It was late when Sam arrived at the hospital. Rain dripped from his coat - he hadn't been able to park close by, since most of the parking lot was closed due to construction work. As a result he had run through the heavy rain, and shivered as the wetness ran down from his hair into his collar.

Lights were dimmed and muffled sounds of televisions on wards, children crying and telephones mingled to a non-disturbing background sound. Sam walked quickly through the corridors, remembering exactly were to go from his earlier visit. There was no-one at the nurse's counter, so he walked straight over to where he had met Marieke that afternoon.

She waited for him in the same waiting room, but looked calmer than before. A plastic plate with a half-eaten sandwich stood on the table, empty plastic coffee cups were stacked into a pile as the silent witnesses of the time Marieke had already spent here.

She jumped up when she saw Sam, and this time her eyes showed life again, - a warmth caused by the unexpected struggle her husband had put up. Ronald was not yet ready to give in - he wanted to see his children grow up and become a granddad, her face told Sam. Funny, the CI5 agent thought, how much you can read from one simple expression. She put her arm through his, the same easy and natural way in which Fanny acted.

"Come on, Sam. He wants to tell you something. He's barely awake, but he made it perfectly clear."

It was warm in the Intensive Care room. Sam took off his wet coat and put it aside, so the drops wouldn't fall on Ronald's body. He waited while Marieke spoke to him and then got close to the Dutchman. He looked bad - tubes and wires and IVs were entering and exiting his body from all sides, disappearing under the sheets, connecting the wounded man to a monitor and several other devices. Sam carefully bent over and brought his face close to that of the patient.

"Ronald, it's me. Sam. Marieke says you want to talk to me."

"Sam…" the barely audible voice came first, the clouded eyes followed. When he met the silver green eyes of Sam, he recognised him and there was a spark of life there, that made the young agent feel relieved. Ronald was a fighter, he would not give up.

"Ronald, what is it? We looked in your PC but found nothing on the case. Somebody deleted the lot. Did you do that?"

"Pre…cau…tion.." it came with so much difficulty that Sam felt guilty to have to press.

"Come on, Ronald, help me. Why? Somebody on the team?"

"Think…so…"

"Where did you leave the files? Did you make a hardcopy? Have you copied it onto disk?"

Silence. The chest ploughed heavily. Sam looked up to see Marieke giving him a worried glance, but she nodded her head to show he should continue.

"Home… mail…"

"You send it to your home address?" Again he sought for answers in Marieke's face but she only shrugged her shoulders to imply she did not know of such mail.

"Ronald, when did you mail this?"

But Ronald did not answer anymore. His strength was gone and the darkness had pulled him back once again. As the monitoring devices began to beep, an alarmed and angry nurse came in, pushed the two out of the room in seconds and made it clear that the patient needed rest and that they should come back tomorrow.

"You should go home, Marieke. Get some sleep, look after the kids. Can I drop you off?"

She wearily shook her head.

"Thanks, but no thanks, Sam. I've got my own car here and I don't know how I’ll get here in the morning if I go with you."

"What Ronald said, about mail, did you see anything? Receive a big envelope, a file or something?"

She narrowed her eyes a little, as if by doing so, she could read the answers somewhere on the colourless walls of this infirmary. Then again, she shook her head.

"No. No, I can't say I did. I can browse through his stuff, but I'm usually the one who sees all mail first. If there had been anything like that, I think I would have known. Besides - we don't hold any secrets from each other."

"Does Ronald discuss work with you?"

"Hardly ever, but that's not out of secrecy - more a matter of keeping his private and professional lives separated. His motto is: I work in the office, I live at home." She smiled lightly, momentarily distracted by tender thoughts of the man she obviously loved.

"But I promise to start nosing around when I get home. If I find anything, I'll let you know."

On their way to parking lot, Sam realised he left his coat in Ronald's room. As he had been shoved out so hastily by that bossy nurse, he had forgotten it. He looked at the grey curtain of rain that separated him from the Mitsubishi, at least four hundred meters up ahead. Shit! Go back, Sam, or you'll be soaking wet before you're even halfway.

*****

Fanny came in, holding a couple of zip-drives and tapes in her arms. Chris looked up from the paperwork and put the file on the stack of paper that he had been digging through so far. He sighed and yawned, relieving the stiffness of his body from sitting for so long. Paperwork was always so damn tedious - he was more a man of action, definitely.

"Hey, beauty. You found something?"

"Yes, but it's gonna take a while before we have what we need - IF it is there." Fanny put the tapes and zips down on the desk and picked up one of the files. Her eyes flew over the words and with a short nod she put it aside.

Chris picked up a sheet and yawned again. Somehow he couldn't stop and the rumble in his stomach told him that it did not come from lack of sleep.

"You, Christian Joseph Keel, need food. When was the last time you had a proper meal?" Fanny took the paper from his hands and put it away. She sat down on the desk, her legs casually hanging down, her arms folded over her chest.

"Dunno. Yesterday? Last week?"

She laughed.

"Oh, you poor thing. Grown up and still unable to take care of yourself?" she giggled and jumped aside as Chris tried to tackle her.

"I'm hungry too - let's order a pizza and get started." She acted immediately and as they waited for the food to arrive, they worked their way through the paper and the computer files. They worked from the present day back into the past, bearing in mind that the body in Antwerp was found 14 days ago. It was hard to tell at what day the information had reached Ronald, so they only solution was to scan everything file by file.

Just as they were coming to the end of the first stack of the printed copies of recent files, the pizza boy arrived. Only then did the two of them become aware that day had turned into night, the transition hardly noticed due to the heavy rainfall. They put the stuff aside, sat down at another table and while enjoying pizza and hot fresh coffee, finally allowed themselves some time to relax.

"How's the hearing these days, Fan?" Chris asked in between two bites of Quattro Staggione.

"Still the same. Don't think I can ever hear properly without the aids. But my voice isn't as hoarse as it has been and it doesn't hurt to talk anymore." She answered, her glance attached to him as she calmly took another bite.

Chris tried to read those hazel pools that he had fallen for in the first place.

"D'you still think about it?" he asked, his voice gentle and careful.

She didn't answer straight away. Slowly she swallowed the food, sighed and then reluctantly shrugged.

"Yes. No. I don't think about it. It ..er… forces itself into my mind at night. I thought I put it behind me, but when Ronald told me about the body everything came back - very intense and very vivid."

She pushed an olive aside. "I haven't slept very well the past fortnight." Her voice was so soft, unable to hide the pain that had so vigorously come back, that Chris felt guilty for raising the subject. He reached out, touching her small hand with his greasy fingers.

"Forgive me for bringing it up. I promise, Fanny, we're going to get him. We're gonna find him and nail him."

She turned away from him, lowered her head and he patiently waited for her to answer. For a moment, the silence between them was tangible. Then suddenly she turned her face to him, leaned over and kissed him, with trembling lips. Her hand touched his chin and the rough stubble.

"You are the only reason I keep on going." She said shyly as she let go of him, looking a bit uncomfortable. She turned around, no longer able to face the man she obviously loved so much. Chris held still, listening closely to what she had to say.

"There have been so many nights that I wandered through the house, too scared to go to sleep, too tired to stay awake, too awake to be tired. When I saw you last year in the hospital, almost dying from what that pathetic doctor did to you, I realised how much you mean to me."

She picked up the little white paper napkin and wiped her fingers.

"But I also know that it is impossible. I told you that at the time and my feelings haven't changed. But now - this…"

"Fanny, I.."

"Stop, Chris, let me finish… I am worried. I’m sick with worry. I hide it well, beneath a mask of good mood and humour, but I'm scared for you and for Sam."

Chris wrapped his arms around her and held her as she spoke. He could smell her hair, feminine and warm, curling in his face.

"Ronald was shot when he was on his way to see you. If Fransen is behind this, and he gave orders for the assassination or he did it himself, then he must know you are in the country as well."

The CI5 man nodded, acknowledging she was right. He and Sam had already come to that conclusion too. He made her turn around in his arms and their eyes met. He saw the anxiety - she had not been lying, she was worried. He planted a light kiss on her forehead.

"Fanny - I promise: I'll protect Sam and he'll keep an eye on me. And together we will catch the bastard and we will bring him to justice."

"Promise? And you promise to be careful?"

"Cross my heart. Scout's honour." Chris carefully steered the conversation to more solid ground. Fanny needed comfort and reassurance - and it was his way to inject some humour to put things back into perspective.

She seemed to feel uneasy suddenly, and turned away to clean up the pizza boxes.

"You should work on your table manners, Chris." She remarked and the American immediately grabbed the offered chance to step away from the sensitive subject.

"Sam tried several times." he retaliated. "But he says I am beyond salvation."

"Sam's right, you know." Fanny smiled again, her laugh like a fountain of pearls resolving the tension that had been in the air. "I've seen monkeys eat in a more decent way."

Chris grinned. He threw away the last pieces of cardboard and wiped his hands on the napkin. He gave the woman that he felt so close to a broad smile. God, Fanny, I love you.

"Come on, let's get back to work."

*****

 Sam saw Marieke disappearing through the swing doors and turned back. Absentmindedly he ran a hand through his hair, which was still damp from the rain. In fact, he felt completely damp. The hospital had been rather warm, the IC-ward even warmer and his wet clothing was giving him a baggy feeling. He sure could use a shower and dry, clean clothes.

The elevator was stuck somewhere - Sam lost his patience and took the stairs. He was a little disoriented as the stairs seemed to be heading in a totally different direction, but after a while he came to the IC-wards, entering them from the other side. The place was quiet, but he did see a nurse, who sat behind the desk typing notes from a chart into a computer.

She nodded a friendly greeting and Sam informed her he'd left his coat in one of the rooms. She stood up to accompany him but as the telephone rang, she moved her hand, gesturing him to go ahead and at the same time picked up the phone.

Sam walked through the corridor, his soft shoes making no sound on the vinyl. When he opened the door to Ronald's room, he was suddenly confronted with a man who was pushing a pillow over the face of the silent body in the bed.

Sam yelled and leapt forwards. The attacker, wearing a ski-mask, whirled around and avoided the agent. He grabbed the stand that held several bags of fluids and swung it at Sam. The agent ducked, jumped aside and kicked out at his opponent. His foot hit the man full in the solar plexus and the man doubled over, only to storm to Sam like a bull, head first. The two smacked against the wall, and Sam felt the breath knocked out of him by the weight of the man and pushed his legs up to lift him.

He heard a nurse scream - she'd been alarmed by the noise they made.

His opponent slapped his palm against the side of Sam's head, sending stars into his eyes, and in his turn he planted his fist on the man's jaw, feeling a crack rather than hearing it and they rolled over the floor, trying to stop the other one from winning this crazy fight.

But Sam was, though smaller built, faster and stronger and wore the man out - the CI5-agent saw it in the eyes that were not hidden behind the mask. He raised him to his feet, ready to give the attacker the final knock that would send him to dreamland. The big guy slumped, suddenly fell sideways, dragged Sam down and let the weight of his body land on top of him. The two men rolled over, until they were almost stuck under the bed.

Sam pushed the attacker down and was about to give him the final blow, as the man's hand hit the bed pan and brought it up in one fast forehand swerve. The blunt edge of a cold, heavy metal bedpan collided with Sam's skull and an explosion of red flashes preceded a dark silent void.

*****

 The stack of files was put back into the filing cabinet and Chris and Fanny now prepared the tapes and zips. An idea began to form in Chris' head. He kept quiet, allowing it to grow, as he looked at her fast and accurate movements, her small hands rapidly typing commands to get things started.

The first entries appeared; one by one data was retrieved. It took a long time, and Chris noticed himself drumming with his fingers on the table to hide his impatience.

"Fanny, can anybody access these files?" he began, talking slowly, trying to work through the idea he felt growing.

She shook her head and hit a few keys before she answered.

"No. We work with a system we call LMT. L for low means open accessibility for practically every employee in the harbour section. The information is usually common knowledge: where a ship is moored, departure, arrival, destination, weight, those kind of things. Plus of course general postings inside the office main stream - varying from internal memos to ordered pizzas."

"The general stuff, so to speak." Chris pouted his lip. "Go on."

She nodded, her earrings dangled and reflected glistening spots on the wall. Chris followed them with his eyes as he listened to her explanation.

"M - you guessed it: medium - is a secured section. There's more detailed information on the cargo of vessels, mainly. Storage and shipping of goods, for example, are described in these files. There's more of course, basically it's the kind of information that you would not want everyone to see. Both Low and Medium have various security levels to, ranging from one to five."

She kept on typing as she spoke, unaware of Chris' thoughtful stare and which way he was heading with his questions.

"So what does the T stand for?"

"Top. Highly secured stuff, confiscated goods, stuff apprehended after a raid, money transfers, personnel files on ship crew, security rules and system engineering, etc. This is where only few people are allowed to stick their noses in. Ronald is - being head of the quarter masters of the harbour; Jan Smeenk is general director here and has access too; then there's Will Linders, head of security."

Chris scribbled down the names on a piece of paper. She looked sideways, away from what she was doing and took the pen from his hands. She put a stripe through his notes and wrote the names down again. She smiled, amused, and as she turned to the screen again, she chuckled:

"Your Dutch is as terrible as your handwriting."

Chris made some illegible sound and took another sip from his coffee. He looked at what she'd written down. That was more what it sounded like - bloody Dutch language.

"So, on what level are you permitted to work? M, I suppose?"

"I am, yes. But…er…" she smiled ruefully, her eyes showing a magical glance, "I have helped Ronald on many occasions and I…er… can get to T as well. Since the slavery business, we have a tight bond."

"Ahaa. So you know how to get in?"

"Yep, I do…" Fanny replied, offering him a conspirator's smile.

He curled his lips, caught by her natural enthusiasm over just about everything she was dealing with.

"Who writes and controls the system? A software house?"

"Nope - our own system engineer. That's Robert Banta. He wrote the security shield years ago. It has proven very effective. He once told me the trick was to keep it simple: everyone has a password that has to be changed in a random succession after a random period. If the moment comes that my password must be altered, I get an automatically generated message that will lead me to prompt a new password."

"And it cannot be overruled?"

"Not that I know of - but I guess the director and the system engineer can change the sequence or something. I don't know the details." She pointed with her finger to the screen - the nod of her head made him move closer to her chair.

He peered over her shoulder as she slowly scrolled through the screen.

"There - that's Ronald’s work station code."

She pushed the Enter-key. A frame popped up and asked for a password.

"Shit. What can it be?" Chris mumbled, curious as to Ronald's chain of thoughts. Everyone used different tactics to invent passwords. Chris listed on his fingers the possibilities: date of birth, postal code, telephone number, marriage date, rank number, children's names. He peered intensely at the screen, but Fanny typed triumphantly something that showed up only as asterisks and hit the Enter-key.

"Yesss!" came simultaneously from the two mouths as the pop-up screen disappeared and files were visible that had been guarded by the password.

"It was one out of three - he uses them in succession. It was spijkers this time. It was either that or topkok or barbecue." Fanny laughed, a remarkable sparkling bright laugh that seemed to push her spirit to a higher level.

"Ronald is a good cook. His wife calls him Cas sometimes, after a well known cook named Cas Spijkers. A *top cook* so to speak. He has that printed on an apron too - I saw it when I attended a barbecue once. Spijkers means Nails in English."

"As in Nail the Son-of-a-bitch." Chris helpfully filled in.

Again she laughed. She looked at Chris, her eyes meeting the agent's and unspoken, deep care for him was sent through unseen channels.

"Yep - but knowing Ronald, that's probably coincidence."

They opened files and folders and just when Fanny saw something, Chris' telephone rang, disturbing their concentration.

"Keel." Chris flipped open the Motorola and kept his eyes on Fanny's movements. But his expression changed when he heard the message. He jumped up before the call was ended and put his coat on, meanwhile pressing the phone tight between his shoulder and his ear. Fanny looked up, surprised about the sudden change in the CI5 man.

"What is it, Chris?"

"Somebody tried to finish off the job on Ronald. Sam tried to stop him but he got away."

"Is he alright? And Ronald?"

"Don't know, the nurse was curt. Gotta go, Fanny."

She watched his hasty gestures.

"Okay, keep me posted. I'll work on this, I think he e-mailed something to his home address."

Chris moved to the door and turned to stop in the doorway. For a moment, it almost looked as if a dark shadow fell over Fanny, like a threat creeping up from behind. It startled him - a vision of death, very close and very real.

"Chris?"

Her voice, showing her surprise, brought him back to reality. Responding to confusing surge of undetermined worry he stepped back over to her and kissed her tenderly, trying to ease the spooky feeling.

"Be careful, Fan. Lock the door behind me."

*****

Sam winced as the last thread was pulled and cut off. The doctor dropped the scissors in the little metal bowl and rinsed off the blood with a wad that smelled of antiseptic.

His head throbbed, and he felt a little nauseous but knew from experience that it would soon fade into the background. The proof of his fight, however, would remain visible for at least a week - already he could feel the bruise starting to thicken above his temple. Soon it would spread, making that side of his face swollen and multicoloured. He had awoken on a stretcher that was being rushed to the Emergency Room and brusquely sat up, almost falling off of the stretcher cart as he did so. A nurse had tried to push him back and as the world around him still looked like a DaDa painting, he had given in and rested his painful head back into the shallow pillow.

If Sam could have it his way, a quick cleaning up and a few butterflies would have been sufficient but the Dutch doctor could not be persuaded to let him go. He did a good job though, and Sam had kept still as the doctor had stitched the nasty gash on the side of his head. Now, he could sit up again, feeling a little shaky but the dizziness was almost gone.

He saw Chris storming in, almost tripping over his own feet. Despite his aching head, the sight of his friend, who had the look of a Mother Superior spotting men in the convent, made him laugh.

"Sam!" Chris' worry seemed to resolve he as saw his partner up and about. "What happened? You okay?" he asked, panting from running through the hospital corridors.

"Yeah, I'm fine. A dent in my skull and another one in my pride." He sighed and told Chris how he had been able to stop the attacker from killing Ronald but how he was knocked out and the man escaped.

"Did you see his face?"

"No. He was wearing a ski mask. And everything went just a little too fast."

"Mmm. Shame. And Ronald?"

"He's alright - well, to the extent he was this afternoon. But he'll be fine. I've ordered a move to another ward and a permanent guard."

Chris nodded and looked a little closer at what the doctor had done. He seemed satisfied with the result and put his hands on his hips, his entire demeanor screaming for action.

"What d'you wanna do, Sam?"

Sam cautiously moved his head from one side to the other. The swaying of the room had stopped and all things considered, it could have been worse. He got to his feet.

"Did you and Fanny find anything? Ronald was able to tell me he'd send some information to his private e-mail address."

"Probably. Fanny mentioned something about an e-mail, but I didn’t pay much attention." Chris admitted. "I was momentarily distracted by your fight with a bedpan."

"Who told you that?" Sam sighed. Knowing Chris, that would mean permanent teasing. "There's no point in me denying it, I guess?"

"No, buddy." Chris could not hide a smile of relief and pushed Sam to the exit of the ER. "Just your good fortune it was empty, hey?"

Almost outside they bumped into Marieke, who had been informed about the incident and had rushed to the hospital. She was accompanied by one of her children, a fifteen-year old girl with the eyes of her mother and the cheekbones of her dad. Both looked white, fear showing from their tensed body language. The girl tore at a hanky over and over again while Marieke fingered her car keys nervously.

She almost lost her self-control when she saw them, but Chris started speaking to her before she could allow fear to take over.

"Marieke, he's fine. He'll be alright - Sam was just in time. He's been moved to another ward, don't worry."

"You promised me you'd get him." Marieke almost sounded accusingly. The daughter threw confused glances at Chris and Sam, tightening her lips to a thin line of disgust.

"It takes time, Marieke." Sam said softly. "We're working hard - but it just takes time."

"Well, Ronald doesn't have time!" the usually sympathetic wife of the harbour official snapped, her voice high and shrill with fear. "He might not be so lucky if they try it again!"

Chris lost his patience. He could very well understand her worry and anger, but she was venting it at the wrong people.

"Ronald might have sent something over to your home address. Can we get in? Do you have a spare key with you?"

"I checked the mail already." Marieke sniffed, looking a little embarrassed. "But there was nothing there that looked like what you described."

"I don't think it is in regular mail - there might be something in his e-mail box. And that's what we wanna check." Chris jumped from one foot onto the other. He was eager to get going.

She said something to the girl in Dutch, who took out a key from under her coat and handed it to Chris.

"I think my brothers are at home, too. Peter knows a lot about computers - you can ask him." She said shyly. She patted her mother's hand and said something, obviously to make her go inside. Marieke nodded, murmured something back and said goodbye to Sam and Chris. Then the two women went through the doors, leaving behind the agents with a key to their house.

"You drive, Chris." Sam commanded his friend.

"Sure. You're a lousy driver in right-sided traffic, so why don't you seize the opportunity and enjoy the scenery?" his partners retaliated.

The look on his face, however, spoke volumes. Sam needed to close his eyes to give his sore head a rest, and of course Chris had seen that even before Sam suggested that he drive. While the young American drove through the still crowded city of Rotterdam, the Englishman shut his eyes and dozed off to a comforting sleep.

*****

Soon the helicopter would leave, and preparations for a flight to Rotterdam were already taking place. Backup, Spencer, Artley and Smithson were packing the last of their gear together. Malone watched them with a pensive look. When Mr Keel had reported in and informed him about the events at the hospital, he had immediately decided upon sending a full backup-team to Rotterdam. Keel had told him about the computers in the harbour office and how, most likely, someone had been erasing files; he ended his report by stating that Mr Curtis was a little woozy but alright. Then he asked for backup on the spot, not doubting the qualities of the Dutch police but on the other hand not underestimating the dangers from the men they were trying to find.

Malone could only agree: if they had been able to get past Sam Curtis than these men were definitely not the kind to be taken lightly. His thoughts were full of the little conversation he had had with the hot-headed American.

"Sir, is it possible to get Backup over here too?"

"To what purpose, Mr Keel?"

"I'm not sure we can enter those erased files anymore and somebody should be here, doing a full check on the harbour office personnel. We could sure use Backup in that field of expertise, Sir."

"Alright, Mr Keel. That sounds reasonable enough. I will make sure she brings the necessary equipment to perform her duties to her best."

"Thanks, Sir." He could hear Keel talking, most likely to Curtis, but it was too vague to understand the words. He could not hear a reply from Curtis. A sudden worry over the Englishman made him ask:

"Does Mr Curtis need a replacement to recuperate for a day or two?"

"No, Sir. The sight of Backup will make him come to life immediately."

Malone could not prevent a little smile to curl around his eyes – a few days ago the young agent had seemed too emotionally involved. The head of CI5 had even been thinking about taking Keel off of the case. This was, however, a typical Keel-remark and Malone decided he could leave him on the assignment for the time being.

Of course, he could not allow his employees to think lightly of him - his cool attitude of being reserved and straight to the point had been his trade mark, and in good Malone fashion he replied with the only comment that stopped every objection dead:

"Don't be cheeky, Mr Keel."

The controller could have sworn he heard a chuckle.

"4.5 out."

*****

Three pairs of eyes looked intensely at the screen. The PC which stood in the study was dreadfully slow and rattled like crazy to get calculations done. Peter, the 18-year old son of Ronald and Marieke crackled his fingers impatiently as the processor was stamping through and searching for the required information to start up the machine.

"I told dad a hundred times that this thing should go in the dumpster. He got me a new one, a fast one - and always said this was good enough for his purpose. He hasn't even installed Windows 98 yet."

He turned his attention to the screen again, obviously annoyed or embarrassed even for making them wait. Then, when the first prompts finally disappeared, the Windows 95 system was visible. Peter got up and invited Sam to take his chair. Apparently he had decided that the two could work better without him, so he left the study with the message he'd been downstairs if they needed him.

"We'll sort this out, Chris." Sam said, hovering his fingers above the keyboard for a few seconds and then started to type. The American sighed, a tense breath of air escaping him. Sam could not help noticing and glanced sideways at his friend. Had the spooks shown their faces again?

"You okay?"

"Sure. Let's get this baby on the road." his friend murmured and as he intensified his looks at the screen, Sam put the thought aside and turned his attention to the directories that had appeared.

He put up a search for the most recent entries. The machine sorted them out, heading back in time. Chris had the bright idea to look for hidden files as well and that opened an entire overview of all entries of the past three weeks.

"This might be it: eml. I think that's what we need." Sam pointed to the screen.

"eml? What's eml? Electronically Manipulated Loveletters?"

"No, you block head. E-mail of course. That's what you and Fanny came with up, right?"

"Just teasing - I know what it means. Come on then: open it."

That's when they hit a virtual brick wall: a security shield that prohibited their access. Password required, it said in plain old English - but nevertheless a password was what they needed to open the files, and Chris recognised it as being the same system used in the harbour office.

He began to search his pockets, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. Sam saw it and got curious.

"What are you looking for?"

"A scrap of paper. Fanny wrote down some names. Maybe she put the passwords down too." He found the little piece crumpled between everything else in his pocket, and tried to get the folds out as he put it down on the table.

Just names - no passwords.

"Did you see her entering a password?" Sam asked as he tried to make sense of the names on the paper.

"Yeah - she said it meant Nails in Dutch. Do you know what that is?"

"Nails? No, that’s too detailed for me as well. Wait, I'll ask Peter. Maybe he knows the password, or he knows what you're referring to."

"I'll call Fanny. She knows." Chris nodded in agreement and Sam took the flight of stairs down to get Ronald's son. The young man was not in the living room - he'd probably decided to go to bed as time had been ticking away unnoticeably on the two agents. When Sam knocked and entered Peter's room, he found the boy was stoned and watching a sleazy late night movie.

"Peter! Damn it, what have you been taking?" he snapped and grabbed him by the sweater to raise him to his feet.

The boy looked at him with the dumbest expression Sam had seen in a long time and raised his hands.

"Don't be angry. You are so pretty, did you know that?" He tried to stroke Sam's hair. The agent let the boy go in a mixture of pure disgust and raging disbelief.

"You stupid asshole." He icily spat at the young man, who was oblivious to his anger and grinned sheepishly.

"You're even nicer when you're angry." He gurgled. Then he fell slowly back into the mass of soft cushions on the bed and took another sip from some strong liquor.

Sam closed the door and ran up the stairs again, his anger and frustration radiating from him. Chris looked up, startled, when he came in with so much noise.

"What?!" he asked, reading trouble on Sam's face.

"Young Peter has decided to take a trip during the absence of Papa." Sam could hardly get the words out. "He's so high he hits his head against the ceiling!"

Chris looked at Sam with astonishment written all over his face.

"You want me to go over and knock..er.. talk some sense into him?"

"Don't bother - unless you're interested in sex. He tried to make a pass at me."

"He did what?" Chris’ mouth dropped open.

"Call Fanny - she is of more use to us than Loverboy in his boudoir." Sam said angrily.

At once the friendly face of his friend changed. He shook his head.

"I tried already - voice mail."

Again and again Chris tried to call her. She didn't answer the office phone, or her cell phone or house address.

A deep frown was plastered to his forehead and the cheerfulness Sam had seen earlier at the hospital had disappeared and swapped places with worry again.

"There's something wrong, Sam." Chris said when he tried for the umpteenth time. He slammed the receiver back onto the cradle.

"You go digging here - get that password. It had something to do with nails and cooking and barbecue. I'm going over to the harbour office station."

Before Sam could say anything, Chris was already banging down the stairs. The front door slammed shut and sent an echo through the silence of the house.

Through the continuing rain he was hurrying to the car when his cell phone rang. Expecting Sam or HQ, he was surprised to hear the Dutchwoman's voice.

"Where are you?!" the tone in his voice was harsher than he intended to "I tried several times - why didn't you answer the phone?! "

Her reply was as curt as his question, obviously she was irritated by his demanding tone.

"I had to go to the basement again - get some more backup tapes. And a visit to the Ladiesroom, in which I usually don't answer the phone - is that enough for you?! "

He could hear her annoyance vibrating through space. He let out a sigh and uttered a weak apology.

"Sorry, Fanny. It's just.."

She interrupted him, his lack of words and guilty tone giving her the reason for his anger.

"It’s alright, Chris. I left my phone on the desk. Sorry, I didn't mean to worry you."

He felt relief flushing through him - he had been seeing ghosts again. Nevertheless he decided he'd pull her away from that lonely place.

"Fan, I'm coming over - you shouldn't be there on your own."

"How's Sam? Still in hospital?" he heard vague sounds as she apparently typed something, so she was still in Ronald's office. He could picture her talking, the receiver crammed between her ear and her shoulder, her eyes taking in the information she saw and at the same time rapidly typing commands.

"Sam's okay. Somebody tried to play Jokari with his head."

Once again he was amazed by how well she understood his not so standard English, because he heard her laughing out loud, muttering something about a ball game that no-one knew anymore. Obviously, she knew what he was referring to and her laugh sent a pleasant warmth down his stomach. Her sparkling, catching laugh still had that effect on him and he had to shake himself to not give in to the temptation of pleasantries.

"After some sewing and paracetamol he could leave the hospital. And no, he's not with me - I'm in the car, he's at Ronald's house. Trying to sort out files."

"Where are you heading?"

"Your way, I'm coming to pick you up. We could use your help here."

She was quick to understand. "More computer data?"

"Yep. I couldn't remember those damn Dutch words - if they are the same ones."

Again a short laugh. "Shall I give Sam a call, while you're on your way? Then maybe he can get along and by the time you and I get there, he might have found more."

"Excellent."

"I found something too, by the way. An address of a wheat processing plant, somewhere near Breda - that's about 60 kilometers from here."

"What's the connection?"

"Dunno yet - but seems like a nice place to hide heroine, doesn't it? Who would see the difference between flour and heroine at first glance?"

"Clever thinking, Fanny." Chris said admiringly. "I always knew you were good."

"Where are you now?"

He looked around to see some points of identification, and saw the lights of a beautifully engineered bridge to his right side.

"Not far from the Erasmus-bridge."

"It should take you about a quarter of an hour to get here. I'll wrap things up then and see you in 15 minutes?"

"Okay." Chris knew he was being a bit paranoid but still he said what was on his mind. "Don't come down, I'll horn three times when I'm at the front door."

She giggled. "You sound like my dad."

"That, darling," the American chewed with a Texan accent, "is 'cause I promised ya daddy to make ya a decent woman. We don't need no hangin' 'round on draughty doorsteps, now? Ya get yer very own prince on a white horse comin' right over."

Fanny laughed. "Is that so?"

"It's a promise."

*****

Sam tried many words, but none gave him access to the files. Chris had talked of barbecue, cooking and nails - but even though he tried every word he knew on the subject he couldn't get in. The thought of going back to Peter to ask pushed itself to the foreground, but only very briefly. The son was likely to make a pass at him again and in his state of mind he would not be impressed by Sam bullying him - let alone provide him with sensible answers.

Because the land line - Peter had called it an analogue connection - was constantly occupied as the result of his online search, he flipped open his cell phone and called HQ. After the first ring Richards answered.

"Hey Sam, what's cooking?" he asked, apparently in a jolly mood.

"How very appropriate - hi Rich. Listen, I need a password or a set of passwords and I only know vaguely that it's supposed to be something to do with cooking, barbecue or nails."

"Necessarily in that order? What a weird combination, 'ey?" Richards scornfully replied.

"I don't know but it's of vital importance - can you give it a try?"

"Sam, my man - don't you know me by now? Is there ANY place in the world that I'm not able to hack into?" he heard Richards' movements on the other side of the line, rolling his chair to another terminal and the unmistakable rapid typing again. No, Sam thought, I'm glad you're on our side.

"Okay, Sam, I'm ready. What's the number?"

Sam gave him the information he needed and leant back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes - feeling the weariness of a long day behind them. All that staring into the computer screen didn't do them much good and on top of that a pounding headache had begun to make itself heard. He entangled his hands behind his head and slowly moved his head from left to right, relieving some of the tension that had settled itself, meanwhile trying to put some order into what had happened.

First, they were to meet Ronald van Genderen, who had information on the dead Philip Brands, a probable associate of a criminal mind named Marco Fransen.

Secondly, Ronald was shot, severely injured and a second attempt to kill him was only just prevented. Ergo: the information he had for them was important - important enough to kill for.

Third: this information was stashed away in files that were hovering somewhere in cyberspace. As long as they couldn't come up with the right password it seemed impossible to get that information, either from this PC or the one in the harbour office.

The conclusion could only be what Chris had been telling him all along: somebody within the corps knew about the existence of the material and that person had somehow gained access to these files. His eyes found the shred of paper that Chris had put down on the table earlier and he picked it up and slowly let the names sink in.

With a jolt Sam straightened up. He grabbed his phone and called the Fanny’s number, but there was still no reply. He disconnected, suddenly aware of a vague worry that something was very wrong indeed. Before he could push the button on Chris' phone, the damn thing rang. Computer files and telephone calls, Sam thought mockingly, no more real action these days - but his head told him he’d had enough "real" action for one day.

It was Backup, trying to find out what was going on. He informed her, pleased to hear her voice and content with the knowledge she was coming their way. Without Chris around, Sam began to feel either alone or exposed - depending on the circumstances. He looked at his watch and it occurred to him that Chris had been away quite some time now. He ended his conversation with his female fellow-agent and pushed the shortcut-button to Chris' number.

"4.5." Security measures had forced them to disable number visibility and his friend answered the call with his assigned number.

"Chris, it's me."

Before he could continue, Chris interrupted.

"Fanny with you?"

"No. I thought you were picking her up?"

"Did she call you?"

"No. Maybe she did but I was busy on the phone, talked to HQ and Backup's team."

Sam heard Chris cursing. Then, a curt rumble and some cracking and the connection was broken.

Sam shoved his chair back and ran down the stairs. But once outside in the pouring rain, he realised that he had no means of transport: Chris had taken the Mitsubishi, and Marieke had taken her own Renault Espace to get to her husband. Fuck! He ran to the garage, hoping to find a motor cycle or something like that, and wildly pulled at the doors - almost tripping as they gave way easily since they were unlocked. A little, shining sports car stood hidden below a large protective cloth in the centre of the garage. The superb condition of the car showed a special interest and love for this MG but Sam didn't allow himself sentimental thoughts. He jumped into it and searched quickly for keys. There were none. Sam ducked underneath the dashboard, ripped out some wires and fumbled with the threads. The car coughed, the engine started and Sam pushed down the gas.

In less than two minutes Sam was soaking wet. The little MG was a convertible and had no roof to shield him from the slamming rain. Impatiently he wiped the rainwater from his eyes - he had to drive as fast as he could, despite the weather conditions and his unprotected position in this open car.

Chris was going to do something unbelievably stupid - he knew it. He could feel it in his bones. His short-tempered friend would not wait for him to show up, he knew him too well by now. He would get himself into a lot of trouble, like he always did. Somehow Chris and Trouble were good friends, finding each other time and time again.

*****

Chris had arrived at the harbour station office and looked up at the few lit rooms in the darkened building. He had blown the horn three times but there was no movement visible. After a minute or so, he did it again. He took out his cell phone and dialled Fanny's number. No answer. The voice mail took over automatically after thirty seconds. Had she spoken to Sam and gone ahead? He disconnected and immediately his phone rang. Phone calls and computer files, he thought wryly, I should have stayed a SEAL.

He looked up while answering the phone. Nothing - no face that showed up in the frame of the windows, no lights that were turned off - nothing.

"4.5."

His answer was curt, thinking ahead already and he was hardly aware of Sam saying:

"Chris, it's me."

Before he could say what was on his mind, Chris interrupted him.

"Fanny with you?"

"No. I thought you were picking her up?".

"Did she call you?"

"No. Maybe she did but I was busy on the phone, talked to HQ and Backup's team." A stone tumbled down inside Chris' stomach. He cursed and broke off the call. Damndamndamn!

Chris sounded the horn again. Driven by an invisible irrational urge he got out of the car and ran through the rain to the door. To his surprise, it was unlocked. At the same moment the initial surprise turned into fear - he had seen her locking the door behind him when he had left earlier. There was something wrong, he could sense it in every fibre of his body.

He ran upstairs, taking the stairs four at a time. He didn't call her name, only took out his Sig 29 and speeded on. When he got to Ronald's office he already knew she wasn't at her station anymore. The place was abandoned. Fanny's coat still hung over one of the chairs, her purse standing next to it. In the gloomy darkness of the corridor he stepped on something that cracked underneath his shoe. He stopped and checked it, urged by a sudden flash that bubbled up inside.

Chris' heart stood still - it was one of Fanny's hearing aids.

Then he heard a vehicle. He sprinted down the hallway and took the stairs in giant leaps. He almost tore the door from its hinges. A car came from round the corner, the champagne metallic colour glowing in the headlights of Chris' Mitsubishi. A Ford Granada, he registered automatically.

The shot that came from the opened rear window sliced through his body. Acting on pure reflex he leaped forwards, rolling and hiding behind the Mitsubishi. Then he jumped forward and pointed his gun at the car, aiming for the tires. But he didn't shoot - he might hit Fanny, who was undoubtedly a prisoner in the rapidly disappearing Ford.

*****

Chris slid behind the wheel. He pushed his foot down, hitting the accelerator and speeding out of the harbour. While steering, he carefully probed the gunshot wound, wincing as his fingers touched the damaged flesh. He could feel where the bullet had entered his chest, a few centimeters below his collarbone and he was also aware of the same pain in his shoulder blade - the slug must have gone straight through. He was unable to stop the bleeding and there was nothing in the car that he could use to that purpose either. Soon, the pain would become unbearable, but now, he knew he was still drugged by the shock so he had to make full advantage of it. Not that he bothered looking closer - his attention was focussed on the rear-lights of the Ford Granada in the distance.

Rotterdam was remarkably busy although it was well past midnight, and it didn't take Chris long to get closer to the Granada without losing his cover behind other vehicles. One of the characteristics of a metropolis - there was always traffic and there were always people around. The American used it to his full advantage. He could stay close behind the car and still remain unseen.

He needed all his concentration to drive, following the car and keeping his mind off the pain that sheared through his chest. The car left Rotterdam and traffic became less intense immediately. The roads were lit by streetlights still, but Chris knew that that was only as far as the suburbs. Once beyond those, there would be no more lights to help him. With fingers that were sticky from blood, he punched a few keys on the pad of the NavTec. Breda, he had asked for and saw to his relief that they were indeed heading that way.

He thought of Sam and knew very well he'd acted like a fool to rush off like this. But he was also aware of what Fransen had done to Fanny in the past and his wrath would be even more intolerable now. There was no time to waste, he just had to do it.

By the time the two cars got to Breda, Chris was feeling nauseous from the pain and knew the blood loss would soon catch up with him. But he could not allow himself to stop - for the sake of the woman he loved as well as his own peace of mind.

The Ford Granada took the exit to an industrial zone. It was old already, a lot of the firms that had obviously once been settled here seemed to have moved to more prosperous places and there was no activity at all. Chris switched the lights of the car off, knowing they could betray him. He saw the lights of the Granada moving to the right and entering a fenced, scarcely lit terrain that surrounded a decaying building. He got as close as he dared, then tried to call Sam again. He had tried a couple of times now, but his partner had not answered the call. For a moment he began to fear that Sam had forgotten to take his mobile phone along as he -undoubtedly- had started a search for Chris.

He pushed the speed dial button. Sam, pick up, the words rattled in his head. Then, to his surprise, he heard a lot of noise, cracking and more sounds as the phone call seemed to be answered. It didn't take much to realise Sam was somewhere outside.

"Sam, they've got Fanny. I need backup, soon!" he shouted.

He could hear Sam screaming but couldn't make out of it - far too much interference.

"Check out a flour plant in Breda!" he tried to keep his messages as brief as possible - the shorter the sentences, the bigger the chance that Sam could filter out something. Again he heard noise, but unable to understand anything he didn't wait and shouted: "Flour factory! I've been shot!" then broke off the connection. There was no use in trying to go on - it drained his energy and distracted his mind from his real goal: get Fanny out of the hands of Fransen.

*****

Sam was chilled and miserable. Goddamned awful Dutch weather, this was even worse than England. Of all the cars in the world, he had only been able to get a Dinky Toy without a roof! The rain came pouring down, blinding his sight, soaking the entire car and freezing him to the bone. Tucked away in his black leather coat he tried to keep his eyes on the road, which was not easy as the speed of the car and the increasing wind prohibited a clear view of the traffic. As far as he dared, he drove at full speed, rushing through the busy night life traffic and heading for the harbour police station.

He had to slow down a little due to a queue in front of a roundabout and was suddenly aware of his mobile phone ringing. He wouldn't have been able to hear the sound of it while driving full speed - luckily he had picked up the high tones.

"Yeah?!" he answered, having to scream to make himself heard over the noise of the rain, the wind and the motor.

"..am…anny… acku'…"

He knew without a shred of doubt it was Chris, but it was impossible to make out what he was saying.

"Chris! I can't hear you! Speak up!" he shouted. Suddenly he found himself on the highway, traffic moving fast - if he pulled over to the side to stop and listen, he would probably not be able to hear him anyway, as heavy trucks and night traffic passed him in a constant noisy stream.

"'ower….plant…eda…"

"What's that Chris?! Flowers?! Plants?!"

"…ower….hot…"

"Shot? Shooting?! Did you say shooting?! Hold on, Chris, I'm on my way. Chris?! Chris?!"

Frustration slamming him in the face like a kick boxer, Sam shoved the phone back into his coat pocket and hit the accelerator. He had hardly understood a word of what the American had been saying. Flower? Plants? Something with seeds? A greenhouse? But he had heard him say "shooting". Or was it the noise that had driven the words differently into his ears?

In a frantic haze he drove through Rotterdam. Again he could feel guilt raging - he should not have let Chris go on his own. Chris Keel, toy of the Devil, comrade with Bad Luck and the bosom buddy of Misfortune.

*****

Sam had stopped at a petrol station. He had to make a phone call, make Richards try to find the Mitsubishi with the satellite. Try to get a hold of Backup so she and her crew could fly the heli to wherever it was his partner had driven off to. And get some warmth in your system, something whispered inside.

Beneath the shelter of the BP-roof he could hear himself and Richards on the other side of the line clearly. He explained briefly what had happened in a few sentences and gave him the keys to a targeted search:

"Rich, I don't know what he was referring to, but I think he said flowers and plants."

"Alright, Sam, I'll get onto it right away. I'll get a cross check with what I found earlier on Van Genderen's material."

"Did you get it?" Richards had been his usual competent self, his ability to get into every scrap of digital information surprising him once again.

"Yep - you're talking to a genius, you ought to know. I'll see what I can come up and pass it directly on to Backup too."

"Thanks, mate. No need to you to hurry, is there?"

"You've got that right. By the way, put on a coat. I can hear your teeth chattering all the way up here."

And then he was gone. Sam was just about to step back into the MG again, when he saw a man running to the door of the gas station, deeply huddled in his coat to hide from the slashing rain - he left the keys in the ignition and the motor running. Sam didn't hesitate, he spurted to the Opel Astra and was out of sight before the man even had time to realise what was happening.

Within a few minutes Richards was back.

"He's heading south, presumably to a town called Breda - I can see him on the satellite and there have been entries in the van Genderen files too. But haven't come up with anything on flowers or plants - I'll get back on it. I'll tell Backup to move that way too."

Without awaiting an answer, Richards hung up on him and Sam spurted forwards. He raced south, Breda already visible on the road signs, through peaceful dark country sides, over water that looked dark and unwelcoming while all around him people slept the sleep of the innocent.

Hold on, Chris, he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Backup's on the way.

*****

Chris got out of the Mitsubishi, fighting dizziness and pain. The rain and wind wasn't as fierce here as it had been in Rotterdam, but provided him with a good cover and somehow clarified his mind a little. He took out his gun and climbed over the fence. His breath caught as the wound in his chest came in contact with the rectangular shaped wiring - but he did get over it.

Very carefully he approached the dark building. He had taken a few minutes to observe the area and come to the conclusion it was no longer in use. It had been a flour processing plant, so Fanny had told him - probably it had been a wheat and grain mill once but it had been modernised half a century ago and the millstone equipment was replaced by machinery that did the work. He had gone round the building, and rather well hidden behind it, he could see a couple of high silos. Suddenly Chris heard Fanny's words again: a perfect place to hide heroine. No-one would be able to tell the difference at first glance.

And no-one would bother to check those silos either, Chris completed his thoughts.

He entered the building as a shadow, silent and virtually invisible, gun in hand, the heavy steel strangely offering him a feeling of comforting trust. There was hardly any light and it took some time before his eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was obvious - this part of the factory was no longer used and feeling the dust beneath his sensitive fingertips Chris knew no-one had been in here for a long time. On tiptoes he crossed the place and silently reached the far side. A flight of stairs led up to a higher floor. He knew he was taking a big risk - but it was a calculated one. He was in the dark, chances were that he could not be seen from up there. He had come in unnoticed so the element of surprise was on his side. He put his foot on the first step, holding his breath to hear if it would squeak and betray him - but it didn't.

The landing lead to several doors, behind which he could distinguish light, but only very faint. Slowly he approached one of them and peered through a chink. He could see a metal bridge span an open space to a silo door. There was more light there. From where he was standing he had a pretty good view of the space beyond the door and as he didn't see anyone he carefully pulled the door ajar and kept quiet to listen. He took the opportunity to take a few breaths - he could feel his strength fading with worrying speed. Sam, come on, show me what you're made of. Get over here, he prayed.

The silence encouraged him and he headed on, crossing the metal bridge until he reached the door to one of the silos. He peered through the smudgy glass and the pain was forgotten - he had found them: Marco Fransen, his right hand man Louis Brands and their captive Fanny Waterman.

Inside the round silo, on the opposite place, he could see how Fransen and Brands were standing on the same kind of platform that he was on. Brands held Fanny, while Fransen was looking down into the depth of the silo. She struggled in Brands' grip and kicked out at Fransen, who slapped her across the face when her foot hit one of his shins. It didn't take much deduction to see what they were going to do: throw her down and leave her, unable to climb out of the round prison.

Brands pushed her forwards, holding her by her upper arms. Chris could see how scared she was, screaming, struggling and kicking to fight the men off.

Chris opened the door, his Sig ready to fire and screamed:

"Fransen! Stop or I'll shoot."

Fransen looked up and even over a distance of some 25 yards their eyes met. He wasn't even surprised and took a step back from Brands and Fanny. He stretched out a hand that held a gun and loosely pointed it at Fanny.

"Chris!" Fanny cried out.

"Ah, Mr Keel. Welcome to our house party. I've been expecting you."

Chris swallowed, trying to control the fury that wanted to take over.

"Let her go or I'll shoot you. I swear to God, I can shoot a fly from a tree at 500 yards."

"Oh, you American cocky fool. It is meters, not yards. The metric system is going to be the standard all over the world." The voice of the criminal echoed through the high silo, somehow making the mocking tone even more prominent.

"But I'm a good shot too." He said, then turned to Fanny again and fired.

"Nooooo!" Chris screamed, the world around him suddenly fading as he saw Fanny collapsing in the grip of Brands, and it was as if he was watching some kind of terrible movie in slow motion. Brands dropped her from the platform and she had a free fall of ten feet to the bottom of the silo.

"Nooooo! Fanny!" he screamed again and fired but missed completely. Suddenly he felt somebody push him from behind, he lost his balance and fell from the platform as well. He landed on a soft layer of flour that was on the bottom of the silo. It swirled up around him and only slowly came down again.

He was almost unconscious as the pain from his wounded chest sent darkness to his vision, but on pure will he managed not to give in - he had to get over to Fanny. From above him he heard Fransen's voice, ricocheting between the steel walls, down to where he was.

"Ah, Mr Keel, parting is such sweet sorrow. Who said that? I don't know exactly - Byron, Keats? Anyway, it's very appropriate. This is déjà-vu, Mr Keel. Just like in the ship, two years ago. Only this time it won't be water and this time you won't be able to escape it."

The sound of Fransen and his associate moving away reached Chris' ears.

"Adieu, Mr Keel." Was the last he heard before the door slammed shut.

On hands and knees the American moved over to the redhead, who was on the ground and had not moved. Something snapped inside. The beautiful, warm, spontaneous Fanny, the woman he loved almost as much as he had loved Teresa, would never laugh again.

A perfect round little hole between her eyes had put an end to her life. No sentimental goodbyes, no farewell words uttered in pain, no dramatic screenplays from a Hollywood tearjerker - Fanny was gone. Killed by a single bullet from Fransen’s gun.

Chris wrapped his arms around her, pulling her so close that he could feel her bone structure under his hands. He stroked her hair and rocked her, his body aching with the mental torture that he had to witness now. Slowly he sank away into a state of indifference. His mind shut the world outside, the rocking becoming hypnotic, the pain in his chest fighting with the hurt that he felt inside.

Fanny. Teresa. Fanny. Teresa. Fanny. Teresa. Fanny. Teresa. The names found a rhythm, the rocking falling into step with it. Fanny. Teresa. Fanny. Teresa. Somewhere in the mantra, exhaustion took over.

Chris was not even aware of the torrent of flour that came down and would soon cover him with a blanket of white powder. His willpower had died the moment he'd seen Fanny's broken eyes.

*****

Sam was so relieved by the warmth of the Opel Astra that the feeling of rushing into doomsday was temporarily pushed aside. He turned up the heating, causing his wet clothing to form condensation on the windows and turning his visibility to zero - so he had to open the window a little to let the damp out. The cold wind that came in sent shivers through his already tormented body. He could not stop shivering, but nevertheless, Sam thought, this was much better. A little mascot was dangling from the mirror - it was a miniature skull. Et In Arcadia Ego, was tattooed over the cranium. An omen? Sam let out the air from his cheeks - either this was someone with a macabre view on traffic or a weird crush for Evelyn Waugh.

He kept following the directions that Richards had given him, fully alert for any sign of Chris. He grabbed his cell phone when it rang and answered before it could even ring a second time - it was Backup.

"Sam, we're over Breda. What's this with flowers and plants? Richards is still searching."

"Dunno." Sam said back. "I think I heard Chris say that, but there was so much noise I've probably misunderstood completely."

"Noise? Bad telephone connection? Static interference?"

"No, Backup - bad driving conditions. Never mind, I've "borrowed" a car more suitable for this weather. Could you lock onto Chris with the sat?"

"Yes, we have his car on satellite. But it's not moving, seems like he's abandoned it - I'm trying to define it more exactly and let you know. Where are you by now?"

"Approaching Breda too, think about 5 more miles."

"Okay. 5.3 out."

Almost in the same moment Sam saw a framed, white picture on the blue traffic sign, that hung over the highway. It was a square with a black pictogram of a factory - an industrial area somewhere up ahead - the words below describing it as "De Dongel". The sign was already behind him when alarm bells inside his head began ringing. He snatched the mobile and dialled Richards again.

"Richards - look for a factory. That's what he meant with plant!" he almost cried out, sure he was now on the right track.

"Will do." Was the curt reply and Sam re-dialled, this time to Backup. He steered in the direction of the industrial zone - this must be it.

"Backup, try an industrial zone called De Dongel. That is D-E D-O-N-G-E-L. I think he meant factory when he said plant."

"Alright, Sam. Just a minute."

Somewhere out there she was hovering with the team and Sam's belief in happy endings was restored just a little bit. He had learned how his partner thought by now. He had seen how he worked on cases and how he analysed things in his own, unique way. He knew suddenly too, that although Chris had hurried off to fly to the rescue, he relied on Sam to back him up. Help is on the way, Chris - we're gonna nail that scumbag, Sam thought. I hope to God we're not too late, so hang on, buddy.

"Sam, you're right. His car is at the industrial site. Wait a second - what, Spence?" the last few words were for her colleague, saying something to her.

"Richards just punched in on Spence's machine. It's not a flower factory - it's flour. Wheat - grain - rye, that kind of stuff you know. We're flying right to it."

"Backup, I don't have a head set. As Chris would put it: don't shoot me in the ass, okay?"

He could hear her chuckle.

"I won't. Too pretty an ass to have hole in."

"Ass hole?"

"You're words, not mine, Sam."

He grinned, grateful for the black humour and amused by Backup's little play on words.

"3.7 out."

*****

Side by side Spencer and Backup ran towards the dark terrain of the flour factory. Artley and Smithson had all exits covered. Malone had been informed and his orders had been simple: take them out. Try to catch them alive, but kill if necessary.

The entire team had been a little surprised by his words. Although Malone could be a regular bastard sometimes, he did not usually put orders in such clear words. Of course, his goal in life was to fight terrorism and where wood was chopped, splinters would fall. But he was usually the last one to say that killing was an option. Somehow, the two agents understood, Malone was angry about what had happened. It had almost cost the life of Chris Keel and Fanny Waterman a few years ago - not to mention the horrible discovery of the dead bodies of Oriental women on board of the ship. Malone would not allow that to happen again.

Backup touched Spencer's arm and pointed in the direction he was to follow. She went the other way. Sam was somewhere around too, and -as he had put it so beautifully- she was not going to let him get killed by friendly fire. Or by any fire, for that matter. For a second she thought she heard the sound of a gun firing - but there was too much wind and rain to tell for certain. Something twisted in her stomach. Maybe she had not clearly heard what was happening, but her sixth sense warned her. She knew they had to hurry.

The initial relief that Sam felt when they had found the presumed whereabouts of his partner had already been pushed aside by greater worry - his partner was hurt. And by the looks of it, pretty badly. Blood was visible in the car, quite a lot, and it left a trail that made him easy to follow.

Sam hid behind the wet undergrowth of the terrain. It was dark all right, but he was not sure whether there were any burglary alarms and wouldn't want to be caught acting like an amateur. He saw the vague posture of Smithson ducking away, only because he knew he had to be there - not because his colleague was inadequate or careless. He silently approached him, saw Smithson freeze and then recognise him too. A short whisper between the two agents and Sam was up to date again - Backup had not found any evidence of an alarm system. They must be pretty sure of themselves, thought Sam as he nodded to Smithson and left his team-mate. He ran to the factory, the darkness and the rain his ally. The first door he tried to open was shut, so was the second. But the third entry was unlocked and he pulled the door open. At that moment he heard voices coming his way, already close by. In the dimly lit interior of the factory he saw two shadows freeze and then he heard cursing, followed by gun shots. Sam ducked back and to the side in the same movement, rolling over the wet pavement and muddy soil next to it. Warmth trickled down his side, his blood mingling with rain that dripped down from his coat.

But Sam didn't wait, he rolled over again and fired in the same second. The door banged open again and Sam fired at the visible silhouette in the doorway. He knew he'd hit the man when he staggered and a curt cry followed before he fell to the ground.

Sam jumped to his feet, to be hit by a sudden wave of nausea. He knew that his body was betraying him now: a blow to his head that would make a normal man sleep for two days, a gash in his hip that burned like hot iron and upcoming pneumonia from his confrontation with the elements. The wall suddenly slanted and bowed over to him and Sam had to reach out and hold on to stop himself falling.

Fransen had apparently seen his hesitation and took full advantage of it by sprinting to his car, the Granada that was still parked up ahead. He aimed for Sam as he ran and the agent dropped to his belly, rolling over to try and shoot him. But his gun only clicked once.

He had run out of ammo. He had missed that little but oh so vital sign as he'd been overcome by feeling sick all of a sudden and damn - Fransen was going to get away. No – he’d stopped. Fransen had heard the gun being empty and stopped, slowly turning around. Sam's stomach turned - and this time it was not from nausea. His hands frantically searched for something to throw with, to defend himself with. He crawled, spiderlike, further back into the darkness. But Fransen aimed and took a closer look.

"Why, is that you, Mr Curtis?" Sam heard him say. He had the advantage of being in the dark and that would buy him some time.

"How nice of you to join the fun. Your friend is inside, and so is the little redhead. He gave in very quickly you know, after I shot his little woman. He's gallant but not very heroic."

Sam felt his heart break as something grabbed it and seemed to tear it from his chest. He was horrified by the criminal's words. After I shot his little woman. No! I'm too late - I'm too late! screamed through his skull.

"I won't keep you in suspense. You'll join them soon. Erm… I do recall a pretty Oriental being by your side last time we met? She was expensive - not your style, old boy. She should have joined me - I have excellent taste in women. She'd make a perfect private hooker. Well, enough now - give my regards to Lucifer, Mr Curtis."

"No, Fransen - you first!" a woman's voice screamed and a flash of light accompanied her words.

The shot sent Fransen spinning around wildly. He threw his gun up in the air and fell backwards onto the wet ground. Sam had involuntarily squeezed his eyes, foreseeing his own death in one deadly vision - but when he looked up he saw Backup standing in the frame of the door, her legs spread, her arms straight, her face invisible in the darkness. She'd been just in time.

"Sam, you alright?"

"I'm okay, Backup."

He dizzily got over to the body - Fransen was dead.

"Excellent taste in women" Sam repeated. "Too bad for you, Mr Fransen - you're not her cup of tea." The agent tiredly mumbled to the dead body.

"Come on Backup. They're in there somewhere."

The Englishman dared not finish his sentence. If he said out loud that Fanny had been shot and something similar had happened to Chris, it was almost as if he was confirming their deaths. Backup saw him wincing as he stepped forward and tried to stop him.

"Stay here, Sam, you look like hell. You're hurt, you're bleeding." She remarked when she saw the pinkish drops on the dusty ground once they got inside. The body of Louis Brands was on the ground - he was still alive but unconscious and already secured by Artley. Smithson came down with the short announcement he'd killed a second man, an unknown, colourless, faceless figure. The place was safe now.

"I want to find them. Time to deal with this later - it's not that bad." Sam curtly dismissed her gesture. He could tell from her face that she did not agree with that, but she also knew there was no stopping him. They ran through the building, the strong beams of their halogen torches lighting the place. It wasn't difficult to find Chris - he'd left a bloody trace wherever he'd been. Sam shivered, not knowing if it was the worry for his friend or the chill in his bones that drove needle pricks into his spine.

Backup had reached an iron bridge that led to a silo-door and tried to see through the dirty stained glass. A soft swooshing sound caught her attention - but it was impossible to tell what caused it. Through the little window she saw white clouds swirling up and as a panting Sam reached her, she suddenly realised what it was she heard. It was wheat or flour coming down, cascading down from the upper storage part in this silo. Fransen had turned the system on, causing the hatches to open and release the flour to the bottom of the silo. The door where she was standing was secured - it couldn't be opened as long as the silo was filled, logically. Then she felt Sam grabbing her arm, his breath rasping from the exertion. He pointed silently to the bloodied handle on the outside to which Chris must have held onto. This was where the track of blood drops had come to an end.

The dark eyes of Tina Backus and the green ones of Sam Curtis met, the worry building up the bond between them fast. It was painfully clear what was happening - Chris was inside.

"Sam, stay here." Backup said and pushed past him. "There must be a control room somewhere. If I can stop the flour from coming down, the doors will probably open again."

"Hurry, Backup. He's gonna suffocate in there." Sam called after her as she ran away.

He pressed his face against the little window. There was nothing he could see, only white dust swirling, tornadoing around. He couldn't say how long Backup needed to stop the flood of flour - probably it had been just minutes but it seemed like hours to him. Then, he heard a hydraulic system working and the automatic bolts of the doors were unlocked. He pushed the handle down and slowly opened the heavy door. He took a step forward onto a little iron platform and immediately found himself surrounded by white dust - everywhere. He pulled a wet handkerchief from his pocket - at least one thing good had come from that entire wet ride - and tied it over his face, using it as a mask to prevent himself from inhaling the microscopic particles. Carefully he lowered himself from the little ladder beneath the platform until his feet touched the flour.

It was something Sam had never experienced before. The flour had volume - yet it held no substance. What he tried to pick up slipped away through his fingers. It tickled his ears, stung his eyes and shifted underneath his feet. Where the still floating flour got into contact with his wet clothes, it changed into a thin layer that absorbed the moisture and caked his clothes.

It was a bit like wading through beach sand, yet very different. The flour stuck to his bloodied trousers and to his shoes, yet he sank away almost to his knees in the soft stuff that he literally could not get a grip on. It blinded him too - he could see nothing but white all around. It brought tears to his ears. He shouted for Chris and for Fanny, until he heard the voice from Backup coming from above:

"Sam! There's something dark to your right. It looks like a bump there. I can see you moving, more to the right now."

The Englishman followed her directions. She could probably see his dark hair which was already turning lighter as the flour settled down on it too - but for now he listened to her.

And then his foot sank away again to stop on another foot - Chris'. He found him.

Sam fell to his knees and frantically brushed away the flour that already covered a good deal of the American’s face. His body was buried almost up to the shoulders in the white dust. Against his shoulder he saw the red hair of Fanny buried even deeper. Her gaze was the first thing he saw when he had had got the flour from her face - and then he saw the little hole just above the eyes. The little line of blood was completely absorbed by flour and now only a small pink stripe was visible.

"Noooo…." He muttered, his moan long and hurt. I'm too late.

Deeply hurt, he shut her eyes. He bowed his head in sympathy. Oh Fanny, I'm so sorry. Chris - I'm too late. I'm so sorry. The silo had turned into a coffin and death was mocking him. He'd already seen his friend's eyes open and that they were not broken like Fanny's. But the immense feeling of relief mixed with hurt for the murdered woman drained away when he saw that Chris did not react.

"Chris, buddy, it's me." He whispered, his voice barely controlled.

He brought his face close to that of his friend and used his wet sleeves to wipe away the flour that was caked all over him. He tried to find some recognition in those blue eyes - he tried to force him to look at him. Chris had always been the one to pump the life into Sam when he was on the verge of giving up or when he had a bad day; his energetic, bubbling personality radiated from his expressive face. The blue eyes would sparkle, the lust for life obvious with everything he did and every move he made.

But now, the lust for life was gone. The radiance had disappeared, the energy had vaporised. Chris' meaning of life had been shattered once again - and this time he'd been too embraced by the horror to be able to escape it.

Sam coughed, the flour was trying to settle in his lungs and he suddenly became aware of the choking feeling it caused. He could not tell how long it was before he realised Backup was calling out to him. He answered her, his voice shaking.

"Call an ambulance, Backup. Agent down."

"And Fanny?" he heard her asking, holding her breath, too afraid to hear the answer.

Sam was not sure if he actually answered her or if he was only thinking he did.

Too late, Backup, I'm too late.