a table at the end of the open space, his back to the wall. His arms rested on a crutch. The shoes showed his deformed feet in the unusual "Elephant" shoes.

"This house was build in 1924. Nice, isn't it? The high windows are what I like best about it. It's typical Art Deco, did you know that? Such a shame to see it in this state, but that's what life is all about, isn't it? You serve your purpose, and then you're abandoned and destroyed. Oh, and did you know it used to be a kindergarten? Then it got too unstable, and they decided to demolish it."

"I didn't come here for a lecture on architecture."

Sam moved closer to him and raised his gun as John Modall began to shift.

"Don't move. Stay where you are."

"Are you afraid of me, Sam? Look at me. I can never outrun you. My feet were almost shot off. Amongst other things..." Modall looked at him, intensity in his eyes. He was a handsome man - a regular shaped face, dark curly hair, with a well-trimmed beard and thickly lashed brown eyes

"What do you want from me?" Sam asked, not losing his guard one second.

"This is the end, Sam. It's about time that we put this behind us. Please, would you walk over to the window? See the kids?"

Sam saw a crowd of children out in the playground in front of a couple of new Portakabin units. They were still very young - four or five years old maybe. They squatted in groups, played or ran around. Some of the boys were kicking a football around, while a few of the girls were sitting, giggling around a sandbox. Two young women were there, keeping an eye on them all.

"I see them. What about them?"

"Listen to them. Their voices carry all the way up here. So innocent, aren't they? Now, look at the roofs of the unit, Sam. D'you see the little green boxes?"

"Yes. I see them."

"They're explosives, Sam. And you triggered them. The moment you stepped over the threshold, you set the detonator."

Sam turned to face Modall.

"I don't believe you. Those are kids, for crying out loud!"

A sudden change flashed over Modall's face. His voice, that had been almost velvety-soft, suddenly turned shrill.

"I hate children! They are mean and rude. They remind me of something that I will never have again: youth, prospects, prosperity. You ruined all of that, with your so-called statement that got your precious CI5 off the hook. I understood quickly enough when I read about your resignation and your employment there."

Sam couldn't believe his ears.

"You think I wrote that report to get into CI5? Oh, for Christ's sake, John?"

But Modall didn't seem to hear him. He looked at Sam with dark, angry eyes. The voice turned smooth and educated again.

"Now, you can see I'm a cripple, and that you can knock me down or just shoot me on the spot, so this will all be over in a second. But I wouldn't if I were you. Did you think I'd lose sight of that? There's a wireless connection between the explosives I'm holding, with a relay to those at the kindergarten. You've already triggered it all. If the explosives I have here are not detonated, then the relay in the kindergarten will receive a signal and will explode. If you stay here, you'll save the kids, but not your own arrogant, precious hide."

"You wouldn't. It's one big bluff." Sam tried, sadly aware that it almost certainly was not.

Immediately, Modall pushed a button on a small dark box he held in his hand. The same moment, a muffled noise came from outside and Sam heard a child starting to cry. When he looked out of the window he saw how that a few roof tiles had come down. A little smoke curled up into the sunny air for a few seconds and then it was gone. The women ran to a little boy who had been hit by one of the tiles, now crying with heartbreaking intensity.

"You bastard!" Sam hissed, betraying his disgust.

"Just a little demonstration, Sam," Modall answered calmly. But Sam saw the bizarre glow in his eyes, the sensation of power filling the dangerous man before him.

"Would you kill yourself just to get even with me?" Sam spat.

"Yes, I would. This is what I have been preparing for almost two years. I'm a dead man already, Sam. From the moment I was hit by that shower of bullets, my body started to die. Slowly and painfully I'm sliding towards the inevitable end. The only thing that kept me from doing this sooner was the idea of making you suffer a little before I finally had you where I wanted you.

My plan was simple: I decided to blast CI5 into the sky, using your partner as a puppet. I rather like games, you see. And to get Mr. Keel there, I did some work on his telephone. It was clever, you have to admit that. You never even noticed me stalking you, either, but then you found the tapes and the videos, of course. But believe me, it was such a delight, all of it - and required a great deal of expertise. I bugged your apartment and your partner's place. Put tiny cameras in the lights and microphones in the doorknobs. Your security was a piece of cake to me. Then I jammed all the phone traffic between that American partner of yours and CI5. And I continued hunting you even when you moved to that safe house. The hasty departure from my house was somewhat unforeseen, I admit, so I could only bring the parabolic disk, but it's a little beauty. And it meant I was still just one step ahead of you. All the time, Sam."

Modall laughed, and the sound made Sam shiver inwardly.

"Now, I have to admit I underestimated that hot-headed Keel's resourcefulness. You weren't supposed to come out of there alive - any of you. But at least I managed to smash CI5 to pieces, which was a small satisfaction in itself. Then I changed my plans a little, and decided to take out your partner and yourself, one after the other."

"You're sick," Sam said softly, but the man ignored him.

"I'd already noticed your partnership with this American of yours, so I made him the next target. Do you know how it feels to lose a partner? No, you don't. But you treated this one like shit - just confirming my impression of you, Sam. You're a selfish, cold bastard only concerned about your own wellbeing. My sympathy for your partner grew as I heard about the way you treated him. He saved your worthless hide, and yet you couldn't wait to be rid of him."

"I couldn't care less about Keel," Sam said bluntly, trying to change the topic, and to keep Modall talking while he thought of a solution. "So how did you do it all? Surely you can't have climbed the walls to place the explosives up there?"

"I knew you'd want to know that." Modall gave another grating laugh. "And it was so easy. Tristram Bell has a kid brother, Siegfried, who was ever so willing to co-operate. I got him on the payroll of the window cleaning service that works for CI5. He attached every bomb and every relay while cleaning the windows. I took care of some other places, like the basement explosives."

Sam's mind worked rapidly. If Angelica had been able to contact CI5, if they could be here on time, then maybe? maybe there was a chance. He had to let him keep talking, because right now Modall had him by the balls but might just want to play a little longer. And there was no way he'd let the kids suffer.

Suddenly, though, he knew it wasn't going to work, and his heart stopped. Modall's fingers moved on the small dark box, which he then turned towards Sam. Red digital numbers were visible, counting back the seconds from twenty to the inevitable zero. He lifted the lapel of his blazer and explosives that were strapped to his body became visible.

18, 17?

"It will be over before you know it, Sam. Actually, I think it will be too quickly for you."

"Tell me the children will be safe!" Sam cried out.

14, 13?

"Why Sam? You really want to convince me that you actually do care for them?"

11, 10?

"Tell me!"

"That is for me to know? and for you to never find out."

7, 6?

Without realising Sam, stepped back a few paces, away from the threat. He couldn't take his eyes off of the box in Modall's hand.

"Can you live with that, Sam? Or are you prepared to die in their place?" Modall screamed with laughter, insanity visible in his eyes.

4, 3?

"See you in hell, Sam Curtis!" Modall screamed out the laughter of a madman.

Several weeks later

New Orleans was hot and it had taken Harry Malone a great deal of time and trouble to hire a boat that would take him to what they had finally identified as the new residence of a Mr. Chris Keel. He sent the boatman away as he arrived, and stepped onto the plank of a small, ramshackle dwelling that looked more like a shed than a house of any kind.

Chris was sitting on the porch, slouched in a large cane chair, and looked despondent and drunk. His beard, Malone noticed, as at least five or six days old, and the eye patch was far from clean.

Seeing Malone coming towards him didn't change the expression on his face whatsoever. He just sat and watched with total disinterest.

He didn't invite Malone to sit down, nor did he offer him a drink. It took Malone a considerable effort to keep his patience, but somehow he did. He stepped into the mess inside, found a chair and a soda, and returned to sit opposite the rebellious glare.

"Take a seat, Harry." The words sounded thick from alcohol.

Harry, Malone mused. Well, he'd never thought that Keel would make it easy for him.

"Mr. Keel, does the name John Modall mean anything to you?"

"No..... should it?"

"I thought perhaps Mr. Curtis had mentioned the name to you. How about Tristram Bell?

The head shook disinterestedly.

"What do you know of Mr. Curtis' work before he came to CI5?"

"Did you come all the way up here to give me a some sort of school exam?" Chris took another sip and angrily looked the other way, the insolent attitude leaving no room for doubt as to his mood. Obviously, Malone realised, he was still hurting, just as he had suspected.

"Mr. Keel!" the older man snapped, impatience appearing around the tight lines of his mouth. "If you care to listen, you will understand.

Tristram Bell, John Modall and Sam Curtis were colleagues at MI6, about 7 years ago. On occasion, CI5 and MI6 do work together. Not always an easy task, but there are times when circumstances require it. During one such operation, John Modall was severely injured in a gunfight, including multiple bullet wounds. Mr. Curtis was also badly wounded, and was unconscious for several weeks. Tristram Bell died."

Still no reaction from Keel. Malone continued.

"As you might imagine, the question of responsibility for their injuries was the subject of a great deal of controversy. Friction between our two organisations is not something new. Our assessment of the matter was that they hindered our actions, and MI6 felt we were responsible for the gunfight and the bloodshed.

Finally, Mr. Curtis was in a condition to give his report, which confirmed that neither CI5 nor MI6 could have prevented what took place. The case was then closed, and each organisation went its own way?"

".... and lived unhappily every after every time they worked together." Chris murmured softly.

Malone allowed himself a little relief - he had not lost his skill for making the man listen. He had suspected that Curtis had probably said very little about his time in MI6, for reasons both professional and personal. Curtis was simply like that.

"Modall recovered. It took him years and he was still partly disabled, but he wrestled his way through all the physical and mental therapies, the convalescence homes and the rehabilitation wards. He took up a job within MI6 again, after being out of the circus for almost five years. Of course, field duty was no longer possible. He had, however been following courses for years on a large variety of skills: computers, high technology equipment, radiology, ultrasound, explosives technology. MI6 were glad to have him back - someone who brings in such an amount of knowledge and expertise is always welcome. There, he must have heard that Mr. Curtis had left to join CI5 - and at the same time managed to discover that Mr. Curtis' report was what discharged CI5 from responsibility for the death and injuries. "

"Aha. We've come to the conclusion of this lovely story. So this is a personal vendetta." Chris toasted to something invisible and took a swig of the cheap, bitter Scotch straight from the bottle.

"Yes. It is. - And that is exactly why I wanted to get you out of London. You and Mr. Curtis are a close team. Very close. And that is also why Modall chose you in order to get to your partner. He knew full well that you watch each other's back. When you managed to warn HQ about the explosives, however, it appeared that you were all set to become his secondary target. With the building destroyed, he was turning to more private matters. His prime directive, to get back at Mr. Curtis, would be easiest if he would take you out. So my instructions were for you to be driven from CI5. At least until the matter was resolved."

"But why? What if he just told me what had been going on?" Chris was frowning, but his attention was completely on Malone at last.

"Not good enough. Modall had been following Mr. Curtis for a long time. And as we suspected, he continued to monitor him even after the explosion. When Mr. Curtis told you to leave, Modall was listening with some highly sensitive equipment, as we have now discovered. You were, in fact, very fortunate."

"So, if this was all a set up, then why isn't Sam here?"

"I came on Mr. Curtis' behalf. He's unable to come."

"Unable? Or unwilling?" Chris replied bitterly. He lobbed the now empty Scotch bottle into the water in a long, slow arc, where it bobbed up and down, the neck pointing up towards the incredibly blue sky.

Malone was only just keeping his patience under control, but forced himself. He wasn't going to give in that that easily.

"He's in hospital, where he has had to fight for his life for the last few weeks. Modall blew himself up and Mr. Curtis was in the same building when it happened."

A slight chance was perceptible in Chris' attitude. He suddenly seemed a little bit less disinterested.

"And for your information, Mr. Curtis acted on my instructions, and not out of choice. I gave orders to get you out of the way, and there was no other way to ensure Modall would lose interest in you."

Malone waited for Chris' reaction.

"But... why didn't you just ask me to keep a low profile?"

"And you, Mr. Keel, notorious as you are for disobeying my orders on numerous occasions, would sit at home and act like the most pious of choirboys while your partner was out trying to catch Modall? I'm afraid I can't believe that. And if you are honest with yourself and with me, you will agree. Mr. Curtis was extremely unhappy with the role he was forced to play, but he was more concerned with your safety than his own. Modall only wished to use you, and knew that if he could strike at your partner by killing you, he would not have hesitated a second. Do I make myself clear? "

Chris was deep in thought, Malone noticed. So much so that he didn't see the folder the CI5 controller took from his briefcase.

When he started to speak his voice was a little unsteady, but Malone was not completely sure whether it was from emotion or the contents of the scotch bottle.

"The hell of it was, sir, was that he was right. I'm a liability to him and to everyone else. I've had plenty of time to think over the last few weeks. Sam was only telling me the truth, however harsh he made it sound. So I resigned, if you remember. "

Malone felt the first signs of triumph - the "sir" had returned. From the folder he took out an envelope and put it down on the table.

"Here's your envelope. I don't accept your resignation, Mr. Keel. Not yet, not under these circumstances. In the folder you will find the name and address of an ophthalmologist, one of the best in the world. There is every possibility that the injury to your eye can be treated with complete success. Miss Backup has forwarded your file from the hospital, and you have an appointment with him on Friday."

Sam Curtis was sitting in a wheelchair in the convalescent home's garden, looking out over the landscape. A gentle breeze stirred his hair, and absent-mindedly, he ran his hands through it, half-aware that it was too long. That was one irritation. Another took the form of the blue and white striped pyjamas they'd given him - he missed his own silk ones. For now, he'd hidden them under the white robe, but maybe Backup would bring something a bit more comfortable when she next visited.

And as it had done for so many times over the past few weeks, his mind drifted back to the explosion in the Art Deco house. He'd been unbelievably lucky. A split second before Modall had blown himself up, Sam had instinctively and involuntarily stepped back and fallen straight through one the gaping holes, to fall three metres down to the ground floor. The explosion that followed had been worse than a demolition crew, as the house had collapsed on top of him. Only a crossbeam, tumbling to wedge itself between his already severely injured and unconscious body and the falling debris, had saved his life.

The children at the kindergarten were unharmed. The bombs there had been defused. Of John Modall, they only found a finger.

Angelica - an ex-girlfriend of Sam's - had informed CI5 as he'd asked her to, and a team had arrived within minutes of the explosion, but it had then taken the rescue team over three hours to free Sam from his perilous position. He had been rushed to the hospital in critical condition, and had only just been transferred to this convalescence home. His body needed rest, and there had been blood in his urine ever since the fall, although the doctors were confident that with time, it would heal. Until then, he was condemned to boredom and frustration, and missed Chris more than he could tell anyone.

This place was hardly a cheerful place in many ways. The nurses were friendly enough, but he still felt ridiculously vulnerable there. Basically, he just wanted to turn and run. Run home, to some sort of retreat. Until his condition had improved, however, neither Malone or the doctors wouldn't hear of it.

And so he sat, staring out onto the countryside, and thought of Chris, as he had so often done since he'd been in a condition to think at all. How was he? Malone had been cagey about it, and so had Backup. Had they contacted him since it was over? Probably, but then he hadn't come. So he was probably still angry, and rightly so. Knowing Chris, he'd be bitter about this for a long, long time, even if he ever did come back, which with every day that passed seemed less likely.

"We have a problem, don't we."

Sam tensed suddenly, and regretted it as his kidneys protested at once from the sudden movement.

He could recognise that voice in a million, and knew it was Chris standing behind him. Sam hardly dared look around, afraid to see his partner's - his ex-partner's face.

"We do?" he replied weakly.

"Yeah. I can't see, and from what they say, you can't pee. How do we ever fill a bucket if they want us to?" the reply was so serious that it took Sam a second or two to realise what Chris was saying.

He turned around to see his friend, carefully this time. The bad eye had a strange pale glimmer over it but the other one looked at him with warmth and pleasure. The scars on his head were no longer visible, and the brown hair had grown back, still standing straight up, as cheerily perky as the man's personality.

Chris sat down on the grass, but Sam was talking before he could say anything else.

"Chris, I'm so sorry. I just wish I could take it all back. Believe me, I wanted to? "

"I know. Malone told me everything. Back then, you could have knocked me over with a feather, or I'd probably have hit you. Just once, and very hard. But let's just say it's over and forgotten, hey? Oh - and I'm glad to be back. You can actually thank Malone for coming to find me. "

"Malone did?"

"In person. With the whole story, plus the name of an eye specialist who says I'll be seeing like I always did one of these days."

Sam dropped his head with relief, not knowing what to say. Finally, he looked up at his partner, the guilt still haunting him, but there was no reproach whatsoever on the familiar face.

"I still feel the need to apologise," Sam said quietly.

"Apology accepted. You missed a Hollywood career, by the way."

Sam shook his head, sadly. He was anything but proud of that performance.

"It?s not that difficult to hurt someone you?re close to," he said softly.

He wasn?t sure Chris had heard. The friendly face was calm, contented even, and it looked as though the American was looking into the distance, thoughts on another time and place completely.

"Chris?"

The American shook his head, stopping Sam from speaking and grasping his arm.

"It's over, Sam. OK?"

Chris pushed Sam's wheel chair out of the garden, wondering if he could persuade them to let them out of the place for a while. Grinning as they moved towards the building, he saw a few white hairs among the dark, silky ones.

"You're going grey, you know that?"

"No way. Must be dust?"

Good old Sam. Proud and vain, but so generous he'd risk their friendship to save his partner's life.

"Yeah, yeah. That was weeks ago. And they didn't wash your hair, of course?"

"There is something wrong with your eyes, buster. I am not grey."

"In that case that eye specialist needs to work even harder. You want me to stop at the chemist on the way home? You get great hair dye these days, apparently. We can fix you up next time I visit. "

Silence. Chris chuckled behind Sam's back, and Sam chuckled with him.

He was back. And it was good to be back.