Again a big thanks to Jennie, who teaches and helps without losing her patience.

Sometimes this story refers to events in earlier written stories such as "Partnerships", "Fight a lion" and "Blood"

The flour had been everywhere. It had been treacherously soft but crawled into their ears, noses, mouths, passing through their air pipes to settle in their lungs and make them struggle for breath.

Sam had some protection thanks to the wet hanky he used as a filter, but more of the white dust had got into his lungs than expected. Chris had inhaled so much of the powder that his breath had turned shallow and only reached the top of his lungs. Where the blood from the gunshot wound had come into contact with the flour, pinkish white crusts formed that caked to his clothes. Sam had been horrified when he had found his injured friend - the silence from the American had gravely worried him.

It hadn't taken the rescue party long to get the victims out of the silo and transported to a nearby hospital. Only once Chris was out of surgery and the team learned his life was no longer in danger did the world around Sam turn darker, and he had nearly passed out in the ER waiting room. His injured leg no longer held him, pure exhaustion and the fever that burned his body finally catching up with him.

Strong hands had supported him - he could vaguely recall a nurse cutting away his trousers and the cold table in the X-ray room where photos of his lungs and leg were taken.

He had had pneumonia before and knew very well how tiring it was and what it did to his general condition. He would have to work out and exercise with double the effort to regain something of his former shape and he knew from experience that it would take more time than he'd like. The barren ride in the open vehicle had caused it, and - his physical defences already pushed to the limits - the inhaled flour in the former wheat processing plant hadn't done much good either. But eventually he was released from hospital in satisfactory condition.

Thus were Sam's reflections as he climbed the stairs of a little house in Hampstead. Gardenias and geraniums bloomed in flower pots that were attached to the window sills. Sam rang the front door bell.

"Sam!" An old lady with remarkable deep green eyes, unusually bright for her age, opened the door to him. "Come in! What a pleasant surprise!"

Sam handed her a bouquet of flowers, kissed her on the cheek and allowed her to hold him at arm's length for inspection.

"Hi Sophia. Can you spare me a cup of tea?"

Sam's grandmother looked at him intensely. He looked tired, she thought, his mind seemed to be clouded by something. She knew her grandson quite well and saw immediately that his fatigue was more than just physical. Was that the reason for his unexpected visit? They had always had a good bond, and he had confided in her ever since he was a child. Their initial grandmother - grandson relationship had, through the years, turned into a close friendship, in which Sam would usually do the talking and she listened and -if asked- gave her opinion or advice.

She knew that was the reason he kept coming back. Sophia provided him with a listening ear without the restrictions of a professional psychologist - and without instantly informing the superior powers within the organisation Sam worked for.

Though he was not allowed to discuss his work with people from outside the office, he found it helpful to talk about his doubts and worries inside the cosy, well-known and trusted environment of his grandmother's house.

So Sophia waited patiently for Sam to start.

Once the tea was ready and both were comfortably settled, Sophia decided to give the first pass.

"You do look tired, Sam. What have you been up to this time?"

"Business as usual, Sophia."

"You caught some more bad guys? Relieved the world of yet another criminal?"

Sam allowed a little smile but it was obvious that more was still happening or had been going on - maybe there hadn't been happy ending?

"Yep, we got him all right. But…" he sighed, green eyes drifting to the flowers outside the window as he thought about what had happened. "But…?" Sophia encouraged him.

Sam sipped the tea and almost burnt his tongue on the hot fluid. He pulled a face and put the mug down.

"But someone close to the team was killed." His voice was quiet, the tone calm and controlled.

Sophia folded her wrinkled hands in her lap and asked quietly: "Was it… was it Chris? The young American you work with?"

A sigh of obvious relief answered her question before he spoke.

"No, not Chris. But a woman he cared for very much was shot in front of his eyes and she died instantly. Chris was injured too. As a result of what has happened he has had some kind of nervous breakdown."

"Chris? A nervous breakdown?" Sophia asked, unable to hide the disbelief on her face. "That vibrant, lively young man?"

"The same. We got assigned to the case together with the Dutch woman. We got separated, I lost valuable time with all the confusion about where he was and I was too late."

"Why confusion?"

"He told me - I could barely hear him - something about flour and a plant. I thought he meant flowers and plants like in a greenhouse, but he was referring to a wheat processing factory. Before the team finally figured out where he was, his girlfriend had been killed. "

"So, go on. What happened when you did find him?"

"We got the bastard -sorry- but something inside him had just snapped. When I found him he was totally unaware of the things around him. He didn't even recognise me."

There was a silence for a minute or two, and then Sophia asked: "Where is he now?"

"Admitted to a psychiatric ward of a London hospital. We got back from the mainland to England on the same plane but he didn't understand what was happening. He's like a zombie, Sophia. He doesn't care anymore, nothing I do or say gets through to him. They're calling it a catatonic frenzy."

"But surely there must be something they can do for him?" Sophia had met Chris a couple of times - she found him to be a funny, amicable person and had liked him at once. She'd seen how well the two got along, despite their differences. It was difficult to picture that bubbling personality as a nervous wreck in a mental institution.

"They did try several things - drugs, therapies and God knows what else, but the only thing they achieved was making him aggressive and they even had to put him into a padded cell to calm him down a few times. Strap him up to prevent him from hurting himself."

Absentmindedly, Sam picked up the tea glass again and stirred the drink although he didn't use milk or sugar and the act was totally automaticobsolete. Sophia studied his movements closely. Most of the time Sam was quite reserved and not very quick to talk about what was on his mind. But, Sophia thought, what's new? How introverted had her husband been? Just as much if not more so than Sam. And just as with her husband she read the body language and heard the unspoken words.

"And where does this leave you? A new partner? Or at least one for the time being, until there's a decision about the fate of your friend?"

"Dunno yet, Sophia. I'm officially still on sick leave."

To her questioning look, he shrugged his shoulders and explained: "Minor pneumonia. Not to worry, I'm quite all right."

"Don't insult my intelligence, Sam, I'm not blind! I can see you're not 'quite all right'," she grumbled, more concerned than reproachful. She continued: "What's going to happen to Chris?"

"The boss told us Chris won't be coming back any time soon. And honestly, I think the chances of him recovering are very small. There's only so much a person can take - and he's had more than his fair share. Lost his wife, lost his girlfriend… That only leads to the conclusion that I'll be having a new partner soon. Once I've fully recovered, I suppose I'll meet him or her."

"It won't be the same," Sophia sympathised gently.

"No. It won't. It's strange without that crazy fool. We argue all the time, yet he's one hell of a partner to have around." Sam admitted. "He's a friend too, Soph, not just a partner from work."

The elegant lady saw he was considering leaving the force. Had he been reflecting on the recent events? Looked into the future and come to the conclusion he didn't want to stay on the team without the hot headed American? He was, clearly, not looking forward to a new partner - at least, not yet. Sophia put her cup down.

"Give it time, Sam. Don't rush into a decision you'll regret later or do something you'll wish you hadn't. You're not helping young Mr Keel if you resign. And as far as I can tell, you won't be doing yourself any favours either."

She repeated, her voice warm and friendly: "Give it some time." The smile wavered into countless wrinkles that added even more softness to her kind face. The silence in the warm room was emphasised by the ticking of the clock on the wall. Sam fell quiet, occupied with thoughts that ran through his mind. Sophia saw his dilemma.

"Why don't you stay over for dinner? I'll make you spaghetti and French Beans. Since you're still on sick leave, you're not expected anywhere - so let's combine the useful with the pleasant: I'm cooking for you and you're keeping me company."

The smile he gave her proved she was right. Her grandson needed some company and if it was up to her, he'd stay as long as he liked.

*****

"That'll be £3.85." The cashier put the groceries in a brown paper bag and handed Sam the change. She was tall, colourless with that typical gloominess that seemed to come for free with these kinds of perspectiveless jobs. When her clear blue eyes met Sam's green ones, however, he saw her reaction to his kind nod - she was certainly not impervious to his charms.

"Are you new here? I haven't seen you here before, have I?"

She smiled, grateful for some kindness.

"Yes, temporarily, I hope. The company I used to work for closed down. Maybe I can find something a little more exciting than this soon." A brave sigh accompanied her words. "The owner is a friend of my father's. It's a favour, actually."

Sam grinned. "Well, you certainly beat his looks."

The woman behind the counter stared at him, breathless. Long after the dark headed man had closed the door behind him and left, she still stood gazing at the place he'd been standing. The image of those remarkable green eyes, deep and probing in their intensity, surrounded by dark lashes, was etched onto her retina.

She eventually began to cash up for the day. It was time to go home. She could drown in nice, romantic dreams about the dark, attractive man she'd seen.

*****

Sam walked to his car after having delivered the groceries to Sophia. He'd been eating at his grandmother's for the past few days now, enjoying her kindness and wisdom more than the greyness of his own home at the moment.

But today the cosy neighbourhood felt like a ton of bricks on his shoulders. He could see people turning on the lights or candles in their comfortable, warm rooms, preparing themselves for another normal family evening, cleaning the tables, washing the dishes, watching television or reading.

And he? He would go home, end up in the quiet silence of his small, tidy apartment and have no company there but the few bright orange goldfish Chris once bought him to brighten up his living room a little.

Inviting over one of the women Sam had dated did not seem like a true solution to his blues. Talking to his grandmother had taken away some of the strain that had settled in his stomach - but it had also been very difficult. He'd had to admit openly, for the first time, that he did not expect his partner to come back ever again. The damage done to Chris' soul had been so severe, so painfully excessive, that Sam had finally dared to admit his hot-headed American pal was beyond salvation. It was sickening to have to say it out loud and he felt guilt surging through him still - if only he had moved faster, if only he had not allowed Chris to go after Fransen alone, if only he had used his senses when he had heard the words flour and plant, if only…

If only - if only didn't help one fuck.

Sam had lost his partner. And there was no denying it any more.

*****

What it was that eventually made him drive past the little grocery shop once again, he did not know. Maybe he wanted to pay a visit to the grey mouse in the shop once more, see the pleasure in her eyes as he paid attention to her…maybe it was the idea of trying to break through the spell that had engulfed him, he couldn't say for sure. Fact was that he took a few turns he wouldn't have normally taken and slowed down when he passed the darkened shop window. The cool wind touched his face as he opened the window.

When he turned the corner he saw a couple of dark shapes - and, to quote Chris, they didn't look like they were doing the Conga. Their struggle was obvious and Sam's hair rose when he heard the high pitched voice of a woman in terror. Without a second thought he jumped out and ran to the rescue.

Three men were dragging the cashier into a small, unlit alley that led to the private parking behind the store. The light bulbs of the street lanterns had been conveniently smashed, making it the perfect place for muggers to jump their victims. The woman who had been screaming frantically struggled and kicked to free herself from the men who were harassing her.

Just as the tallest of the dark figures was about to hit her, Sam grabbed his arm and yanked it backwards, before the mugger could attack.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," Sam said calmly. "Let her go." He kept the tone of his voice flat and neutral, rather than threatening. That was exactly what made the three men misjudge him.

"Wha' 'ave we go' 'ere?" the smallest sneered.

"'E' thinks 'e is John bloody Steed, that's wha' 'e is!" mocked number two loudly.

But the tall one, who had had a little taste of the strength of the dark headed man who was calmly facing him, chose his words a little more thoughtfully.

"He's mine," he hissed threateningly and moved his hand supply.

The woman, her eyes darkened with fear, streaks of mascara running down her face, stood pressed against the brick wall behind her. To his anger Sam saw the split lip and a small blood trace running down her chin from it. Bastards. They had already hit her once, their cowardliness hidden by the darkness of the alley. Bastards!

But the men had already almost forgotten her. The motion of the tall man had brought out a knife which glimmered dully in the ample light. Peculiar that even in bad light, that kind of steel was always visible. This guy would not surprise Sam, that much was certain.

"'Ere to rescue yer bird, 'ey?" he said menacingly and stepped closer to Sam. A quick step forwards - and Sam ducked and hit him in the stomach. Not hard - if he wanted to he could easily break this young punk's neck - but just enough to make him double over and pant for breath.

Number two was quite indecisive, but the first one who had spoken jumped forwards and aimed for Sam's head. The woman screamed with fear. But the boys - they were too young to be called men - were no match for the strong and well-trained CI5 agent. It was deceiving: an attractive man with no apparent physical strength, outnumbered by three youngsters with knifes. With a few well-placed hits he left two moaning more from shame than pain on the pavement, and the third one running for shelter. Sam picked up the knife and dropped it down a drain. Then he turned to the woman.

"It's over, don't be afraid. Come on, let's get you out of here." He gently took her elbow and led her away from the dark alley. The tall one who had pulled the knife moved to a sitting position and as Sam and the woman walked away, he shouted:

"I'm gonna get you for this! You fuckin' bastard! I'm gonna get you!"

Sam turned to the scared woman, took her trembling hands in his and held them until she appeared to calm down a bit. Now, in better light, he could see her clearer. She looked scared and upset, but he noticed that at his reassuring smile she seemed to pull herself together a bit.

In the light of his car Sam threw a closer look at the bruises on her face and the split lip. That needed some attending to.

"I'll take you home," he decided, "and then we'll see to that cut and get you something warm to drink."

"Cut?" She echoed with panic resurfacing. Her fingers moved to her mouth and when she saw the drops of blood that stuck to her fingers, she nearly lost self-control again.

"Calm down, it's not that bad." Sam immediately jumped in, trying to keep his voice soft and calm, while ushering her to his car. "What's your name? I'm Sam." He tried to release her tension. A quiver in her voice betrayed her edginess.

"Desiree Blake." She replied and nervously fiddled with a handkerchief Sam offered her.

"Miss Blake, this service is free of charge and VAT. So where can I take you?"

A careful little smile guided her answer, and her blue eyes somehow lit up. The CI5 agent felt a little satisfaction rise. The evening was turning out to be interesting after all.

*****

Sam drove Desiree Blake home and took care of the cut lip. She flinched as he touched the tender spot below it, but allowed his slender, careful fingers to tend to it.

"What did they want from you?" he asked as he disinfected the cut. "Have you ever seen them before?"

"Money from the till. I think I've seen them in the shop a few times last week … and maybe they've seen me collecting this week's proceeds and…"

"And so they were waiting for a chance to get you alone." Sam finished the sentence for her.

She nodded silently, still looking pale but the trembling of her fingers had already lessened and she bravely offered him a smile.

"I don't know how to thank you. God knows what they would have done if you…"

"Shhh. You'll get yourself all wound up again. It's over. Listen, Desiree, why don't you take a shower and freshen up a little? Meanwhile I'll make you a cup of tea and call the police to file a complaint."

Desiree nodded and disappeared into the bathroom of the tiny apartment. Sam heard the shower running and attacked the kitchen cabinets in search of tea, cups and sugar. It was obvious she'd moved in recently, as cardboard boxes were stacked in every room and the place still carried the smell of fresh paint and wall paper. She had a taste for pink, red and orange - making Sam feel like he'd stepped into a giant hollow marsh mallow. Never mind, he mused, there was a time when you ate dozens of them.

Any leftovers of his initial scepticism on account of taste vanished like snow before the sun, when Desiree reappeared from the bathroom. The grey mouse that had been so helpless had now turned into a vamp that took his breath away. The ponytail had been untied and a thick cascade of shining brown hair covered her back. She wore a bright white blouse and tight blue jeans, which revealed long legs and a slender body. She'd put on some make-up, changed ugly old-fashioned spectacles for contact lenses and as a final jewel in the crown, she'd applied a touch of an expensive perfume.

The metamorphosis was complete. He must have been staring, because her eyes widened and Desiree asked, insecure:

"Is it the bruise? I can't hide it."

Sam forgot about the cups, the tea and the sugar. He stepped over to her, put his hands around her slim waist. He brought his face close to her hair, enjoyed the sensation of femininity and whispered into her ear:

"It's not the bruise - it's the knot in my stomach that wasn't there a minute ago." Slowly, being careful not to hurt her, he kissed her. He felt her shiver, but this time it was not from fear. She answered his kiss and soon they enjoyed themselves between pink, red and orange bed linen.

*****

Malone read the report on Chris Keel, a deep frown wrinkling his forehead. He rubbed his temple, deep in thought, and then closed the folder slowly. He took off his spectacles and while wiping them with a white handkerchief, addressed the man on the other side of the table. That man was a doctor. He was still young, and a little uncomfortable under the commander's stringent looks, but not too awkward to state his professional opinion.

"This is not what I wanted to hear." Malone said slowly but not unfriendly. "Is there no way you've been able to get through to him?"

"We've tried all regular sources, except electroshock therapy. To be honest, we don't want to use that unless we really have to."

"Electroshock therapy? It seems that kind of brute force is outdated, doctor." Malone commented coolly.

"Quite so, yes. That is why I would not recommend it. Only in very aggressive cases would we choose to use such a program."

Nervously the young doctor rolled up his tie until he reached the knot below his Adam's apple, then released it from his grip and as it unravelled, began again. It irritated Malone terribly - he tried to focus on the doctor's words instead of being drawn to the pattern of red triangles on a blue background.

"I want to speak to him - see him. Now." The boss said bluntly. "I will not allow any such program to be initiated before all other means have been exploited."

More nervous fiddling with the tie - then the young doctor nodded his head and said, his voice a little quieter than usual: "Of course you can see him and talk to him. But don't expect anything back."

Clearly he had not expected Malone to answer him, as he had been speaking rhetorically, and he swallowed as the icy reply snapped back.

"I'll be the judge of that. Now, man, will you show me where I can find Mr Keel or am I wasting valuable time here?"

Keel's new home was a small, lime washed room containing a bed, table and a chair. Restraints were attached to the side of the bed, so that if the patient became aggressive or violent he could be strapped down to prevent him from attacking others or hurting himself. It seemed very inappropriate for Keel, Malone thought a little sadly.

Chris Keel sat in a wheelchair facing the landscape behind the window. Although it had been more than two weeks ago since Malone had last seen him, it felt like less than a day. He was in the same position as he had been last time, unmoved, uninterested and unaware - it was as if he hadn't moved out of the chair at all. The commander took a closer look. What was going on in that complex brain? Where was the key to open the door that seemed so tightly shut? Was there a key, was there even a door? Or was this just an impenetrable solid brick wall?

"Leave us," he said to the doctor, who was still standing behind him. Obviously, the young man's body language told Malone he was more than glad to be away from the curt, difficult man and his almost obsessive concern for a lost cause.

"Mr Keel, the doctors tell me they have tried all they can to break through your lethargy. I'm not willing to give up on you. I know you've witnessed your wife's death and an almost exact copy of that tragic event on your last assignment. There is nothing you, me or anyone else can do to bring them back."

He took the chair and sat down beside the silent American. He hoped he was able to reach through to something behind the thick, dark curtain that hung between them.

"Believe me, Mr Keel, I too, was fond of Miss Waterman. The loss is - sad. I can only begin to understand how this affects you," he sighed slowly. "I sincerely hope you can find the courage to come back. Mr Curtis is still on sick leave and frankly I don't know how he will perform when he's fit for active duty again. He's very selective when it comes to partners."

A creature of habit, he took off his glasses and held them against the light to check for stains.

"Mr Curtis is a good agent, Mr Keel. He was a loner until I teamed you up with him. You've turned out to be a top team, something which - I must admit - I had not even dared to hope for. How you got to melt that iceberg, I have no idea, but you did. You cracked that shell, which is an achievement in itself, I guarantee."

Malone stopped for an instant, trying to find the right words in this strange one-way dialogue. Had anything he'd said so far got through to Keel? Anything at all? The young man didn't even blink his eyes differently.

"You and Mr Curtis form a unique couple. Both of you work as individuals in an extraordinary way - as a team your performances so far have been outstanding. I seriously doubt Mr Curtis will stay on the force, now that you are no longer around to watch his every move."

The old man stood up and placed his hand curtly on Keel's shoulder.

"I don't know if you can hear me, Mr Keel. But your place will not be filled by anyone else - not for the time being."

Then he left the depressing atmosphere of the psychiatric ward behind him and drove back to HQ.

*****

Sam woke up between pink sheets to daylight filtered through orange and red flowers on the curtains. Next to him Desiree was still sound asleep. Their clothes, thrown randomly all over the room, were silent witnesses of the previous evening. The sex had been intense, exhausting and great.

The agent had woken up early that morning and felt more alive than he had done in ages. He smiled, knowing the adrenaline of the short fight and sex with this attractive woman had liberated his tension - and he had come to a decision. He was going to work on his shape as of today and get back on the team - the sooner, the better. He needed the rush, he needed the diversion and he realised that Sophia had been right: resigning wouldn't help Chris one bit.

Silently he slipped out of bed. He would go for a swim, train his lungs again and ask the doctors in CI5 if he could be taken off of the sicklist and join active duty again. His night with Desiree had been surprising in that way, that he had not expected to experience so much pleasure from it, after all the mental and physical trouble he'd been faced with.

But Desiree, who knew nothing of his work, his background or what was keeping him occupied, had only demanded his physical presence in bed and skipped the deeper conversations. The questions that would force him to lie to her or face everything over and over again, had not come.

It was funny, he thought as he put on his clothes, that such a grey, plain, common woman could turn into such a beauty, given some attention, time and effort. She was asleep, her hair wavering out on the pink pillows, her breasts calmly moving up and down to the rhythm of her sleep. Her features were relaxed and soothing. Sam leaned over, kissed her and left silently. It was time to work on business again. Quietly he left the apartment in the silent hours of the early morning.

*****

Backup was peering at her screen, biting her lower lip with a brooding look in her eyes. The inevitable keyboard was only an inch from her fingers - then, rapidly she began to enter commands and finally hit the enter-key. A sequence began to run, listing long numbered and alphabetised series and combining them. With a satisfied snap of her fingers, she leant back in her chair.

"Hiya, Backup!" A voice startled her. "Where are you trying to hack into this time?"

"Sam!" She jumped, then smiled at him. "You're back on the team? Or just popping in?"

"I asked for a meeting with Doctor Miller - to see if he declares me fit enough to get back into active service again. I've just about had it with the walls of my place."

"What, you're fit then?"

"Nah, not really - But Doc Miller doesn't know that, does he?" Sam whispered conspiratorially, a big grin reaching his face. Backup noticed the liveliness she'd been missing for a long time. What was this? Sam coming to terms with Chris' state?

"Chris is ..errr.. still on the sick list, though."

The young Canadian brought the subject up carefully. Even though he hid it well, she didn't miss the shadow that darkened his glance for an instant before he answered, while taking a chair.

"I know. And I know it means that I'll probably get a new partner soon. I can't keep on postponing the moment of my return. If I ever want to face the music, then now is as good a time as any."

"Have you seen Chris lately?"

"I visit him every day, but I don't see any change. Patience, my grandmother advises - Hopeless, the doctors say - indecisive, Malone thinks."

"What do you think, Sam?"

"I really don't know, Backup. I want to believe he'll be okay - I really do. More than anything in the world I want Chris well and annoying the hell out of me, but - "

Sam shrugged. Backup noticed the calm way in which he had spoken, as if he had decided to distance himself from the worries and the sorrow. Maybe that was exactly why his words and the miserable looks that he couldn't hide, were so painfully emphasising his despair.

*****

"Come on, Sam, five more. Five, four, three, two, one - don't stop! One more - and the last one. The very last one - and relax! Well done!"

Sam's chest heaved like a bellow and sure felt like one. But Bodie, his drillmaster, grinned and patted his shoulder amicably. In between pants of air Sam coughed: "You're a bastard, Bodie. You're killing me."

Bodie chuckled, checking the monitor to which Sam was connected with intricate coloured wiring.

"Not bad at all, Sam. Much improvement since you started last week. So you see: I'll leave the killing to others." He pulled the taped wires from Sam's chest and switched off the machine.

"Take a shower, Curtis - and we'll have a drink in the bar after that." Bodie directed him to the locker rooms of the gym.

Sam nodded, tired but satisfied. He swung his legs from the bench, ducked to avoid hitting his head against the butterflies and slowly got to his feet. Bodie's blue eyes met Sam's green ones and to the drillmaster's dismay, he saw the young agent stagger and lose focus. He grabbed him by the arms before he could pass out.

"Ho Sam! Easy!" his voice was deep with concern. But then Sam slowly looked up at him and made no effort to hide an amused smile that curled around his lips. Suddenly he didn't look faint at all.

"Curtis: one. Bodie: zero."

"What?"

"I fooled you, Bodie. And you bought it - big time!" came Sam's triumphant voice. From deep down inside Bodie let out the air he had unnoticeably been holding.

"Sam! Goddamnit! You scared the hell out of me!"

Sam wiped his face with a towel and ducked just in time to miss the wet sponge Bodie threw at him.

"You've been working too much with that crazy American friend of yours. He's rubbing his practical jokes off on you."

"Let's go, Bodie. I'll buy you some of the brew you call orange juice." Sam said and grabbed his things together. He looked expectantly at Bodie, who felt relieved and didn't care that it showed.

"You go ahead, Sam - I'll be right over," said the man, watching Curtis leave. Harry Malone's orders had been two-sided: to determine Sam Curtis' physical and mental state. Bodie went to his small office, sat down behind his desk and opened a file on his protege. The physical part was good, quickly heading for excellent. And judging from the way he reacted to Bodie's last remark, he seemed able to deal with his partner's condition as well. He made a few notes on the progress, scribbled some reminders in the margin and left to join Sam for a drink at the bar. He was well aware that his 'casual' words about Chris must have sounded pretty inconsiderate to the youngster. But his comments on Sam's condition would be kinder: good, going on very good - soon he'd be completely fit again. He knew he'd do Sam a big favour declaring him fit for duty. As far as he was concerned, Sam could be up and about in a few days, and he was sure to inform Malone about it.

He found Sam installed behind a large sports drink at a corner table, talking to a well-known curly headed man in a dark suit.

"What this, boys?" Bodie remarked cheerfully. "A reunion of the cave explorers?" He chuckled, pleased with the pun, got himself a drink and took a seat next to the others.

"'lo Bodie."

"Ray. What's with the suit?"

"Had to attend a funeral this morning"

"Anybody I've heard of?"

"Nah." Doyle waved his hand dismissively. "Case of Noblesse oblige. Thought I'd drop in and check on your instant juice machine." He took a sip, glanced with a sour look at the contents of the glass and then grinned at Bodie's flat face.

"It's like an angel flying over my tongue - really Bodie. I was just talking to Sam here." He tilted his glass in Sam's direction.

"Don't believe him when he says I push him to hard." Bodie saw the sparks in Sam's eyes and decided the young man could handle his teasing well.

"Just told Ray about the Fransen-assignment," Sam explained, "and how Miller and Malone had come up with the idea to put me into Satan's care once again."

Bodie nearly choked on his drink. He smacked the plastic bottle on the table.

"I've been called a lot of things in my life - but never referred to as 'Satan'." Doyle laughed, enjoying the merriment between the two. He added his share.

"Nah, you're like a soft cuddly toy - you are. A regular executioner, Bodie. If Sam here calls you Satan, I believe him - instantly."

Sam could not hide his amusement, drank calmly and stated in conversational tone: "Curtis: two. Bodie: zero."

Bodie raised his hands in surrender. Then Doyle said, studying the face of the CI5-man who sat opposite of him:

"What's going to happen to young Chris?"

"I don't know." Sam spoke slowly, some automatism filtered out the heavy load of his words. "I really don't know."

Involuntarily all three thought back to a period in Spain - if it hadn't been for Chris' determination back then, none of the three would be sitting here today. It seemed unfair - very unfair that this was happening to the American. Bodie broke the silence.

"Sam, Ray, why don't you come over to my place this evening? We could get a couple of beers and get stone drunk. I promise, won't tell Malone if you don't."

Sam's green eyes regained their silver spark as he declined with a broad grin.

"Thanks, but no thanks. I have a date tonight."

"Aha. She very attractive?" Doyle informed, pleased to see a healthy interest for female company in the face of the dark headed man.

"Very!" Sam answered, satisfied with the look of curiosity that was written all over Bodie's face.

*****

Over the next three weeks, Sam saw Desiree frequently. They went to the movies, enjoyed romantic dinners in fancy restaurants and had great sex. Sam helped her sort out the boxes in her apartment, attached shelves to the walls, drilled holes to hang up paintings and assembled new furniture. Miller, the staff doctor, had decided he was not fit for duty when he'd visited HQ, and much to his annoyance Malone had listened to the medic and refused his return. But when Sam was told he could attend a fitness program in Bodie's gym, his mood took a turn for the better - he'd been there before and had enjoyed both the excellent training and the company.

Three more weeks on sick leave wasn't so bad after all, he mused contentedly as he stroked Desiree's bare back. It certainly gave him time to enjoy the simple pleasures of life.

The telephone call that came a few days later put an end to the idyll. It was Malone, asking him to come over to HQ as soon as possible. His help was required. Immediately, without hesitation, Sam had stepped out of bed and taken a quick shower. Desiree sat on the bedside when he came out of the bathroom, a questioning look on her face.

"Got to go," was the only thing Sam said.

"Go? Where to? You promised to help me with the books!" Desiree pouted.

"Summoned to work, angel. Financial bankruptcy-crisis. So I must be off." The agent hid conveniently behind his alias of tax consultant, as the need for secrecy in his line of work was obligatory.

"But you're on sick leave! Recovering from pneumonia!" Desiree sounded both annoyed and disappointed.

"That has just been cancelled, as of today. I'm declared a hundred percent fit." Sam threw the towel on the bed, stepped into jockeys and pants and sat down to put his socks and shoes on.

"You still haven't told me where you got all those scars, Sam?" Desiree asked with a tempting feminine touch in her voice. She'd asked him before but he had deliberately remained vague about it and managed to avoid further questions. She ran a finger over one of the scars on his bare back. Then she suddenly sat up and pushed her breasts against his skin. He could feel her nipples as her warm arms wrapped around his naked upper body.

"Stay here, Sam. Don't go, they'll still have that crisis this afternoon," she pleaded.

He had to fight the tantalising feeling that pleasantly crawled up his spine, but patted her arms and tried to release himself from her grip.

"No can do, Desiree, sorry."

"First tell me about the scars," she demanded.

"There's not much to tell. I was a wild child, that's all."

"It's very heroic," she said admiringly. He took hold of her arms and turned to her, surprised at her last words.

"There's nothing heroic in being hurt," he said softly and pulled her arms away gently. "I've got to go."

*****

The briefing had been as clear as it had been short: assist MI6 with the surveillance and tail of a mercenary terrorist by the name of Edgar.

"Edgar is the only name he's known to use. There have been several aliases suggested, but none confirmed. Edgar offers his services for astronomically high fees to the highest bidder. He has no loyalties but his own bank account and is completely unscrupulous." The MI6 officer handed the team several blurry photographs. "Unfortunately the photos are too old to be accurate, eleven years to be more precise. God only knows how much he has changed during the years." He continued: "A parallel between Edgar and Carlos, the terrorist who managed to escape law enforcement for so long, has been noted. I'd say that could account for a lot of expertise on the man's skills: shooting, fighting, marital arts, explosives, the ability to make himself invisible, his unpredictability, etc. But unlike Carlos, he works with errand boys."

The MI6 man turned to the whiteboard and used magnets to hang an enlarged crime scene photo to it. The body of a teenager, shot through the head, had been found in a garbage container and the picture was sickeningly graphic. "This was one of the youngsters Edgar used. He pays them well to do his dirty work."

"And when they don't obey, he pops them," Sam concluded.

Malone raised a questioning brow to the Englishman using the term "popping" but kept shut.

"No," the MI6 man said laconically. "He kills them no matter what."

"Some gentleman we're talking here," Backup said, her face hidden behind the steam of the coffee.

"We think he searches for teenagers who are easily influenced - junkies, homeless, runaways etc, and after he's sent them on a job, he finishes them off to wipe away any evidence. He's a master in virtually every kind of torture - these kids don't die peacefully."

"Mmm," said Richards, taking his feet from the desk. Everyone knew he did it to annoy Malone, who withheld comment for the sake of peace - and the incredible skills of this computer genius. "Sounds like fun."

The MI6 man must have recognised some of the bravado he saw daily in his own team. It was a well-known attitude to deal with the horrors of this unusual line of work.

"I can assure you this man represents no such thing as fun, sir. He's a bastard - rape, torture, murder - it's his way of living, just like you and I have three meals a day." Malone, behind him, nodded in silent agreement. He might have chosen different words, but the message was the same. The MI6 officer paced the briefing room slowly while addressing the men and women in the room.

"We have received inside information that tonight - maybe tomorrow - Edgar may have dinner in a restaurant called "Hardey's". What we need from CI5 is a team that can act as a couple there, keeping an eye on him for us. If, indeed, he does show up, we want to apprehend him. But the restaurant is usually rather crowded - we don't want to risk a shooting and can only perform an arrest outside."

He pointed out a few places on a drawing that was attached to the white board.

"The exits, roof and the provision cellar are covered."

"So you want us inside?" asked Spencer. "Don't you have enough men?"

The MI6 man shook his head in denial.

"It is not a matter of enough men."

Sam whispered behind his hand to Backup: "It is a matter of quality, not quantity that counts."

Backup suppressed a giggle. CI5 somehow always doubted the competence of this party and today was no exception.

"Something you want to share with us, Mr Curtis?" came Malone's disapproving voice through the briefing room.

"I was wondering the same, sir," Sam lied without even feeling ashamed.

It was impossible to tell if the MI6 man had noticed the wink and he could not see Richards, who had pulled up the mask of Pure Innocence. Sam pinched his own upper leg not to start laughing. Malone took over from the MI6 man.

"Edgar is on the 'Most Wanted' list of CI5 too. He killed a high American official named Sloan ten years ago. Sloan, on business in England, was placed under CI5 protection and Edgar assassinated him and two CI5-agents. But we lost track of him. Since he's emerged, I want to make damn sure we catch him this time."

The bearded man next to Malone nodded.

"Problem with Edgar is his unpredictability - and his eerie habit of remembering faces. We need fresh looks, so to speak."

"Fresh blood," mumbled Backup and felt Sam kicking the legs of her chair.

"I want Mr Curtis and Miss Backus to form a couple. Reservations for a table for two have already been made. Mr. Spencer - you'll work as a waiter; Mr. Richards, you'll be assigned to watch the rest rooms."

Malone had his little share of vengeance. Richards' face, however, remained expressionless, and, while calmly producing a big Havana cigar from his breast pocket, he said: "As I said - sounds like fun."

*****

Backup opened the door to Sam, who was struck by her appearance. She was a beautiful woman, exotic with her almond shaped eyes and dark hair - but once again he was taken aback by the display of female refinement.

"Miss Backus! You're date has arrived. Would you do me the honour of accompanying me to dinner?" To add some juice to his words, he bowed deeply before handing her a single white orchid.

Her face showed her surprise and she smiled, answering him: "You don't look so bad yourself Sam. The tuxedo sure does wonders to the male body." She glanced approvingly at his dark blue suit that almost seemed handmade, it was cut so perfectly.

"I haven't heard an answer yet?" Sam teased insistently.

She laughed quietly and let him in.

"Yes, Sam, yes, I would very much like to go out to dinner with you. But - help me with the mike first, will you?"

Backup was wearing a satin dark blue dress that perfectly fitted her slender posture. Large earrings and a matching necklace completed the picture of a woman out on a date. No one would expect the jewellery to be hosting highly sophisticated transmitting and receiving equipment.

Sam's gear was conveniently hidden under the lapel of his blazer. They checked everything twice; the ear receivers would be provided by MI6 but they used their own gear as well.

After some adjustments Spencer's voice reached them, crystal clear: "Sam, Backup, receiving you loud and clear. Proceed to the rendezvous to pick up the ear mikes. Over."

Sam answered slowly and softly, testing the equipment's efficiency. "Roger, copy that. 3.7 and 5.3 out."

During the ride they went over the last details. Reports on Edgar, reports on the persons he would be dining with. The necessity to avoid all contact was highlighted in yellow marker lines all through the report.

After the instalment of the earpieces, frequency settings with the MI6-team got fine tuned and after the last tests the team went to "Hardey's", a five-star top class establishment. A few MI6-members had taken their positions hours ago, but their voices sounded fit and alert as one after the other checked in.

One of the waiters showed Sam and Backup to a table, strategically reserved in advance. Sam could see the entire room, while Backup, opposite him, faced a huge mirror and had a good view of the tables behind her, whilst remaining almost invisible to the guests.

Edgar had not yet arrived - the waiting had begun.

*****

The man with the neatly cut, short curly hair and the emerald green eyes watched the silent and motionless man in the chair opposite of him.

Doyle was upset.

He'd been genuinely shocked when confronted with the man he came to visit. Was this the same, humorous, lively man he had seen last year - the young agent he owed his life to?

Saddened, he pulled a chair closer to Keel's and sat down. The nurse had warned him about outbursts of rage, very sudden and aggressive even, but with one look Doyle had stopped her from continuing. "'allo, Chris. Remember the last time we met? At the gym? Never expected to find you in a place like this. What happened, Chris? Did you have too much of a good thing?" Doyle tried to let his voice sound cheerful, but it was damn hard and depressing to keep the charade up.

*

*

"Sam was at the gym, just the other day. He told me what had happened - that you lost two women you cared for very much. I'm sorry. I don't know what to say. Words aren't enough to offer comfort."

Doyle sighed. There was nothing he could say that could console someone who had suffered such a loss. Secretly he had hoped for some kind of recognition, but his hopes were in vain. Nothing changed, the blue eyes stared, slow blinking was the only movement in the still and motionless face.

"Sam's back at work. The Doctor declared him fit for duty after he'd been working out at Bodie's gym. But between you and me, I think he would be feeling a lot better if you would be there to watch his back."

*

Sam. He's talking about Sam. I remember that name. And Bodie - that rings a bell too. Sam… Wasn't he someone I work with? There it is again, the darkness. Go away, let me go…go…

*

Doyle found himself almost hypnotised by the gaze in those eyes. It was hard to imagine that this silent figure was the same energetic personality he had met before. Suddenly he wondered what he was doing here. He got to his feet and brought his face close to that of the American.

"Come back, Chris. You lost your wife and your girlfriend, but Sam lost a friend too."

He pinched Chris' shoulder.

*

Are you leaving? Don't go away. Why? Talk to me. Help me to escape from this void. Please. Don't go.

*

"Must be off." Doyle hesitated. This got to him more than he wanted to admit. "Life's not a bad place, you know," he mumbled, quite uncharacteristically and left Chris Keel alone, motionless in the chair.

Once outside Doyle took a deep breath of air. He shook his head to chase the blues away, quickly took the stairs and stepped into an old battered Ford Capri. The roaring engine however, proved the car to be just as lively as the driver.

*****

About 45 minutes after Sam and Backup had taken their positions, a voice tickled inside Sam's ear.

"Stand by, blue team. Subject spotted on the parking lot. Arrival by taxi."

Blue team, that was them. Sam kicked Backup's foot lightly. The almost unnoticeable movement of her head acknowledged she'd picked it up too. She fell into her roll of 'young and in love' very smoothly and convincingly. She touched Sam's hand and left her fingers entangled in his. On light conversational tone she reported:

"Subject spotted, entering front door, right." Sam could see him now.

"A broad shouldered man, dark blond hair with slight curls, a darker moustache and heavy dark eyebrows."

Sam could not determine the colour of his eyes, for Edgar was too far away to see it and they were more or less concealed by a pair of wire spectacles.

Spencer stepped over to him, convincing as the restaurant's host and showed him to a table, less than seven feet from Sam and Backup's table. Backup moved closer to Sam, touched his chin tenderly and said sweet nothings to him. He answered her dutifully, the attractive woman obviously the sole subject of his interest, but with a sixth sense he focussed on the blond man who moved to the other side of the diner. He was unable to see Edgar's face but didn't miss the tension in the body that hadn't been there a minute ago.

Something's wrong, a voice inside Sam warned him. He's too hesitant.

Spencer, a friendly smile pasted to his face, waited patiently for Edgar to sit down, but the man looked absentminded and said after what seemed like an eternity, while lightly pressing his hand to his stomach: "You must excuse me for a minute. Could you please serve me some mineral water?" He made a face as if something was bothering him and made for the men's room.

Backup talked cheerfully, lightly, her eyes on Sam but her mind on the blond man. Her talking went seamlessly from a holiday resort for newly weds to Edgar's movements.

"Subject heading for the men's room."

"That's covered, 5.3."

"Who's watching that?" Backup kept her eyes on the doors that led to the restrooms, preceded by a marble staircase.

"That would be 2.9. Over."

Robert Johns - agent 2.9, Backup knew and instantly switched over to him.

"5.7 to 2.9. Come in."

"2.9 here. All's clear. Over."

"2.9, subject heading your way. Do you have a positive ID? Over." Backup knew, she felt in her bones that something was wrong.

"Negative. I repeat: that's a negative."

"Blue leader to all units," the voice from the MI6-officer took over. "Status report on positive ID of subject?"

No-one reported in, no-one had seen him from the moment Edgar took off for the men's room.

Sam and Backup had to fight the urge to jump up and run for the restrooms in search for the criminal. That would blow away their cover instantly and despite all, the agents still kept their guard.

Backup pushed her chair back and said to Sam: "Will you excuse me, darling? I have to powder my nose."

She kissed the air next to Sam's temple and headed for the restrooms. Three women, all dressed in fancy evening gowns, passed her, leaving the air enriched with their expensive perfume. Backup saw Richards peering around the corner when she reached the swing doors - he had been standing completely out of sight, very well hidden but with a perfect view of the entire area.

The Canadian woman met his confused face - where the devil had Edgar gone off to?

She stepped into the ladies room, which was empty. Quickly and professionally, gun ready, she checked the toilets. Nothing.

"5.3 to Blue Team. No trace of subject in Alpha restroom."

Almost instantly the voice of Richards followed hers:"8.4 to Blue Team. Negative in Beta restroom."

The perfume that had prickled her nose set Backup's mind to work. It was there, in the Ladies room, but not the Nina Ricci. She had been able to distinguish it so sharply when she'd brushed past the women. She stepped back into the corridor - the scent being stronger there. Her dark eyes absorbed the hallway in seconds. A feeling flashed up and without hesitation she signalled to Robert Johns.

Opposite the Ladies room was a small niche, where a replica of the Venus of Milo was displayed on a pedestal of approximately three feet high. Backup quickly stepped over to the niche and felt with one hand behind the statue and the pedestal. Her fingers touched something soft and fuzzy and even before she pulled it out she knew what it was: a wig.

"Fuck! He was wearing a wig!" Johns cursed. The door next to the restrooms led to a narrow broom closet, almost too limited a space to stand in. But the scent of the Nina Ricci perfume was so strong that it left no room for doubt: he had been in here and somehow changed in seconds. Backup rushed to alarm the team.

"5.3 to all units. Suspect is dressed as a woman. I repeat: dressed as a woman. Apprehend the three women who just left the restrooms."

Sam had seen the three ladies chatting happily when they had come out of the restrooms and descended the marble stairs. They had been tall, slim and attractive women, dressed in chic garments to match the occasion. He could not see their faces as they came down the other way of the stairs and only saw their backs. All three women had long, shining hair and wore gowns that brought out the best of their figure. When Backup called the warning, Sam had sensed it even before she was finished: the one to the right was Edgar. He watched them in the mirror - two of the three women had taken their seats again among a group of equally tall, skinny women: models. Very clever, Sam thought with biting sarcasm. Edgar had chosen a place where his height would go unnoticed - in between a model party.

The women began to sing, clearly for a birthday or some kind of similar celebration and they all rose and began cheering and applauding.

"Shit!" Sam swore below his breath - the standing women took his view of all the exits away. Then, in a flash, he saw the long dark hair he'd seen on the stairs.

"3.7 to all units. Subject is leaving the restaurant - entrance two."

Silence - no reply whatsoever.

Sam tried again and saw the wiring of his transmitter hanging loosely from behind his lapel. Damn! Bloody MI6 material!

He had no time to lose. The Englishman jumped up, his chair tumbling to the carpet, and pushed his way through the exited bunch of models, who were busy with champagne and glasses and angrily eyed at him as he unceremoniously elbowed his way through.

The lights and the cosy atmosphere stopped abruptly when Sam took a careful step into the cool evening air, gun risen, senses on full alert. He stood very still, pressed against the wall and listened to the sounds around him. A cat meowing, a motor cycle in the distance and - moving away from him, footsteps.

He began to move, quickly, to where he heard the shifting feet. Then a flash and a blow and he hit the sidewalk. He felt a sharp pain in his ribs when he got came contact with a steel-enhanced shoe point - luckily his reflexes made him draw back and that way avoid an even worse injury.

"Blue two to all units. We have apprehended a suspect." Sam clawed his way from underneath their feet, managed to free his face from their tightening grip and spat:

"Get your hands off of me, you idiots! I'm with CI5! Get off of me!"

Backup came running out, followed by Richards and Spencer. She snapped a sharp comment to the MI6 men who had the grace to look ashamed, while Richards picked Sam up from the pavement.

"You okay, Sam?"

"No, I'm not!" The Englishman's green eyes sparked with anger. "That stupid manoeuvre just ruined our only chance to get Edgar. Assholes!"

And while CI5 and MI6 were arguing about bad equipment and the matter of errors and mistakes, the terrorist disappeared into the quiet of the evening.

*

Sam. Who was Sam again? Where is he? I remember a man, remarkable skills he had - think he was my friend or colleague. Anal retentive bloke. Did I actually say that? I recall trusting him. Somebody worth while. I still can't see the face that should come with the name. I'm tired. Thinking tires me - it brings the quicksand back.

*

After the fiasco at the restaurant, things had to be evaluated at HQ. Malone was furious and in a terrible mood. He had listened with ill-concealed anger to the various views on the case.

"Poor material. Wrong information. A total cock-up. I expect a full report on my desk tomorrow morning at 9.00 o'clock from everyone. Those incompetent fools at MI6! I should have known better than to assist them! Dismissed!"

He bellowed the last command and the agents present quickly left, glad to be away from the wrath of Sunray. Even before the last operative had left, he had pulled the phone towards him, hit the buttons with curt impatient movements and barked at the liaison officer on the other side of the line. Through the door that Backup had closed behind her, the people in the office could still hear him talking loudly and furiously with the unknown MI6 commander. Backup knew about her boss' impatient nature from experience and judging by the frown on his face, he was up for a nasty confrontation - she was glad she hadn't been asked to stay and witness that.

Sam sat behind the computer and was searching the records.

"What are you doing, Sam? Looking for something in particular?"

"Mmm. I want to know more about Edgar. He intrigues me." The dark hair shone in the dull light of the ceiling armatures and below that, the features in the gentle face were deeply etched in pure concentration. He fell quiet as computer files displayed with cases and information on the terrorist. Backup pulled a chair closer and sat down next to Sam.

"A lot of this is classified material and you won't be able to get in." She warned him, talking slowly and choosing her words with care, cautiously trying not to disturb Sam's line of thinking. "Secret Service? Scotland Yard?"

Sam stayed quiet and scrolled slowly through the information that appeared on screen. Backup took over and typed in a few rapid commands. She pointed at the screen with a scarlet enamelled nail, remains of the dinner appearance she'd made. "These entries are recent and come from sources outside HQ - and from the looks of it he did it personally and single handed."

"So Malone drew information about him from other resources, without anyone inside CI5 knowing. There's your 'need to know' basis," Sam grumbled. "Edgar must be a big fish."

Richards came in, yawning extensively but when he saw the two agents bending over the Edgar files, he was alert right away.

"Intriguing, isn't it?" He perched on a corner of the desk and continued, his voice casual as ever, but the air of conspiracy was not completely covered by it.

"Between us, Malone asked me to dig up everything I could find on Edgar. But he's a strange bugger, this Edgar-person: there's nothing conclusive about him. Nationality, date and place of birth, social security numbers, bank accounts, personal data - it's one big black hole. Everything I've come up with so far gets mixed up with more contradictory data."

He scratched behind one of his ears and then moved over to his own terminal.

"I should have something additional coming in any minute now. Let's see what my connections have come up with so far."

His last words were barely audible as he forgot everything around him and his entire concentration focussed on new information. Richards was in his element between bits and bytes - he needed nothing else. Backup and Sam watched him as the computer genius sat down and began to browse through files. They waited patiently for him to reveal news.

*****

"Hello Chris. Do you remember me? I'm Sophia, Sam's grandmother." Slowly the old lady strolled through the room and then around the man in the wheelchair, who did not seem to have noticed her presence.

"You had a preference for my home made burgers. Remember the chips I made for you and Sam?"

She stopped behind Chris and put her hands on his head. She began to stroke his head, lowered her hands to his neck and his shoulders. She kept repeating the movement, turning it into a relaxing, soothing massage.

"They tell me you don't feel or hear this - but I don't believe that, my dear. Would you normally reject a massage? Would you not be aware of it even in your sleep? Maybe not consciously - but it seems unlikely you wouldn't notice anything whatsoever."

The gentle touch continued. Sophia's kind and tender face was serene - and somehow the atmosphere in the room seemed different.

"I'm here on completely selfish grounds, I must admit. My grandson is waiting for you. And as his grandmother I want to see him grow old and have children one day. It seems that up till now you've been the one who prevented him from getting killed."

She stopped the talking and the stroking and took a comb from her purse. She combed Chris' short, but still too long hair, and put the comb away again, looking unsatisfied. "You hair is too long. You should have it spiky - that suits you," she said softly. "Next time I'll bring a pair of scissors and give you a proper haircut."

*****

Sam was too steamed up to just go home and sleep. Adrenaline still controlled his movements. His mind drifted to the warm long legs of Desiree - the prospect seemed appealing but he knew he needed to unwind with his colleagues first. Talk about what happened - or not talk about it, that was sometimes a good way to deal with it. Backup would be needing the same therapeutic comfort and maybe Spence would join them for a drink too. And he could ask Chris if -

His mind halted him. Chris - the poor bloke. Chris wasn't on the team. His partner, always cheerful and with the right amount of perspective to have his rush diminished to normal proportions, wasn't there. And damn! It still hurt to admit how much he missed the crazy fool. It was an even bigger shock to find that he was still thinking about his partner so inadvertently. Sam thought he had that covered, the control-freak in him able to cope, and now - damn! That daft American had crawled back into his thoughts and made him feel off balance once again, and with a stunning intensity.

Wryly Sam ran a hand through his soft hair. I must stop this, he thought, or people will start to think I have a liking for the same gender.

Suddenly he chuckled, Chris' face appearing before his mind's eye. Chris would have knocked him out cold if he would have said that out loud. His American colleague had a healthy interest in the opposite sex and would shudder at the mere thought. Come to think of it - so do I, Sam thought. Suddenly Desiree's supple sun-tanned legs were a lovely prospect.

Most outsiders could not understand partnerships like these. Sam had always been a loner, even Backup's skills had not been enough to make him feel he could rely on her; but when he had been teamed up with the short tempered man from the States, he finally found his match. When the heat was on, there was only one man Sam had learned to trust with his life: Chris Keel. Next to their professional capacities they also got along nicely in life outside the bureau - but then again, no agent really had much of a social life. The necessity of being on stand-by 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, was something most people found difficult to live with. That, combined with the fact that agents lived on the edge, that they were constantly mocking death and occasionally the latter took his chances and got even with one of them, made it hard to keep dates longer than just the occasional outing.

Maybe that was why the CI5 community was so tight, so close. And perhaps that too was the reason that once a friendship had rooted in that turbulent world, the people involved hung on to it like a drowning person to a life buoy.

The pub was noisy, stuffy and crowded. But the atmosphere was pleasant, the world of terrorism appearing non-existent. The case was no longer discussed - only the inevitable jokes about MI6 swung back and forth amongst the CI5 group. Backup had swapped the party dress into something more comfortable. Spencer's waiter's uniform had disappeared and he was also back in his usual clothes. Richards chewed a cigar and drank cognac from a big glass. Johns, Mayell, Gearman and Ham had joined them and the rush that had been running through their veins began to evade - partly due to the amount of alcohol, partly because the surroundings were the perfect outlet for their feelings.

"I did like the way you were dressed, Backup," Sam said. "Shows an entirely different side of you."

Backup smiled, and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. The jewellery with the mikes had been taken off as well, their contents sent to the lab for further analysis.

"Hate to disappoint you Sam, but I don't intend on wearing that on a daily basis. Maybe if you put on that suit more often…"

"If that's all it takes to make you dress up the way you did…" Sam retaliated with a smile.

"Uh-uh. No way - I didn't say that."

"Backup - the world has lost an exquisite model in you. I, however, did share the pleasure of witnessing that astonishing beauty, so tell me - how will you stop me from telling this to the world?"

"Shut up, Sam. You've been drinking too much." Backup giggled, not entirely unsusceptible to the compliments. The alcohol was obviously having an effect on her as well.

The evening and early hours of the night were spent like that, banter going on and on and the tension and disappointment of the earlier events were dealt with accordingly. When the bartender announced closing time, Sam offered Backup his arm.

"Come ye fair maiden. Lemme escort you home."

"I don't think so. You're even more pissed than I am." Backup hiccuped.

"Then we'll order a taxi. Kill two birds with one stone."

Backup agreed and the two of them took a taxi home. Sam was the first to get out, as his place was the first one they reached. He got out unsteadily, bent over through the opened window and kissed her on the cheek.

"G'night, Backup. I wasn't kidding, y'know." His voice slurred a little. "You're a lady."

Backup kissed him back.

"And you're drunk. G'night, Sammie-boy." Her voice was as muffled as his was. "D'you think you can find the keyhole? Or need a hand?"

"My, my, Backup. What are you implying?"

"That you're drunk as a skunk. But then again - so am I." She looked a little cross-eyed at him. He found her delightful.

"Hey - why don't you come in for a coffee? Otherwise we'll both be hungover tomorrow."

She giggled. "Hungover? I don't think so."

"You betcha. Come on, out. I make good coffee."

She hesitated, then paid the taxi driver.

"Alright, but don't get any wild ideas, Cam Surtis. I mean Sam Curtis."

The taxi driver laughed loudly as the two of them set off to climb the little set of steps that lead to Sam's apartment. He honked the horn once as a curt greeting and vanished as Sam and Backup struggled with the key.

They did not see the person on the other side of the street, hidden in the shadows of the opposite building.

*****

Sophia bumped into a curly headed, middle-aged man with a remarkably slender posture and piercing green eyes. He smiled, a chipped tooth showing and apologised as she wanted to get in and he wanted to go out and they encircled each other like dancers doing a Paso Doble.

Sophia had made a promise to herself and Chris Keel - she'd be there every day, until he was shaken from his lethargy and got his feet back on the ground again. She would guide him, help him and bring him home. Somehow she felt that to be her vocation now - for Chris, for the people he worked with, for Sam and for herself. It seemed so unjust that this bubbling personality was trapped inside his own troubled world. And if it was going to take her every day for the rest of her life, she would get him out.

Chris sat in front of the window, his back turned to the door. A scent of fresh air hung around him and the old lady realised someone must have taken him out for a stroll in the small park.

*

The hands - they're back. I love that feeling - there's magic in that touch. She is so kind to me, the grandmother of my most loyal visitor. Sam - one uptight bugger, for sure. He should relax a little more - stiff Brit. He shouldn't be worried about me, watch his own back.
My memory has finally decided to co-operate. There have been more visitors - Malone. My boss. Ray Doyle and Bodie too. Fanny? Was she here? Fanny? - Fanny? Teresa? God, help me, Sophia! Get me out!

*

Sophia froze as she thought she could feel tension in Chris' shoulders. Had it been her imagination? She wanted him to react so much. Had she seen things that weren't there? Or had the man with the blue eyes and the flat look shown the first signs of liveliness at last?

"Chris? Chris, come home. We've been waiting for you for so long. Let go of the past." Sophia spoke quietly and then as she had done for the past weeks at the end of every visit she planted a kiss on his forehead.

"I'll be back tomorrow, my dear," she whispered, took her coat and left.

When she closed the door behind her and turned around she was suddenly facing a tall, broad shouldered man with the most incredible blue eyes. Obviously he thought he'd startled her but when she gestured away his concern, a smile turned his somewhat brooding appearance into one of boyish charm.

"You wouldn't happen to be related to young Sam Curtis now, would you ma'am?" he asked to her surprise. When she smiled, he apparently saw he had hit the nail on its head.

"It's the eyes, ma'am," he said politely. Sophia nodded and asked if he was going to pay a visit to the man in room 24.

"Yes ma'am. It's not fair to see a young bloke like that. He should be up and about. He should be …er.." he ran a hand through dark grey-streaked hair and thought of a word that would describe how he could put it correctly.

"…bouncing." Sophia's voice and his came simultaneously. A short exchange of mutual understanding, then the man nodded and each went his own way. Both persons were unaware of the little smile that enlightened their faces. Their description of Chris as 'bouncing' showed how much they wanted him back and how deeply they cared.

*****

The day that followed the screw-up at the restaurant was a bit of an anti-climax. Malone had driven off to a meeting with MI6 and the Prime Minister after that, Backup had accompanied him north and Richards was deeply concentrating, working on his new and latest software. Sam found a note from Backup on his table that provided him with new information on Edgar. He let his mind run over the things that had happened but this time in random order and more freely. The way Chris would think about a case, it occurred to him. It was obvious - Edgar had smelled the fuse burning and before they could do anything, he'd backed out. Who had he recognised? The MI6-team had not been around - at least not in the restaurant itself. He couldn't have known any of the faces of CI5 as this had been the first time any of them had worked on his case. Or was it the other way around? Did Edgar have detailed information on agents such as Curtis, Backup, Spencer and so? Was there a mole inside MI6, giving away vital information to Edgar?

A strange thought pushed itself to the front over and over again: a different point of view.

What if - Sam hardly dared thinking that way - what if Malone was the centre point around which everything evolved? Malone was never too keen on working with MI6. Yet he had agreed to co-operate on a surveillance task, which would hardly have been worthwhile in normal circumstances.

So, Sam thought, as he picked up a pencil and absentmindedly drew pentagrams on the back of an envelope, why did Malone agree to it? He knew the old fox was the first one to quote the First Rule, and taking that into consideration it would have to be connected to work rather than something in the personal sphere.

On a hunch, Sam exited the files and opened Malone's records. Of course, access was denied, Sam knew that in advance. He addressed Richards, who was somewhere in another dimension of bits and bytes.

"Hey Rich - I need to see Malone's records," Sam whispered, knowing he was trespassing and violating every rule here.

"Hm? Wha'?"

"Get me in, will you?" Sam pleaded. Richards' face was a mask of disinterest. "Come on, Rich - d'you want me to beg?"

Slowly Richards turned his chair around and punched a few buttons.

"Sorry, Curtis, no can do. You know he'll skin me alive if he finds out," he said calmly.

"Rich!" Sam hissed, knowing he had to push his colleague to persuade him. "There is more to this than just Edgar's escape. I nearly had a skull fracture from those MI6-idiots and Malone just keeps me on a 'need-to-know'basis?"

He took a deep breath, noticing the interest that had risen in the other man's dark eyes, and he knew he had touched upon a string there. Richards was a hardened CI5-operative and a clever computer man, but he had a soft spot for colleagues getting hurt. Sam knew he wasn't playing completely fair, but screw fair play now, he thought.

"Next time one of us might not be so lucky. What if the old fox is running straight into some set-up? What if we were framed by MI6 with this?"

Rich chewed a cigar, his mind like a pendulum swinging from loyalty to his boss on one side to his colleague on the other, then abruptly swung back to his own terminal again. He kept his eyes on the screen as he spoke, while his fingers flew over the keys. "You're skating on thin ice, Curtis. I tried the same yesterday evening - we've been thinking along the same line. Malone's files are shut tight. I'm risking my job hacking into them."

Sam felt disappointment stirring inside. For a minute there, he seemed to have Richards on his side. Angrily he turned away to face his own screen, where, to his surprise, he saw words that the computer genius just sent over to his terminal.

Sam chuckled. Richards - you brilliant son of a bitch, he thought, allowing the wicked smile to stretch out over his face.

"Thanks Rich," he mumbled and grimly set himself to a new task: find the link between Edgar, Malone and the names on the shred of paper he held in his hands.

*

Teresa. Fanny. Teresa. Fanny. Teresa. Fanny. Teresa. Fanny - Sam! Help me!

*

Malone was quiet and deeply mixed up in his own thoughts. He stared out the window into the darkness of the night and even to Backup, who had witnessed her boss in many different moods, this was a new one. She tried to come up with a word that described it, but came no further than 'worriedly occupied'. Whatever he had on his mind, he seemed to be uncharacteristically fretting over it. Backup had often seen his moods change but this time was different. Instead of his usual outbursts of commands that would follow a period of reflecting and planning, he kept silent. No impatient remarks, no curt comments or orders - nothing. He was too occupied, Backup wisely decided, to be disturbed. So, while Landall, the driver, chauffeured them back to London, Backup turned her attention to her laptop computer and used the time to catch up on work she'd still had waiting to be processed.

All of a sudden Landall screamed a warning and yanked at the wheel. The tires screeched, leaving hot and stinking rubber streaks on the tarmac; the car went into a wild spin, bounced wildly up the kerb and, though Landall was an excellent driver, came to a full stop against an electricity boot. The front side of the car crumpled up like a harmonica. Two men jumped out of an old Ford and ran to the inconspicuous Vauxhall. It was too dark to see the muggers - only bright flashes from their guns lit up in the darkness of the evening. A few short bursts and then they jumped into their car again and drove off with screaming tyres.

Somebody in the distance began to scream. The voice seemed to come from a nearby home.

"Call an ambulance! Call the police!" In the car wreckage, Malone moaned. The bullets had missed him by an inch, but Landall was dead. His head was splattered in a bloody mess against the window screen. The CI5 commander tried to turn to see how Backup was, but he couldn't see her - and she didn't respond to his words. A sudden stab in his arm and a warmth that trickled down his sleeve told him he had not come unscathed out of this either.

Sirens from ambulances and police were rapidly approaching. Malone only had one name coming back again and again: Edgar.

*****

CI5 HQ was as busy as a beehive. The news of the attempted assault reached the agents within minutes of the attack. Quickly, an emergency meeting was arranged. A sturdy, silent and intelligent man by the name of Bill Burton had taken over control during the absence of Malone. When all agents were present, he explained curtly what had happened.

Landall was dead, instantly killed by the gunshots from the muggers; Malone was being held overnight for treatment of a flesh wound to his left arm and a mild concussion - Miss Backus' condition was as yet undetermined. Her precise injuries were not fully diagnosed, Burton informed the team calmly and without any visible emotional concern.

As if he's talking about the weather forecast, Sam thought with a taste of disgust in the back of this throat.

Backup - out. Chris - out. Malone - out. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. He had to force himself to pay attention to what the second-in-command was telling them.

"As far as Malone has been able to say in his statement, he is convinced it's Edgar's doing. Judging from the first, very preliminary reports on the slugs, he's probably right."

Sam reacted immediately.

"Sir, we were told just the other day that Edgar works alone most of the time - but according to witnesses there were at least two, maybe three people present."

"True, Mr Curtis, well remarked. Edgar is indeed known to work alone, but I take it you have also been briefed about his latest tendency to pick out youngsters to do some of the dirty work for him."

Spencer's quiet voice came from somewhere in the back of the room.

"What about his obsession for perfection? Though briefly, Malone touched upon that too." To the faces turning his direction, he coloured slightly but went on: "Malone asked me to study some material for him and make a short description. Edgar clearly has an almost obsessive compulsion for perfection. The perfect assassination is always his goal and apparently he doesn't leave a stone unturned to achieve it."

Burton nodded, expecting the young man, who looked somewhat uncomfortable under the looks of all the gathered people, to continue.

"I was just wondering, sir, that, taking that profile into account, it seems unlikely that this is over now. If he's out to kill Malone, he won't rest until he has succeeded."

"You're absolutely right, Mr Spencer. Edgar tried to kill Malone and if we don't find him, he'll try it again."

"Sir?" An idea was beginning to form in Sam's mind.

"Mr Curtis?"

"There were two or three muggers involved, right? And Edgar uses young people to do his work for him. So….if Edgar is the cruel mind he's supposed to be, he might just kill them because of their failure, before he continues to go after the boss."

Sam had a good point there and everyone knew it. Burton tapped his fingers on the edge of the table, before coming up with a satisfying answer.

"I'll organise an investigation in the areas where we might expect him to pick up youngsters to work for him. Mr Curtis - you and Mr Spencer go out to follow that direction. Mr Johnson and Mr Wills - you will continue the investigation on the car and the interrogation of the witnesses. Dismissed."

*****

Sam paid a quick visit to the hospital, only to find out there wasn't any more news about Backup. She had been shot and severely injured but he was not allowed to visit her. He had hoped to catch a glimpse of her, to get some reassurance that she would be alright. But the only thing he had been told up was that she was still in Intensive Care and by no means was he allowed to see her.

He was on the verge of using his CI5 authority when a voice startled him.

"Don't, Mr Curtis. Let her sleep and let them do their work."

Malone stood behind him, looking pale, a greyish shine of stubble covering his face. A large bruise on his forehead showed where he had hit his head. With his arm bandaged and in a sling, he looked more vulnerable than Sam had ever seen him. His entire posture showed his fatigue, the back slightly bent instead of the ramrod straight attitude which he normally displayed.

"Sir! You should be in bed. Have they released you?"

"I've released myself, Mr Curtis. I want to find the men who did this, and the brains behind it." His eyes sparked with anger despite his weariness.

"Do you know any more about Backup, sir?" Sam asked, realising at once it would be useless to try and convince Malone to stay in a hospital bed.

"She's in the IC unit, Mr Curtis. " Malone hardly ever lost his professional veneer and today was no exception. "The surgeon who operated on her removed two bullets and could not be more specific."

"Will she… will she make it?" Sam's voice was soft, almost as if saying this out loud risked tempting fate. Just for an instant, a flicker of intense worry showed in the face of the commander.

"I don't know. The surgeon kept his professional reserve. He didn't make any predictions."

"Why don't you go home, sir, and get some sleep? Burton has taken over temporarily and everyone is working on the case."

Malone's cool veneer was back. "Don't tell me what to do, Mr Curtis. If everyone is on the case, what are you still doing here?"

*****

Desiree called. Much to his surprise, she had his mobile phone number.

"How did you get this number?" he exclaimed angrily.

"You gave it to me, remember?" her voice was like sugar, so sweet. No, I don't remember, he thought, highly agitated.

"Look, Desiree, you're calling at a bad time," Sam said brusquely. "I'm working at the moment and I've got no time for this."

"Sa-hammmm…" she whinged. "You promised to take me shopping today."

No, I didn't, Sam thought, annoyed. But for the sake of peace he withheld from further comment.

"Desiree - we'll talk about it another time, okay?"

"Are you seeing someone?" she snapped, so totally unexpectedly that it took a moment before her the meaning of her words reached him.

"What? Don't be ridiculous. I'm working!"

"From your car? I thought you were in financial business. Not something to do in the back of a car, is it?! Or is there someone else and are you doing *it* in the back of your car, 'ey?"

"Des, what are you talking about! There's just me and I'm driving to a customer!"

"Oh sure. And you gonna shag her in her office then?"

Sam was appalled. He had expected everything but this.

He came to a decision quickly.

"Desiree, this is a totally useless conversation. I'm not seeing anyone, I'm at work. And frankly, I don't have time for this crap. I'll-"

Her voice was different again. A plea, now.

"Sammy, I'm sorry, sugar. I didn't mean it. Come to me and I'll make it up to you."

He sighed - you're a sucker for women, Curtis, he reprimanded himself.

"I'll call you."

Then he broke off the connection and focused on the road.

*****

Sophia sneezed - she was suffering from a cold and had been having serious doubts about visiting Chris today. But she had seen progress, although the staff denied any such thing.

She was not mistaken and she knew - she had felt the shoulders losing their tension, the stiff muscles in the neck more relaxed and she had seen something soft coming back into the face of Chris that she hadn't seen for a long time.

"Good morning, Chris," she said and sniffed. "I wasn't sure if I should come at all. I've caught quite a cold. Hope you don't get it from me."

*

Sophia. Lovely Sophia. You don't sound too cheerful today. And still you visit me? I'm touched.

*

After she'd rubbed his neck and his shoulders, as she had done so many times before, she took out a newspaper and read a few articles to him. Keeping up with the world seemed important enough in their line of business, she figured. She covered the entire spectrum of news, from local trivia to major world wide events, trying to keep his world as broad as possible while keeping up to speed herself.

Everything in the room changed when she began to read an article about a gunfight involving a murdered chauffeur, one severely injured woman, one older man and the escape of the ones behind the attack.

"'One of the victims is still in critical condition in hospital.' Sam told me that one of the people from his work was involved," Sophia said slowly. "So I take it you must know them too."

*

Shot? The old fox, the one I seemed to be arguing with all the time? And Backup?. She's nice, Backup. Can't remember what her name is besides that. I'm beginning to remember more and more. Pieces of the puzzle are falling into place. Sophia cut my hair and says I look like me this way. Whatever *me* is. I think I'd like to get back to the world now - but I'm still scared. Afraid of the dark - afraid of the hands that pull me back. I want to come back. I do. If only I didn't feel so alone. If only I had been in time to get Fanny out. If only Teresa hadn't - *If only* doesn't help one bit.

*

"It frightens me, Chris." Sophia continued, her hands lying still in her lap, on top of the newspaper. "Who's there to watch my grandson? You in here, one killed, two injured people in the hospital… He must have proper backup in that line of work. But who's going to provide that?"

*

I will, Sophia. I will. I promise - Sam will not get hurt. I'll do everything I can to prevent that from happening.

*

She stood up, walked over to the window and stared outside in silent reflection for a while. Suddenly she sneezed vehemently. With a sigh and with a shudder in her voice she said:

"I'm going home now, my dear. I think I'm going to turn in early tonight."

She turned around and as always, laid her hands on his shoulders before putting a light kiss on his forehead. Suddenly she looked straight into a pair of bright blue eyes, blinking and watery - but with a sparkle that had been absent for a long time.

*****

Malone had been watching Curtis with more than usual interest while the young agent was talking to someone on the phone. And from the looks of it, Curtis wasn't pleased at all with this phone call. He broke off the conversation, the ever-present politeness in his voice almost sharpened by the snappy tone.

The commander said nothing. Curtis had, like any other, right to a personal life as long as it didn't interfere with his work.

"Sorry sir," he mumbled, obviously glad to keep his eyes on the road and not having to stand up to the stringent looks of the man next to him. "Not my habit to .."

"That's quite alright, Mr Curtis. We're only human," Malone answered calmly. His arm had bothered him, but the painkillers he had taken were starting to have an affect, making him feel a little drowsy. But not too much to stop being on top of things.

"I've spoken to Burton already. We were thinking along the same lines, 3.7. We have to find those boys - the ones that rammed the car. If we can find them before Edgar does, we might be able to get some information from them that might lead us to him."

"Sir, can I ask you a question?"

"What, Mr Curtis?"

"What's so special about Edgar? Why is he such a hard bargain? Why was he after you? Or was this assault aimed at CI5 in general and not at you in particular?"

"3.7 - can I ask you a question first?"

"Yes, of course. What is it, sir?"

"How come you say you want to ask me a question and next you ask me four different things?"

Sam shifted gear and drove on. He coloured lightly, Malone saw with a mild feeling of victory.

"D'you want me to drop you off at your place, sir?"

"More questions. You can take me home where I can work. Tomorrow, I'll give you all a full briefing."

"More work, sir? You should get some rest," the young agent remarked.

"I'll be the judge of that, thank you, Mr Curtis."

*****

Chris stretched his stiff legs, very slowly. A male nurse and a doctor helped him to get up. It was as if he had to learn to walk all over again. His muscles protested, trembling heavily from having to perform again, while sweat formed on his forehead. But when he met the encouraging smile of the nurse, who waited for him in the corner of the room, he found the strength to go on and put one foot in front of the other, step after step, until he fell exhausted but jubilant into her arms.

"Well done, Chris," she said joyfully.

It had been twenty-four hours now since he had stepped back into this life. A quick examination by the doctor was followed by an explanation from Sam's grandmother that he had been ill and that he had been in hospital for eight weeks now.

It was strange but he couldn't recall any of the things they - the doctors, nurses and the old lady - had been telling him so far. His most recent memory was the face of the woman, close to his, and what struck him most were her eyes. He knew someone with the same eyes and recognised in hers his friend's - Sam's. The things he could recall before that were vague and blurred. And white… He could remember white stuff all around and a muffled sound echoed in his body - an echo of soft swooshing. He couldn't describe it any other way.

When the nurse told him he'd been out here for eight weeks he hadn't believed her at first. Eight weeks? What happened in all that time? Every now and then he felt a sensation that seemed almost like a transparent vision, there was no other way he could describe it. He could see it but he couldn't put his finger on it and it disappeared into thin air if he tried to hang on to the vision. It resembled the feeling of waking up after dreaming, knowing you'd been dreaming and yet not knowing what it was about.

His body sure felt like he'd been in bed for eight weeks. His muscles were sore and didn't exactly do what he wanted them to do, but the doctor reassured him that it was only temporary, and given proper time to recuperate, he'd be alright in a couple of months.

Only slowly Chris began to realise that he was actually awake after an absence of two months. He'd woken up from unconsciousness before, only to find either Backup or Sam at his bedside, so he was quite surprised that no one was here.

Well… no one… to his surprise Sam's grandmother had come to see him only a few hours after he had woken up. She'd been there earlier too but when the Doctors came rushing in, she had discreetly left the room. He had met her on several occasions and he'd already taken a liking to Sophia, as she had once insisted he'd call her. He was pleased she was here. He even sensed some kind of closeness. Maybe it was her smell, her scent that was familiar somehow.

He really couldn't tell. He couldn't recall anything substantial. But her presence was familiar, that much he knew.

*****

"3.7."

"Sam, it's me, Spence," came the soft voice of his colleague through his mobile phone. Keeping an eye on the traffic Sam steered skilfully through London's busy streets. Malone pretended not to take notice of the call but Sam knew better. The old fox would be all ears.

"What is it Spence?"

"Great news, Sam. Are you sitting down?"

"Pardon?" For an instant Sam had the distinct feeling he'd heard it wrong. Spencer was not the type to make silly jokes of any kind but he could swear he heard him asking if he was sitting down. "I'm in my car. What is it?"

"Better keep your eyes on the road then, buddy." Spencer remarked with obvious pleasure in his voice. Buddy? Sam thought with disbelief.

"Rich, cut the crap. You're a bad impersonator."

"It's not Richards, Sam. It's me, Spence."

"Oh and what are you so cheerful about?" Sam asked wryly, not in the mood for this.

"Chris has woken up."

"What!"

"You heard me, Sam. Chris is awake and alright."

"That's great news. How- "

Sam yanked at the wheel and hit the brakes to avoid crashing straight into the car in front of his. For a moment he had lost his concentration and nearly missed the fact that the queue was standing still in front of the traffic lights.

"Shit!"

"3.7? Are you alright?" Spencer was back to being the full alert agent again.

"Yeah - only just. Next time ask me to sit down before you break the news, will you?"

He could hear the agent laugh softly on the other side of the line. He sighed relieved and laughed out loud, giving way to a burst of happiness that rushed through his body with warm intensity. Malone, in the passenger's seat, smiled. Of course he had heard everything, just as Sam knew he would have. Suddenly the air was lighter than before the call. Chris was awake.

*****

When Sam arrived he found Chris carefully shuffling around in the room, trying to get a grip on his stiff limbs again. The English agent answered the smile that seemed to split the face of the American in two.

"Hey Sam." Chris greeted him cheerfully.

"Well, I'll be… 'bout time you got that lazy arse of you moving." Sam replied happily. "How do you feel?"

"Back in the land of the living. Been missing an awful lot, it seems."

"I sure as hell missed that ugly face of yours."

"Backup…" Chris' voice was thoughtful. "Where is she?"

The Englishman lowered his head, suddenly studying the pattern on the linoleum.

"Sam?"

He took a deep breath, ran a hand over the stubble on his chin and said:

"She's in hospital. Shot in an ambush. It killed Landall, Malone was hurt but he's okay now and Backup…she's not alright. She's badly hurt and still in ICU."

Chris stopped pacing.

"Backup? Shot?"

3.7 nodded his head. He told him what he knew, what little they had been able to find out so far and what course they were following to bring the men to justice. The American listened, restlessly moving around in the room and reminding Sam of a caged predator. His body wasn't up to the hunt yet but his mind was already on the prey. After an uncharacteristic silence in which he apparently reflected on the things he'd just been told, he moved stiffly towards Sam and asked: "What happened in Holland?"

Sam wasn't sure if his friend was up to this. He had no idea what Chris could remember and neither could he predict his partner's reaction to telling what had happened eight weeks ago.

"What do you remember, Chris?" he asked carefully.

"I woke up. I saw your grandma."

"I mean from before you were hospitalised."

"The last thing I recall is white stuff. But I can't seem to be able to tell what is was. Not white as in snow, but white as in… in…" He answered with a deep frown appearing over his eyebrows.

"Flour?"

The answer was exactly what Chris had been searching for - Sam saw it in his face.

"Sit down, Chris. There's a lot I need to tell you."

*****

The headlights of the Nissan Terrano pierced the evening darkness. Sam shifted gear and sped up, leaving the hospital and a tired Chris behind.

He had told him everything. He had taken the time to be detailed and complete, knowing that now was as good a time as any to be open and frank about it. He also knew that if he was deliberately vague about the events Chris would start digging on his own, following his tracks and leaving no stone unturned to find out the truth.

Closely he had observed his partner as the facts were revealed about Holland, the flour plant and the death of Fanny Waterman. The usually gentle and cheerful face of the American had turned remarkably neutral, almost as if he pulled up some kind of mask to hide his real feelings. But Sam didn't miss the tiny marks that showed his shock: the slightly trembling fingers, a twitch near one of his eyes that usually wasn't there, the tension in the shoulders and an almost macabre interest in the details.

But he hadn't fallen apart. Although upset, he had remained calm and controlled. He had asked little as Sam's account on the case had been thorough and to the point. All things considered, Sam thought, the American had taken it much better than he had expected.

After hours of talking Sam had seen the weariness resurfacing and felt his own fatigue as well. He had been up and about for more than a day already and the few hours he'd spent in bed he had lost sleep over the attack on Malone and Backup. So he said goodnight to Chris and headed for home.

Backup…

He sighed. Poor girl. He had just popped in to see her, for an instant only. The sleeping woman in the bed was not the Backup he knew - not that still and silent person. He missed her, just as much as he had missed having Chris around. Tina was witty and intelligent, ready to help out any time and more determined than anyone else to have cases solved. If it hadn't been for her, he'd probably be dead and buried a long time ago. She saved his life with her stubborn zeal on several occasions. And now… she seemed so vulnerable in that bed, so fragile. Sam knew from experience that all the devices she was attached to were necessary to keep her alive. Tubes, drips, wires, monitors, machinery that beeped and hissed…

He shook his head to chase the thoughts away. Chris had come around, Malone was alright and eventually Backup would come out of this as well - unscathed and ready for action. Wouldn't she?

Sam was so caught up in his thoughts that he noticed the tail too late. The headlights of a car, just as ordinary as the countless others around him, followed his every move. Quite unexpectedly his tail accelerated and banged hard against his rear bumper, then overtook him.

Sam cursed and floored the accelerator as the dark car moved away from him.

The unknown driver took a few turns, made some unexpected moves but Sam caught up with him easily. Even amidst all the other lights they were never out of sight and he stuck to them like glue. He sped up and followed the car like a shadow.

He took his phone from his inside pocket and pushed the speed dial button for HQ.

"3.7 to HQ. Come in."

"3.7 this is HQ. 9.2 speaking." Agent Jablonski answered his call immediately.

"Tim? I'm in pursuit of a vehicle."

"Roger. Can you identify it?"

"Negative. It's too dark. I'll get closer and give you the plates."

"Where are you heading, 3.7?"

"Close to the M13. I left London behind me. He's -"

With a startling crash the front window of his car shattered and rained glass on Sam's shoulders. He ducked by reflex, escaping death by an inch as the hissing bullet passed him by and made a big star in the rear window. From the corner of his eyes he noticed how the car reduced speed and was suddenly behind him again. The manoeuvre took only a few seconds and now Sam was the one who was being chased.

"3.7! Come in, 3.7!" came the worried voice from Tim Jablonski.

"He's shooting!" Sam shouted, yanking the steering wheel in different directions to avoid being a sitting duck for the man or men in front of him. "Tim, I need assistance! Now!" Inwardly he was grateful for the scarce traffic here, which was probably the result of construction work a little earlier.

"We have a team on standby at Phillaby. They'll come your way. Hang on…"

He could hear some talk in the background and then Tim's voice was back.

"Can you get to mark F-216?"

Wildly bouncing off the side and through the grass verge he managed to get onto the M13, vaguely recalling that this could indeed lead him to the asked route, he acknowledged. He handled the clutch, pushed his foot down further to speed up - he had no intention of losing that bastard but wanted to see how far that one could follow him. With the backup team from the other side it shouldn't be too difficult to put a stop to this drive.

"Mark F-216. Yes, I can. I'm on the M13 now, I can make it to the rendezvous in ten minutes."

"Affirmative. We're trying to pick you up on the satellite. Hang in there."

Sam's mind ran faster than lightning. He pictured the road ahead, the upcoming exits and the possible hazardous spots. He kept one eye in the mirror and to his dismay saw new headlights, closing in at frightening speed. Just as he was approaching a roundabout, a new round of shots sounded. One bullet grazed his shoulder and the tingling sensation that ran through his arm told him it had been a hit. In a spasm he pulled at the wheel, the pain taking over for an instant - then he had everything under control again.

There was no time to grab either his mobile or the car mike - he wished by all he cherished that the team would be there to help him or that the satellite would pick up his signal. His cell phone was on the passenger's seat and he knew they'd be able to hear him, even though he didn't have time to talk to them.

"I'm hit!" he yelled out. It was of vital importance that the squad knew what was going on and that he wouldn't be able to hold on very long in this situation. "Tim, can you hear me?! I'm hit!"

There was no time for further warnings. The wild drive in the dark night needed his full attention.

The roundabout - he knew he had to take the left turn here to make it to the rendezvous.

Just when he was about to take a very abrupt exit he found his way blocked. Construction workers were all over that side of the roundabout, the fluorescent strips on their orange work clothing lighting up under the harsh work lights.

Sam rushed by, honking loudly and saw in his mirror flashes of workmen jumping aside as the cars hissed by. In a wild movement he steered the Terrano to the next exit only to take the one after that in a desperate attempt to mislead the assassin behind him.

The road he had taken was full of potholes and he bumped up and down in his seat, gritting his teeth as the abrupt bumping sent stabs of pain through his shoulder. He lost speed quickly but so did his enemy so if he could keep the distance, he would be able to reach the rendezvous.

The rendezvous…

How the hell could he get there from here? The road had already changed to a single lane, narrow and unlit, leading to some Godforsaken nowhere land that stretched out in a pitch dark area in front of him. The only light around came from the Terrano's headlights and the blinding light of the vehicle chasing him. Bushes and big trees were growing on either side of the road, which meant there was no chance he could drive through and disappear in the open fields behind. Or what he suspected to be open fields, he corrected himself.

Suddenly, as if its driver had been waiting for the right moment, the car closed in on him and began to push against the bumper. At last Sam registered the brand: a Mercedes. Great - his enemy certainly knew what to choose for fast driving. No wonder he hadn't been able to shake him.

Knowing that this was the moment of truth he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, the knuckles turning white, and awaited the inevitable. If he were to hit the brakes now it probably wouldn't have any effect at all because of the sturdier model that pushed him on now. If he was indeed able to slow the Merc down or even stop it the enemy was only closer to killing him with a final shot. And the Terrano was fast but too light for the Merc.

Then Sam saw the bushes on the sides getting thinner and the slope running up gradually. There was probably some kind of exit here and the undergrowth had been taken away to provide a better view on the crossroads. He steered up the slope, experiencing the feeling of being in a rollercoaster, hanging sideways in his safety belt as the horizon began to slant heavily. For a few seconds he felt triumphant as his tail didn't seem to be able to follow his routine.

But then the Merc sped forwards and with a bang it bumped hard onto the Terrano.

You idiot! Sam yelled inwardly. You did exactly what he wanted you to do.

The edge of the slope was not easing down on the other side, as Sam had expected, but it ended abruptly and went steep down. In a last desperate wild movement he hit the brakes, pulled at the wheel and felt how the car toppled over. For a second it hung in a vacuum as the back wheels came loose from the grassy verge and the front of the car was already airborn. Then the car somersaulted, Sam saw the world turn upside down and with terrifying inevitability he crashed down the fifteen feet edge.

*****

Chris bolted up as he woke up from a nightmare with an undetermined pain in his stomach. He opened his eyes bewildered, realised he was in bed and kept still in the same position, trying to seize the image that had just hunted him.

Sam… it had to do with Sam. No… there was something wrong. There was something happening to Sam.

He let out a breath and ran a hand down his face. Cold sweat was all over him, making his T-shirt damp and chilling his back. He threw a sideways look at the clock on the wall - nearly two o'clock. He switched on the little night lamp, sat up and drank some water from the glass on his bedside table. Slowly taking deep breaths the young man tried to get the wild beating of his heart to ease down. He knew he hadn't been dreaming, although logically that was the only thing that could have caused this reaction. It was something else - a hunch. A warning signal.

Not one to ponder around too long, Chris swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Unsteadily he shuffled to the door, holding on to the furniture in the room. He had to make a telephone call, he had to be certain Sam was alright.

The night nurse who saw him staggering through the corridor was with him in a few seconds.

"Hello, who do we have here? The silent man. Where are you off to?" he asked, clearly assuming that Chris had gone mad.

"I need to make a phone call. It's urgent," Chris said, struggling to keep his unwilling limbs under control. His knees were shaking as if he'd been running a marathon.

"A phone call? And who are we going to call at this time of night?"

The American felt his temper rising. The *we* that the nurse used annoyed him and that was just not what he needed right now.

"I'm not sure who you are going to wake up but I need to speak to someone at work."

"Of course you are not. You can't go calling people in the middle of the night." The nurse blocked his path and Chris, weak as a new born kitten, knew he couldn't put up any kind of struggle with this man. Even arguing with him was wearing him out.

"Your work will be still there tomorrow. Let the people sleep." Said the nurse - which sounded utterly sane of course, Chris realised.

"It's a matter of life and death." He pleaded. "One call."

Though patronising, the nurse wasn't as uncaring as it seemed at first. He smiled faintly, took Chris' elbow and helped him to a phone. He raised his index finger: one call.

There were three in the end: one to Sam's mobile, one to Sam's home number and one to HQ where he was told that his partner was out on a job and couldn't be reached at the moment. That was it - he had turned off his means of communication because he was busy. That's all, Chris, get back to bed, the voice inside tried to reassure him.

The nurse folded his arms over his chest and grinned.

"And? Did we save the world from the baddies?"

"You said it yourself: work will still be there tomorrow," retaliated Chris. But his mind was on his partner. He was working. But damn! He was alone and there wasn't anyone to watch his back.

*****

Jablonski had lost contact with Sam, waited for a few minutes while checking the equipment and the satellite data, and when he realised his colleague had disappeared didn't hesitate. Contact with the backup team told him that they had not encountered either Curtis or cars in a chase. The two team members were heading for the direction from where 3.7 had last reported in and promised a quick update.

How he got there Jablonski never knew but suddenly Malone was standing in the centre of the room. Even with the sling and the dark bruise on his face he had lost nothing of his impressive appearance. On the contrary, he seemed even more adamant than usual.

"Good evening, Mr Jablonski. What is going on?"

"It's 3.7, sir. He called for backup when he was chasing a car, reported being shot at and after a while we could hear noises, maybe a crash - then the line went dead. I've told the team that was stationed at Phillaby to follow his tracks."

"Identification? The driver?"

"Unknown, sir. 3.7 said he couldn't see the plate and when he was approaching the car, they fired."

"The brand of the car?"

"Don't know, sir." Jablonski said with a sigh. It felt bad to admit to the commander that they hadn't been able to do any of the basic things they were trained for: recognise the car, the type, the plates, the driver or any other distinguishing marks.

But Malone wasn't curt or impatient. He just frowned, turned slowly and walked into his office. He seemed miles away.

"Carry on, Mr Jablonski. Keep me posted," were the last words the agent heard before the commander closed the door to his office.

*****

Sam woke up. He felt so miserable that he tried not to move, not to open his eyes and not to give in to waking up. A horrible overwhelming headache made nausea flush over him and bile rose in his throat. A pain in his right shoulder radiated vehemently through his body, one which he vaguely began to recognise as a dislocated joint and the white heat of a bullet wound.

To add to his misery he was on a freezing cold, slightly wet ground, which had damped his clothing and send shivers through his body. There was something else he couldn't understand - something with his legs. He couldn't move them but it wasn't like a fracture or anything. He - he couldn't feel them properly.

With a shock that struck home he opened his eyes in terror. He couldn't feel his legs. God… no… He wasn't paralysed, was he?

Frantically he tried to recall something. How he got here, what had happened and when and where and how and… and…

Confused and completely unfocussed he tried to find something in the shady room - something he could cling to, something that would take away the upcoming irrational fear. Unable to grasp what was happening he tried to lift his painful head to try to see more of his surroundings. The blurred things he could see stood in an angle of 90 degrees around him. He blinked his eyes but the images didn't change.

Headache. Pounding headache. Sickening headache. Not to mention the shoulder and the arm.

Again panic grabbed him by the throat. His legs! What was happening to his legs?

With all the strength he could gather he lifted his left arm and brought it down to his legs. The cloth of his trousers was moist and felt musty and greasy beneath his sensitive fingers. He pinched his upper leg, trying feverishly to feel life beneath his hands.

Then it struck him that his legs weren't horizontal, like he was. They were vertical, pulled up against a wall. Somebody had hauled his legs up and positioned them like this. He wasn't sure but he thought he could distinguish wiring on the wall. He was tied to the wall by his ankles with some kind of sharp wiring. And the upper half of his body was on the ground.

Sam lowered his head to the chilly concrete. The confusion, the fear and the pain of the concussion and his tormented body sucked the power right out of him. He sank away into silent darkness, unable to grasp where he was or what was happening.

*****

"Still no sign of 3.7?"

"Nothing sir. We've scanned everything, we've searched every house in a ten miles radius, we've questioned and re-questioned the locals - nothing." Spencer, who had swapped places with Jablonski, stretched his arms to get the stiffness from his sore shoulders.

After Curtis' disappearance every available agent had been called in. Leave was cancelled and shifts were doubled - mostly of the agents' own accord for mere worry about one of their colleagues. Every available possibility had been checked and double checked, while Malone, tired but still going strong, had not left the office and had led the search from within.

"I'm not sure what path to follow any more, sir," Spencer sighed, "and I'm open to suggestions. Of any kind."

A vivid voice suddenly sounded through the room.

"Hello all y'all - what's going on?"

At the familiar sound and the by now almost legendary words everyone turned around. There was Chris Keel, wearing the oldest pair of trousers he had been able to dig up, a white T-shirt and a faded black short leather jacket that was so wide, it showed how much weight he had lost over the past weeks. His clothes hung loose around his body and seemed much too big for him now - together with his pale complexion and the stubble it gave him an overall appearance of a French clochard.

"Mr Keel. What are you doing in here? Have you been released from hospital?" Malone, as usual, was sharp and to the point and didn't beat around the bush. He didn't approve of agents stalling their come back but his principles on bringing back team members who were not fit were crystal clear: no doctor's approval - no return.

"I was free to leave, sir." Chris lied so unconvincingly that Malone only shook his head.

"You were not I'm sure. Step into my office, Mr Keel."

Surprise written all over the agent's face, the two men went over to Malone's office, where the commander sat down behind his desk and Chris grabbed a chair.

"Have I said you could sit down, Mr Keel?"

"Sir?"

"Is there something wrong with your ears, 4.5? Put the chair back."

Puzzled, Chris placed the chair back in the corner and stepped over to Malone's desk again. He was expecting a reprimand for coming here without proper authorisation and took a deep breath, mentally preparing for the worst.

But to his surprise Malone did no such thing. The boss took out a file from the desk drawer, opened it and began to read, calmly, undisturbed by the presence of Keel. After a few minutes the American began to get impatient.

"Sir, if you don't need me any longer, I'd like to--"

"I know very well what you would like to do, Mr Keel. You will remain where you are."

Again Malone focused on his reading, leaving a confused and increasingly impatient agent standing like a salt pillar in the middle of the room. After a few minutes, Chris decided to give it another shot.

"Sir, where is Sam?"

Malone didn't answer. Chris felt temper rising - why was he summoned in here if all he did was keeping the floor warm? When the silence continued the American lost his last bit of patience and turned on his heels.

"Stay where you are, Mister Keel!" Bellowed Malone with such sudden anger that Chris froze.

"Yes, sir."

This time Chris didn't interrupt Malone any more. As the minutes ticked away he began to feel light headed, standing there like that, without any support. Sweat was slowly breaking and he took a few deep breaths when his boss put the manila folder down and addressed him.

"Mr Keel, ten push ups now, please."

"What?" the American could not prevent that to slip out. But before Malone would be able to snap icily at him again about his hearing, he answered clumsily: "Ten push ups sir. Yes sir. Now…? Sir?"

"Now, Mr Keel," was the dead calm answer.

From where he gathered the strength to do what the commander had ordered him, Chris was unable to tell afterwards. He only knew that the ground seemed closer and closer every time he bent his arms. After the tenth push up he panted and perspired heavily but not wanting to betray his poor shape, he raised slowly to his feet, feeling terrible and nauseous.

The desk began to slant. Over the mahogany table top he saw the concern in the eyes of his patron, who was with him before he lost control over his legs. Unexpectedly gentle Malone eased him down in the chair he had just been told to put aside and waited for his agent to catch his breath.

His voice was uncharacteristically friendly, deprived of the sarcastic sharpness it usually had.

"Easy, young man. Easy does it."

He produced a glass of water, which he handed over to the pale agent.

"Need I say more, Mr Keel? As much as I like to have a good man back on the team, you are in no shape to join. After standing for a mere ten minutes I noticed you were already using up your physical reserves. You can't be on active duty this way."

"Point taken, sir." Chris admitted, slightly embarrassed, but not too pig headed to see the old man was right. His hand still shook as he drank from the glass.

"I'd still like to know what's going on, sir. I won't do anything foolish. You're lesson was …err… made it perfectly clear, sir."

Malone could not hide a little smile.

"We all learn, Mr Keel, we all learn."

*****

His heart pounded wildly still but when the realisation of his fate seeped in, rationale told him that must be the reason why he couldn't feel his legs. The blood circulation had been disturbed and if he could get them down it would come back and he would be able to use them like always. The more he struggled, the more the sharp wire would cut into his flesh and prohibit the circulation. Not that it mattered - he didn't feel it anyway. He realised however that he'd only damage himself more if he persisted, so he kept still and tried to concentrate on the here and now.

'Here' appeared to be some kind of lockup. The distinct smell of oil, gardening tools and petrol mingled with the musty scent of fungus, caused by bad insulation and thick wet walls. He could hear constant dripping but it was unclear if it came from outside or if the sewer pipes, which ran straight through his confinement, weren't water tight.

'Now' was also an undefined status. Sam couldn't recall how long he had been here, how many times he had dozed off or fallen back into darkness, or how many times he had woken up from the agony.

Churning had taken the place of instant hunger when his body adjusted to its precarious situation. The headache was still prohibiting a clear view, which meant he probably had a concussion - or a black eye. He was unable to move his right arm and shoulder. But with a strange, slight feeling of satisfaction he realised that although he could hardly move, his mind was still working full speed. As long as he didn't lose his mind, he'd be alright - for a while anyway.

Sam knew all too well that there was no way he could escape from this perilous position without help. But what kind of help could he expect? If HQ had known what had happened they would surely have sent in a rescue team by now. Ergo: he was on his own. So what possible route could he follow? Talk his captors into letting him down. Tell them he had to pee. Or act unconscious and try to surprise them.

Up to now, 'they' were ide