Heathrow, December 24, 2000

"Alright, boys. It’s a wrap. Well done." Backup sounded cheerful and added "Merry Christmas. Enough work for today. You’re off duty and you can go home to the Christmas pudding."

"Come on, Chris. He’s in the air, safe and sound. You heard Backup. Let’s go home and--"

The ringing of Sam’s cell phone disturbed his words.

"3.7."

"As much as I regret it, Mr Curtis, you and Mr Keel cannot leave Heathrow yet."

Malone’s voice was crisp and carried not a single shred of remorse.

"Sir?"

"I have received information that Bertold Heinrich is possibly on flight LF3704 from Frankfurt. A fax with a description and a photo is sent to the airport security office. It is scheduled to land within the hour at Heathrow. I want you and Mr Keel to arrest him when he sets foot on British soil."

"But, sir-"

"Merry Christmas, Mr Curtis. And give my regards to Mr Keel."

Before Sam could put in one more word, the connection was broken and he was left with a rising feeling of frustration and anger. Chris looked at him, curiously.

"Malone, right?"

"Yes, Malone, right. And we cannot leave. We’re to stay here until we can apprehend a certain Bertold Heinrich."

"The terrorist? He’s here?"

"Not yet. He’s in the air, still. Flight LF37something from Frankfurt."

To Sam’s surprise, Chris accepted the new assignment without his usual grumbling. Maybe he’s lonely on Christmas Eve, it occurred to Sam. But he didn’t stop to think more about it, as Chris pulled his arm and they could check out the information board.

"There it is. Flight LF3704, Frankfurt. Arrival at-"

"Shit." Sam said loudly and even Chris was surprised. He wasn’t known to lose his patience easily. Suddenly Sam felt the urge of telling his partner why he reacted the way he did.

"Sorry, Chris. My parents asked me over and I don’t like to disappoint them. We don’t see each other very much any more and finally had a chance of getting together."

The sympathetic smile the American offered him, showed his was forgiven for his sudden outburst.

"All the more reason to find that Heinrich-character, buddy. The sooner this is over, the-"

DELAYED, the signs behind the flight number appeared as they were standing there.

"Shit again." Sam said, but this time a little less loud.

Chris looked for a moment at the board, bit his lip and then said:

"Why don’t you call your mum and dad, and I’ll get us something to drink. If we have to wait for another hour, we might just as well combine the necessary with the pleasant."

Sam nodded.

"Sure. No coffee for me though. Tea."

"Tea it is, then. Maybe I can find us some nice female company to share time with as well."

"Yeah, yeah. Don Keel."

There was not a single touch of Christmas in the gloomy cafeteria, and there were more people than sardines in a can. Or so it seemed to Chris, who manoeuvred with a mug of coffee and a glass of tea through the pushing and pulling people. He tried to find a vacant place but all seats were taken and the tea glass was getting very hot underneath his fingers.

Then, in a mirror, he spotted two empty stools, a bit on the side and out of view.

He wiggled his way through the men and women, while hearing their complaints about air traffic and delays and decided wisely never to go on holiday on Christmas Eve.

"Excuse me, are these stools taken?" he asked politely and in the very same moment he saw the woman he was addressing. Great, just great.

The woman, looking up from the book she’d been reading, smiled gingerly at him.

"No, not at all. Be my guest."

When Sam arrived, guided by Chris’ broad waving, his eyes spoke volumes.

From somewhere beneath her wide black robe she pulled out a big tablet of chocolate. Her eyes, remarkably present, perhaps because her hair was hidden under the black cloth, sparkled.

"Chocolade. Lekker. Past goed bij koffie en thee." She said. Chris shrugged. Sam’s eyebrows rose. That wasn’t English, for sure. Sounded like Dutch?

"Sorry, I don’t speak Dutch."

"Ah. Natuurlijk. I said. Chocolate, nice. Goes good with coffee and tea."

She broke the tablet into pieces and folded the aluminium foil aside.

"Tast toe."

"Sorry?"

"Be my guest."

Chris attacked the chocolate with glistening eyes. He loved it, that was a well-known fact within the agency.

Sam looked moody. He grumbled.

"Don’t mind him. He’s angry because the plane is delayed." Chris tried, assuming that the nun probably did understand him enough to accept his apology.

"Kan altijd slechter. It can always get worse." The nun licked the chocolate from her fingers, with such a thoughtless, yet sensual gesture that it didn’t even escape Sam’s attention. He threw a look at Chris, who blinked in understanding.

"Dit is verdomd lekkere chocola, zeg. Lang niet meer gegeten."

To their blank faces she translated:

"Damn good chocolate. No had in long time."

Sam nearly choked in his tea. A nun – using damn in a sentence?!

"Excuse me, sister, but that is poor choice of words. You’d better say *that is very nice chocolate*. What you said was rather inappropriate." Chris put Sam’s thoughts to words.

She nodded her head. Actually, she was rather attractive. If only that ghastly symbol of Catholicism wasn’t so emphatically present...

"This can't get any worse." Sam mumbled.

"Best wel. Yes it can. Luister maar. Hear this. Few years ago, I was swimming brigadier."

"Swimming brigadier? Teacher? Or do you mean Life Guard?"

"That’s it. Life guard in a recreatie zwembad. What is that in English? Swimming pool with much luxe."

"Swimming paradise?" Chris helped. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

"Yes." She nodded enthusiastically.

"There is waterglijbaan. Emm… tobbogan aquatique?"

That was more to Sam’s understanding.

"Water slide."

"I must go op de trap." She wiggled her fingers, as if she was climbing up.

"Stairs."

"Ok. Stairs. Then, when I am at top, I fall. Slip. Uitglijen. Spphssss. " She made a flying gesture, as if she stepped on a banana peel.

"I fall. Met m’n vinger in zo’n gat. With finger in hole."

"Finger? In a hole?"

"Yes. Daar gaat het water doorheen."

"Sorry?"

"Water goes through the hole."

"Ah – I see. You mean those tiny holes in the steps themselves, where the water goes through. To prevent the stairs from getting too wet."

Her face lit up.

"Yes. Precies! Exactly! Ik kreeg met geen mogelijkheid mijn vinger er meer uit. Finger stuck. Very stuck. I pull and I get warm. Ik kreeg het me toch heet. Wiggelen en wrikken en ik kreeg hem geen millimeter verder los."

"Your finger got stuck in that hole." Chris helped her. "What then?"

"Other life guard, hij heet Edwin, komt met zeep aangerend. Edwin, he helps. He gets soup."

"You mean soap. To get your finger to come lose." Sam began to enjoy himself too.

"Ja. But dat wou ook niet lukken. That helped not too."

"Didn’t help either. So what happened then? "

"I am warm and bloed-ongelukkig daar op die trap. I am so unhappy! So, Edwin gets ice from the restaurant. Om m’n vinger te laten krimpen."

"Ice – to shrink your finger. To get it out. And you’re still there, on the stairs?"

She took a sip of her coffee and continued.

"Yes. Ice and I on the stairs. Many girls and boys, staring. Ik stond daar voor paal. I was like a idiot there."

"Everybody staring at you, I’m sure. Did the ice help?"

"No, no help. I only get cold. Maar ja, ik had het nogal warm, dus dat gaf niks. I was warm, so that was no bad."

Chris chuckled.

"I bet you were warm up there. But the ice didn’t help."

"No. I was there almost two hours already!"

"Did it hurt? Your finger? Pain?"

"No, not at all. But just stuck. Ik kan niet naar huis met een traptrede aan mijn vinger, toch? Can’t go home! "

"What happened next?"

"They call the Fire men."

"The Fire brigade? To get your finger out?"

"Yes! They come, with much noise and sirenes!"

"Sirens? For that?"

"Of course! It is sensation! Newspaper stuff!" she laughed broadly.

"Go on."

"Fire man was nice but hij kon er ook niet veel aan doen. Dus kwam de zaag er aan te pas."

"Translation please?!"

"Oh sorry. Fire man was nice guy but not much help. So he takes a … a…"

Her pretty face wrinkled when she tried to find the correct word. Then she took a knife from her plate and made a movement of cutting.

"Knife?"

"No – no knife. Bigger."

"Saw!"

"Yes. And he use that to saw the stair out."

"And your finger still in the hole?"

"Yes! Still stuck. The saw stinks and makes lot of noise!"

She offered Sam and Chris the last pieces of chocolate, fumbled the aluminium up to a little ball and threw it in the ash tray.

"He take me to the sick car. No not sick car… what is the word?"

"Ambulance?" Sam helped, in vain trying to hide his laugh.

"Of course. That is too in Dutch: ambulance."

"With the stair-piece and your finger in it, they took you to the hospital?"

"Ja. Het was een heel raar gezicht! Had je die gezichten eens moeten zien in het ziekenhuis toen ik daar binnenkwam met mijn vinger vast in een gat van een traptrede."

"Ermm…?"

"Funny, me with the iron stair in the hospital. The doctors were surprised!"

Chris laughed. He could so picture this woman, walking into the ER with a piece of stairs under her arm, attached to one of her fingers, looking all miserable and praying for relief.

"That doesn’t happen daily, I’m sure. How did they get you out?"

"They pricked me with a needle."

"A syringe?" Sam made the gesture of preparing an injection.

"Exactly! Then my finger shrink. Grappig verhaal, hè? En nog echt gebeurd ook."

Sam grinned.

"Did it really happen?"

"Oh yes. On Christmas Eve. I was no more life guard after that."

"You quit the job."

"Sure. Ik heb al mijn vingers nog en die wil ik graag houden."

"That was something with fingers." Chris guessed.

"I have them all, I want to keep them all." she explained.

"I drink to that!" said the American and raised his mug in a toast. She laughed. Sam’s cell phone disturbed further conversation.

"3.7."

"Mr Curtis, where are you now?"

"Heathrow, still waiting for the delayed plane, sir."

"You can go home now, and Mr Keel too. It was false alarm."

"No need for us to stay any longer, sir?"

"No, you are dismissed."

"Alright, sir. Merry Christmas, sir."

"Mr Curtis?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I hope I haven’t ruined your Christmas Eve."

"No problem, sir. Things can always get worse."

"I suppose so. Merry Christmas, Mr Curtis. Goodnight."

"Goodnight sir."

The nun had left and Chris and Sam stared at her disappearing figure. Then they turned around and headed for the exit when a small group of men and women stopped them.

"Excuse us, have you seen a woman dressed up as a nun?"

"Dressed up as a nun?"

"Yes – she’s an excellent actrice. Plays the Broadway version of Sister Act. And she likes to fool people with her appearance."

Both agents stared at each other in a moment of total incomprehension. Then they burst out in laughter, simultaneously.

"We’ve met her alright. And boy, did she fool us. I suppose she’s not even Dutch?"

"Oh, but she is. Speaks English fluently, without even a trace of an accent."

"We’ve been had, partner." Chris said to Sam, and laughed again.

"So far for Dutch nuns."

"Pretty nun by the way."

"The chocolate was nice, though."

"Damn good chocolate."

Their laughing still echoed through the entrance hall as they left Heathrow.