Thanks again to Jennie Ward, who did a thorough editing job as usual. Ta!

Tuesday

With screeching tires, the Ford Granada came to a stop just inches from the bumper of the Vauxhall. Even before the car had completely stopped the doors were already open, and Doyle rushed out the right side while Bodie lunged from the left. Murphy and Cowley were in the front seats and exited the car as well.

"Get them!" shouted Cowley, "Don't let them get away!"

Doyle jumped over a two feet deep ditch and raced off into the forest while some ten metres to his left he could hear Bodie storming through the foliage. He could see only flashes of the men they were chasing. The thick trees and rich vegetation stopped them getting a clear view. One was wearing a green coat, but the other one had a red shirt on which made him easier to track. They're good runners, Doyle thought, they're damn fast. He jumped over another tree trunk and ran through the fern as fast as his feet could manage. Suddenly he felt the hissing of a bullet almost before he heard it, and it missed his ear by less than an inch. The shot echoed curtly between the trees. Doyle ducked, taking cover behind a large rock. He searched the area for Bodie as well as the muggers - he wasn't sure his partner had been aware of the shot or the direction. While Bodie must have heard something, in this forest it was hard tell where the sounds came from.

But Bodie had heard the shot and crouched down behind the luxurious vegetation. The undergrowth was thick enough to hide him from the men, but it worked both ways - it was frustrating to see that they were totally concealed by the leaves and trees.

A little further to the front and about 15 metres to his right, he spotted Doyle. From where he was standing Ray couldn't see him but he was certain that his partner was unharmed and trying to spot him to warm him about the gunfire.

On hearing the gunshot Bodie had instantly frozen and then crept slowly forward, carefully putting one foot in front of the other. When he had moved far enough for Doyle to be able to see him, he signalled to his partner and together they moved on.

Doyle noticed Bodie's light grey leather jacket to his left. Judging from the quiet way in which he moved, Ray knew he was aware of the danger. Good, Doyle thought grimly, time for more action. His gun in his hand and every muscle in his body ready to react he moved forward. Carefully going from one hiding place to another, he advanced and saw Bodie doing the same.

After some time, some fifty metres ahead and down a slope, Doyle saw that Red Shirt had stopped running. Need some time to catch your breath? He looked to see where Bodie was and signalled that their target was standing still. He saw Bodie watching and then 3.7 made a circling motion with his hand - he was going to go around the man so that they could approach him from two different sides. Bodie held up three fingers. That was the time he'd need and Doyle checked his watch. He nodded, knelt down between the bushes and watched Bodie's dark hair and grey jacket disappear.

The man stood panting, holding on to a tree branch and trying to flex his leg. Obviously he had been overcome with cramp and could do nothing but try to stretch his leg. He vaguely reminded Doyle of a football player, hobbling around but unable to move properly. Doyle waited impatiently for the minutes to pass, meanwhile scanning the area for a sign of his mate.

Bodie hurried silently through the foliage. His and Doyle's initial running had made as much noise as a rhino in the African bush and would have certainly betrayed them, but Bodie's instincts from his mercenary training took over and he slipped into 'bush-mode': invisible to the men ahead and silent as a mouse.

He spotted Red Jacket, the one that Doyle had pointed out. He was encircling him so they would not be surprised if their target tried to make a run for it. From where he was he could also see the green jacket of the second man, obviously hiding more between the trees. He was quite a bit harder to track in between the numerous shades of green that were all around.

Bodie walked on, careful not to make any noise and draw their attention. They had fired one shot already and probably would not hesitate to shoot again. He kept his eyes on the red and green clothing as he slowly moved forward.

A startling stab of pain shot through his ankle up to his knee and he toppled over into a thorn bush. In the same moment, from the corners of his eyes he saw Red Shirt looking up. Then the vision blurred as pain induced tears welled up in his eyes. He clenched both hands around his ankle - Bodie had stepped in a trap, the kind poachers use to catch large animals. Sharp metal points like the jagged edge of a knife cut deeply into the flesh of his leg, blood spraying out in a macabre red fountain.

With both hands he tried to pull the jaw-like handles apart but they didn't move an inch. In fact, the harder he pulled, the deeper he could feel the rusty steel biting down.

Too late he heard the soft sound behind him. Green Jacket, he realised. The carefully hung up coat down there was a set-up - he had been waiting here somewhere.

That was all. One fierce blow to the back of his skull and all the green shades turned to black.

A shot!

Doyle heard the noise, saw Red Shirt looking in the direction of the sound before he began to run.

"Hold it!" Doyle shouted, "or I'll fire!"

Red Shirt, whose life was obviously quite valuable to him, froze in the middle of the open clearing.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot. I'm not going anywhere! Don't kill me! Don't shoot! I'll be right here! Don't shoot!" Doyle quickly and cautiously approached him, and in a few seconds had cuffed the man's hands to a tree. Skilfully he frisked the man for weaponry but didn't find any. Red Shirt no longer resembled the brutal attacker of just half an hour before. He licked his lips in fear and his eyes flashed from Doyle to the bushes and back while talking constantly.

"Shut up!" hissed Doyle. Where was Bodie? If this bloke didn't have a gun, then the other one must have it. Had the gunshot been Bodie's? Or was it Green Jacket who had fired?

"Don't kill me! Please! I'll be good! Don't shoot, don't ---"

"Shut the hell up!" Doyle snapped, pulling a hanky from his pocket which he used to gag Red Shirt. He raised his finger.

"Don't go anywhere," he said with just enough menace to make Red Shirt look even more uncomfortable. He turned to where he had heard the noise and froze when he heard branches snapping. Ready to fire, he jumped forward but then stopped as Murphy appeared between the leaves, talking into the RT.

"Call an ambulance, sir. Bodie is down."

All the green turned grey before Doyle's eyes. Bodie down - it echoed and repeated itself through his head. He forced his way through the bushes, painfully ripping his flesh at the thorns that tore his jeans to shreds. Bodie lay on his side on the moss-grown soil with his eyes closed. There was blood in his hair - his face was so pale that Doyle felt the knot in his stomach tightening. Bodie's foot was caught in the rusty steel of the trap and there was also blood on his ankle and trousers.

A little behind Murphy lay Green Jacket - without the green jacket. He had been immobilised by a bullet from Murphy's gun.

"Ray - help me. Bodie has stepped into a trap."

Murphy was trying to open the trap, pulling as hard as he could. Doyle sank to his knees and started pulling as well, stubbornly trying to ignore the torn flesh, blood and his partner's alarming pallor. The spring that held the two sides together was jammed and both men pulled with all force they could muster. They heard Cowley call out for them and Murphy replied. With Cowley's help they finally succeeded in opening the trap and releasing Bodie's ankle from the vicious steel.

Bodie woke up, nausea causing his stomach to churn and he knew he had to throw up. For a second he met a pair of grey eyes that he didn't recognise - then he couldn't hold his stomach in check any longer, turned onto his side and threw up. Vaguely he was aware that he had vomited over a pair of white trousers and shoes. He had the presence of mind to mutter an apology but he wasn't sure if the message had got through. He felt awful. His head hurt. His leg hurt. His throat hurt. Everything hurt. He couldn't stop retching and the contents of his stomach pushed themselves out. The shoes and trousers stayed right were they were, to his surprise. He could even feel hands supporting him and when he just couldn't throw up anymore he allowed them to help him back. He realised he was in an ambulance just before he closed his eyes to stop the world from moving. Darkness was beckoning him and without resistance Bodie left the nausea and the pain where they were.

"That's a concussion alright," said the paramedic cheerfully. He held onto a bar as the ambulance turned a corner and sped up. Despite his worry over his partner Doyle appreciated the man's calm exterior and offered him a small smile of gratitude. Apparently the paramedic didn't seem too worried - a quick check-up had not revealed any life threatening injuries. But still - Doyle could not stop feeling anxious about his partner. Bodie had only opened his eyes to throw up all over the paramedic and had then sunken back into unconsciousness almost instantly.

He looks so pale, Doyle thought, the colour of a corpse.

"You would look pale too if someone had knocked you over the head," the paramedic remarked. Doyle glanced up in surprise - he had not been aware that he had spoken out loud. "And a corpse? Don't worry, sir. He'll have a ghastly headache for quite a few days but he'll be good as new if he's got enough time to recover."

"A headache? There's no fracture?"

"I can't tell for sure of course, but the throwing up surely points to a concussion. If he had a fracture he wouldn't have woken up just yet. I think…"

"Mmm." Doyle wasn't convinced. The paramedic seemed a little bit too light-hearted about Bodie's injuries. Doyle was suddenly irritated by his attitude.

Shut up, Doyle thought crabbily, just shut up.

The paramedic obviously noticed Doyle's irritation, mumbled a vague apology, then fell quiet and they continued the rest of the way to hospital in silence, only accompanied by the noise of the emergency sirens.

*

The surgeons took their time to work on Bodie as Doyle paced the waiting room nervously. While he was more concerned about Bodie's unconsciousness, they seemed to have their attention focussed on his ankle. When Doyle had heard the word surgery, the first thing that came to mind was Bodie undergoing some terrible operation and a vivid picture of his friend with a bandaged head appeared. But they hadn't been referring to Bodie's head injury - they'd been talking about his ankle and foot which appeared to be more seriously damaged than Doyle had been aware of.

When Bodie had been wheeled into the corridor that lead to the theatres, Doyle was stopped by a friendly but very decisive nurse who had shown him to a waiting room. There was a public telephone attached to the wall and Doyle called HQ to inform Cowley. He ran his fingers through his thick curls as he told his boss what he had been told so far. Cowley, as usual, was to the point, listening carefully and only every now and then interrupting him to ask a question. To Doyle's surprise he ended their conversation in a rather brusque way.

"You better come down to HQ, Doyle. There's no use in hanging round in the hospital all day", he said, his Scottish accent forming the melody in the spoken words.

"I'd rather not sir, I want to wait for Bodie to wake up. He --"

Cowley interrupted before Doyle had a chance to finish his sentence.

"Bodie will be asleep for hours. Meanwhile make yourself useful and finish the report on what happened this morning."

"But sir, Murphy --"

"I want a detailed report on my desk by nine o'clock tomorrow morning." Cowley interrupted sharply.

Doyle's temper got to him - typical Cowley to tear him away like this. What on earth could he do at the office right now? Murphy would have handed over a report within two hours of finishing the case, which had come to an end when Green Jacket and Red Shirt had been captured. Doyle would only be repeating the same story.

It was as if Cowley had been reading him mind, straight through the phone wires.

"No arguments, Doyle. I want you in the office within half an hour."

Doyle slammed the receiver back onto the cradle. Worrying about Bodie had to be put on hold for now. He could almost hear his partner saying 'you heard the man…' Annoyed, Doyle barged out of the hospital, stepped into his Capri and left the parking lot, leaving traces of rubber on the tarmac.

Bodie knew that something wasn't right when he woke up. He was nauseous, his throat was dry and his head felt dull, stuffed with cotton balls. He tried to swallow, but couldn't for some reason, and when he tried to lick his dry lips, he noticed that he had no saliva to wet them.

What the …?

"Good morning, Mr Brodie. Don't try to move your head or your leg."

It's Bo-die. Move what?

"You have a concussion and you have been operated on your leg. You do feel nauseous, don't you? I'll call the Doctor and when he says you can have a drink, I'll get you some water."

Concussion? Leg operation?

The shoes of the woman who had been talking to him squeaked on the floor as they moved away from his bed and even though Bodie could not manage to fully open his eyes and focus on that person, he was aware of her leaving the shady room he was in.

He was lying flat on his back in a bed in a darkened room that smelled of antiseptic and formaldehyde. There was no pillow - only some kind of soft foam band that kept his head in place. He heard soft beeping in the background - machinery that kept an electronic eye on him. There was a small light in the corner of the room but his vision was still too blurred by the drowsy sensation in his head to see anything beyond that.

A darkened room. I have a concussion, she said, Bodie thought. I'm in a hospital. What happened?

He tried to work it out but only got more confused as blurry images, sounds and scents pushed their way to the surface of his conscience mind. Green - that was something he could remember. His foot - no - his ankle. It was stuck in something.

The nurses' words came back to him. He shouldn't try to move his leg. Making sure to keep it still, he probed his right leg carefully. From below his knee he could feel thick bandages but to his relief he could feel himself pinching his upper leg. An IV rattled softly as he moved his hand. He felt no pain in his leg - actually he experienced very little at all so the IV probably contained some kind of painkiller. As far as he was able to tell, there were two bags - one was a large bag with dark fluid. Blood? The other one contained some kind of colourless fluid.

Confused he let his hand drop back onto the cool bed linen. Somebody needed to bring him up to speed because he couldn't figure out what happened or how he'd got here in the first place. And what day was today? What time was it now? Ray - where was he? Was he alright? Even thinking was tiring him out.

He must have dozed off because suddenly there were people in the room and he had not heard them entering. Somebody was feeling for his pulse and checking his reflexes. When a light was shone into his eyes he flinched from the pain it sent through his head. It was as if somebody was etching artwork on his retina. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to avoid more light falling in. He heard voices that seemed to come from far away, and with difficulty Bodie focused on what was being said.

"Mr Brodie, the Doctor is here. He performed surgery on your leg."

Bo-die, it's not Brodie, the agent wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out.

"Mr Brodie, can you hear me?"

It's Bodie, Bodie thought.

"Yes," he croaked hoarsely with a voice that did not belong to him.

"Good. My name is Doctor Calderon. I don't suppose you remember much of what happened?"

"No."

The nurse wiped his dry lips with a wet sponge, and though only water, it was a true delight. Bodie licked his lips again, trying to catch some of the water with his dry tongue.

"I've been told that you stepped into a poacher's trap and the poacher gave you a blow to the head. You have a concussion and that will bother you for at least three weeks. We'll keep the blinds closed and the curtains drawn - the less you see light, the less uncomfortable you will feel. No pillow, just the foam support for now. If you want to turn to your side, that's all right but be aware that you might feel like throwing up again. Be very, very gentle in your movements."

"My leg?"

"Now that is a somewhat more complicated matter," the Doctor replied, and even in his poor state Bodie did not miss the unspoken worry. "It's been damaged quite heavily. The ligaments, achilles tendon, blood vessels, muscular structure, the skin layers, the bones - they were all hit. In fact the entire joint has suffered quite some damage. I've repaired everything but your recovery will take months…"

He stopped. Bodie tried to see his face in the shady room. He pushed the words out with difficulty. Somehow talking was difficult, but he was too tired to try and figure out what was causing it.

"And? Bu…?"

"Are you sure you're up to this? If you want we can discuss this some other time," the Doctor tried to avoid the conversation.

"No. Now," Bodie croaked.

A silence hung between them for a moment. Then the physician spoke again.

"It is impossible to guarantee a full recovery. I'm not sure if the joint will completely heal and be as strong as it was before. In any case it will take a long time. You must think in terms of months rather than weeks."

Bodie tried to swallow, "… thirsty. C'n I 'ave some water?"

"A bit - you must be very careful with what you can have. If you drink too much it might cause you to throw up again. I'll prescribe a suitable dose and if you find you can keep it down then you can have more. I'll leave you to the cares of Nurse Ratchett who will follow my instructions and be at your disposal as long as you're on this ward."

*

Cowley looked at Bodie, who was asleep and had been for some time. He had not even woken up when a nurse had turned on a dim light to show Cowley in. He didn't look well, Cowley thought - very pale, dark rings encircled his eyes and every now and then he twitched one of his eyebrows, as if he was bothered by the pain he was obviously experiencing. A large pad behind his right ear pointed out where one of the perpetrators had hit him with a thick branch.

The commander's eyes drifted over the figure in the bed. Around Bodie an IV stand held bags that disappeared beneath the sheets, entering his body in unseen places. A monitor beeped quietly, revealing a slow but steady heart rhythm. Other data, which Cowley vaguely recognised as blood pressure and glucose level was also visible. Where Bodie's leg must be, a protective hood had been placed underneath the thin blanket to avoid the leg coming into contact with the cloth.

'Serious damage,' the Doctor had told Cowley and it worried him a great deal. He knew Bodie well enough to know that he would fight for his recovery and get this behind him as soon as possible. The commander remembered clearly how 3.7 had tried to get permission to work with an injured hand from a gunshot wound. In the end he had been able to fight a notorious German terrorist - literally singlehandedly.

But this injury was worse than the gunshot wound had been. Too many vital areas had been caught between the steel teeth of the trap and the Doctor had not been very optimistic. Cowley took a step closer to Bodie and silently observed him for a few minutes.

In the bed Bodie shivered and the commander heard his breath hissing as it passed dry lips. He took an extra blanket from the side table and covered Bodie gently with it. Gently he put his hand on Bodie's dark hair. He could feel the moist warmth beneath his fingers, the first signs of the fever that had started to develop. "Take your time, lad," he mumbled, feeling intensely sad about what had happened to his operative. He regarded Bodie and Doyle as one of his best teams - if not the best. Through the years he had come to appreciate them and had become part of their friendship. It was as if he was viewing the pain of one of his own sons, even though he did not have any children.

*

One week later

Geraldine Mather checked her appearance in the mirror for the last time. She adjusted the collar of her white blouse, straightened her dark blue blazer and smiled appreciatively at her mirror image. Then she checked her watch. Plenty of time for her meeting with Iwan Nipkov, a Russian whom she had been asked to question about his motives for defecting to the Free West.

She put on a long, dark green coat, picked up her briefcase and purse and left her apartment. As she walked down the stairs to the parking garage in the basement she reflected on the case she had taken on. As usual she had done her homework properly - carefully studying the reports on Nipkov that had been sent to her by the Ministry of Defence and the National Security Council.

Iwanovitsj Petja Nipkov, aged forty-seven, had been born in Moscow and was a printer for the Pravda by profession. Years of loyal commitment to the Party's printed outlet had earned him a certain degree of freedom, allowing him to travel to the West to attend international conferences on printing and the rapidly changing printing technology.

One morning he stood on the steps of the British Embassy in Paris, where he had applied for political asylum. That was the official declaration, anyway. Through the grapevine however, there was a whisper that he had obtained important information about the Russian Government and had asked to defect in order to guarantee his safety.

After Nipkov had been transferred to London, Geraldine had received an official request to look into the case. Her questioning tactics were notorious - she was ruthless, cunning and known to be able to break a witness. The Ministry used several professionals for such cases - and Geraldine Mather was, though self-employed, on their list of contacts.

She was looking forward to this. She liked her job and she knew, self consciously, that she was good at it. If Nipkov was telling the truth, he had nothing to fear from her - if on the other hand, he was lying, he'd be on the first plane home to Mother Russia and she would personally see that he didn't miss it.

She had also read in the report that Nipkov would be guarded around the clock until a decision about his status was made. Apart from a marginal note that said that security was in the hands of a trusted force, a section of MI6, there was no further information available. Geraldine knew that there were several small groups operating independently but under strict order of the Ministry or even the Prime Minister who were asked to assist in such circumstances. She knew that his security was now the least of her problems and feeling in control and ready for the meeting, she headed for 'La Pierre', the quiet establishment where she was supposed to meet Iwan Nipkov.

She was much too early, of course. Traffic had been kind to her and so Geraldine decided to take a walk in the lovely park directly behind 'La Pierre'. It was very quiet - at this time of day not many visitors came as most of them were at work. Only a lost dog sniffed around and a little up ahead Geraldine could see an elderly couple pushing a baby stroller. The weather was excellent - a hint of the warm summer that was to come. All around her flowers bloomed and the green of the trees filtered the sunlight on the pebbles of the walking lanes. She took a seat on one of the park benches and let the sunshine touch her skin. I should get out more, she thought, enjoying the warmth that caressed her cheeks. I should get out more and leave the thugs and violence behind.

It dawned to her when she walked back to the restaurant that there was a terrace overlooking the park. That must be new - she had not seen that wing before. The French doors were open and the owner of the restaurant, a man named Arnold, was calmly arranging tables and chairs in the sunlit area. Geraldine had met him before on a few occasions - she also knew that he would keep the establishment closed until their meeting was over, so unexpected visitors wouldn't bother them. Even Arnold would disappear to a place out of earshot, she knew. What he wouldn't hear, he couldn't tell. Public but private - and it worked well, because many such arrangements had been held here at La Pierre.

She decided to look into the new wing, which seemed to invite her to come in with its wide open doors and the warm atmosphere the entrance offered. The smell of fresh paint and wooden furniture reached her. It was new, no doubt about that. All alone in the large room, she carefully studied the pictures on the wall, the sculptures that were placed in front of mirrors, and admired the skill and the craftsmanship of the creators. This was so good, so…

A shot! And another one!

Geraldine couldn't move. She was hardly aware of a ricocheting bullet that grazed her arm - like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car she stood frozen for a second. When another shot sounded it shook her up and she dived for shelter to the closest spot near her - a large wooden cabinet. Frightened she quickly looked around to see where the sound came from. Her eyes saw a figure reflected in one of the mirrors. She couldn't take her eyes off of the spectacle that unfolded in the mirror. Two men were firing at unseen opponents on the other end of adjacent room. A noise, which she guessed was a piece of furniture falling, brought an end to their shooting. The two men pushed their weapons into the pockets of their jackets, watched the result of their actions for a few seconds more, spoke to each other in a language that Geraldine didn't understand and then left.

Geraldine was frightened but she was not a coward. There were people hurt in that room and…

A thought struck her. Nipkov!

With trembling hands she pulled the French doors to the adjacent room open and went in. Nipkov, she recognised his face from the dossier, was on the ground, bleeding heavily - but he was still breathing. His bodyguard had toppled over a table and taken it down in his fall. He was dead.

Quickly Geraldine grabbed the nearest phone, called the security alarm number of the Ministry of Defence and after that offered the Russian first aid. He was in a bad state but his eyes were open and he followed her movements. Was that a good sign or was he beyond pain and about to take his final breath? She took his hand to offer some comfort and noticed the blood running from her arm onto his clothes. As she waited for the ambulance with one hand pressing his veins shut, she realised that within a few minutes the case had shifted entirely.

Geraldine Mather's status had changed from prosecutor into witness.

*

"You want me to do what?"

"You heard me, Doyle. You are going to watch the Russian and Miss Mather in the hospital."

"Sir - she tried to tear me apart in the Coogan case. No - not me - you, sir. This organisation!" Doyle's voice pitched in anger. This was unbelievable.

Cowley had just informed him about his new assignment. A member of the Security Squad had been killed while guarding a Russian defector. There was a witness, named Geraldine Mather, whose life might be in danger now as well. The Russian was severely injured in a London hospital, where the doctors were doing everything to save his life.

Geraldine Mather, he had said… as if he was talking about someone stranger. The moment the name rolled from Cowley's lips, Doyle had frozen... it was as if a little devil sat down on his shoulder and began laughing at him, loudly and mockingly. During the case with Peter and John Coogan she had tried to put Doyle on the list of unemployed, followed closely by Cowley and Bodie and thus dismantle the entire organisation of CI5. She had not believed in their motives - she had called them lovers of violence and guns and arms. Made them look like fools - monkeys he had said to Bodie. Cowley's desperate plea to the judges and the committee had not lost its effect but it wasn't until Bodie and Doyle had shown up with a beaten up witness that all the charges had been dropped. Doyle's blood was boiling. She had tried to debunk everything and now he was supposed to guard her?

"Doyle," Cowley's voice reached him with a sudden compassion, "she was just doing her job. She's a professional. It's not up to us to judge her for what she does and there's certainly no point in looking back all the time. That was then - this is now. I've got my orders straight from the Prime Minister and I have no intention of going against those orders for the sake of an old feud. Show her what CI5 is and make her forget what she thinks it is."

"Well, I have no intention of forgetting that, sir!" Doyle spat, "She made me look like a fool, act like a moron and feel like a monkey. If she--"

"In that case I'd say she had a pretty good foresight of what you've turned out to be," Cowley interrupted sharply.

"Take Murph! Or Jax!"

"Murphy is with Nipkov already - I sent him there fifteen minutes ago. I want you to keep an eye on Miss Mather, 4.5. You were angry when I dragged you away from Bodie's bedside last week. You wanted to be in the hospital, didn't you? Well, you'd better brush up your bedside manners because you are going to be there. At the side of the Russian and Miss Mather - where she goes, you go."

"But…"

"You're expected in half an hour, 4.5."

Ray slammed the door shut. He hit the wall so hard that a bit of plaster came loose. Slowly it swirled to the floor. The devil on Doyle's shoulder laughed and whispered "I told you - monkey business again".

*

The morning had passed in the same routine as usual. Bodie had woken up, Nurse Ratchett had washed him, then he had carefully taken some of the ultra light food he was on, and had almost immediately dozed off again.

He woke when he became aware of somebody fiddling with the control handle of the bed wheels.

"Ah, good morning, Mister Brodie."

"Bo-die," Bodie mumbled, "What are you doing?"

"You're scheduled for X-rays. I'm taking you there."

For a moment the message didn't get through. The concussion still played tricks with 3.7's mind.

"Taking me where?"

"To the X-ray room, of course."

Suddenly Bodie's head was clearer.

"Not like this. Not in a bed."

"I'm afraid so. You're in no condition to walk," said the nurse cheerfully.

Bodie grabbed the man's arm.

"Not like this." His words were so sharp and the grip on the nurse's arm was so tight, that the man swallowed and knew this patient wasn't kidding. "Find me a wheel chair."

"But… but…" the nurse stammered, unaccustomed to be spoken to like this.

"Not in a bed." Bodie repeated with just enough power of persuasion.

Deciding against his better judgement, the nurse freed his arm from the iron grip and left Bodie's room. After a few minutes he came back with a wheel chair. He looked uncomfortable.

"I'm not sure if this is such a good idea…" he began but stopped when Bodie waved his doubts away.

"Stop whinging and give me a hand," Bodie grumbled and with some effort the nurse helped the headstrong man into the chair. After adjusting the leg support, he wheeled Bodie out of the room, through the corridors and into the elevator that lead to the X-ray rooms.

Bodie didn't want to appear weak, but he closed his eyes as he passed through the corridors. The motion of the elevator as it went up and came to a stop made his stomach protest vigorously. He couldn't tell what was worse: the bright lights which hurt his eyes or the buzzing in his head - as if a swarm of flies were implanted in his skull. It made him feel dizzy and he got very nauseous. The nurse helped him onto a table and lowered him before he had the chance to lie down himself - apparently his escort had noticed his uneasiness and to spare him the humiliation of having to say he had to lie down, took control in an almost unnoticeable way.

When, after the X-rays were taken, he was wheeled back to his private ward, he was so exhausted that he wanted only one thing: to lie down. All in all it hadn't taken longer than twenty minutes but Bodie would have preferred a two hour jog over this torture.

He only half noticed the nurse helping him back into bed again. The lights were dimmed, the chair was placed in a corner of the room and the door was closed.

But sleep didn't take over. His mind whirled with images that randomly pushed themselves into his mind - it was as if he was unable to place them in their context and they formed a confusing melange of sounds and images. Then a voice cut through the cacophony.

"Mr Bodie, what's wrong?" he heard the female nurse's voice, worriedly enquiring why he moaned.

"Are you hurting? Should I call the Doctor?"

He was aware of the sting of the needle that entered his arm. The sedative quickly did what it was developed for and knocked him out within two minutes.

Bodie hovered in that peculiar zone between barely sleeping and waking up. He sensed things around him but he couldn't seem to react to them. After a few words, he recognised the voice that spoke as Ray's and he was also aware that his partner was talking to him.

"… won't believe this. Of all people, Cowley asks me to baby-sit Geraldine Mather. Sometimes I wish I could strangle that old Scot with my bare hands. Geraldine Mather, for crying out loud! She wanted to nail me for-- for that piece of shit! She would have enjoyed seeing me dangle from the highest tree… Damn damn damn!"

Bodie grasped what was being said, even though he didn't understand the full picture. From what he had been able to gather, Doyle was supposed to look after Miss Mather.

Miss Mather…

Through the fog he remembered her. Attractive, curly shoulder long hair, beautiful eyes, perfect skin, slim body - intelligent, cunning and out to get Ray to pay for the death of some scumbag. He understood Doyle's resentment. But his body couldn't yet react to his mind. Ray, you're on your own, he thought.

"… drop in occasionally but it might be a while - dunno what that -- that -- bitch has seen or witnessed. The Cow wasn't able yet to fill me in on the details. No sense beatin' around the bush. See you, Bodie." A frustrated sigh followed the words. "Your timing as usual is lousy. And God - how can you sleep so much?!"

I tried to get up this morning - honest. Sorry Ray, I won't do it again, he replied sarcastically but the words never reached his lips. The soft click when the door was opened and closed again told the man in the bed that his companion had left the room - off to his baby-sitting job. Bodie was aware of a surge of regret before the velvet darkness took over again.

*

Miss Mather moved the sore fingers of her left arm. Where the bullet had grazed her flesh she experienced a warm tingling sensation. The pounding had not yet started but the Doctor had assured her that it would come, that it was normal and that there was no need to worry about it. He had pushed a little brown paper bag into her hand that contained several painkillers and advised her to take one before it really started to hurt.

Her teeth rattled against the ceramic of the cup of tea she was given. Now that the biggest adrenaline rush was wearing off, the side effect of shock began to appear. She trembled, and could feel the wild beating in her chest when she recalled the scene in the restaurant and cold sweat formed on her back. She couldn't keep her hands still anymore.

An Emergency Team had arrived at La Pierre's a few minutes after her call and taken over immediately. Nipkov was transported almost immediately from the restaurant's lounge into the operating theatre of the London hospital. One of the men had turned to her, seen her injury and brought her to the First Aid Emergency Ward. While a skilful doctor had performed his sewing techniques on her, the Ministry had arranged for a bodyguard for both Nipkov and her. She didn't know who, from what organisation, or for how long - she hadn't spoken to anyone yet. The first goal was to get both her and Nipkov into safety - the talking and explaining would come later.

"Miss Mather?"

She jumped, startled, when a voice from behind her said her name. Instantly she recognised it as a blast from the past - the CI5 man. The short tempered, hot headed curly agent who had killed a man with a blow that ruptured the victim's spleen. Or maybe he hadn't - that was still unclear. Of all people…?

"Mr Doyle." She stood up slowly and searched in his eyes for a sign of recognition, resentment or maybe even hatred. But the green eyes that looked back at her were blank and expressionless.

"Please tell me what happened - in as much detail as you can remember," he said simply and strolled to the window where he looked down at the parking lot, crossed his arms over his chest and waited for her to begin.

She swallowed. She had hoped for a professional - and she got one. He left the dispute that had been the cause of their friction where it was and focussed on the present. Actually she was strangely grateful for the somewhat clinical approach. The less she had to open up emotionally, the smaller the chances she would crack up in front of him - which was something she wanted to avoid at all costs.

Geraldine Mather started talking. Not once did Doyle interrupt - he only stared out the window or flipped his attention to a faded poster on the wall, never giving her the impression of being interested in what she had experienced. He perched a bit differently on the windowsill, wedged his foot between the frame and the wall, and rested his arm on his bent knee. He buried his fingers in his curls.

When she was finished he didn't speak for a minute or two. Then he surprised her by saying:

"Again."

"I beg your pardon?" she replied, confused.

"Again, please. From the start."

She was about to ask him if he'd heard anything at all of what she'd been telling when she noticed something in his body language, which she hadn't spotted before. It was as if he was trying to see the larger picture.

"I left my house at a quarter past one. I--"

"Stop. You said apartment first. What is it? An apartment or a house?" He had been listening.

"An apartment," she answered and at his nod, continued, "It only took me twenty minutes to get to La Pierre's. I thought it was further away and --"

"Why? Why did you recall that? When have you been there before?"

"On several occasions, actually, although the last time was over 18 months ago. I went there for both private as well as business matters. They serve excellent meals and also have an ideal place for meetings."

"So how come you got there so quickly?"

"Traffic was low and there's a new road which wasn't open the last time I went there," Geraldine said thoughtfully. He nodded again.

"It was only twenty-five to two and the weather was good, so - as I said - I decided to take a walk in the park behind the restaurant."

"Where did you park your car?"

"To the right side of the restaurant. There was shade there - the parking lot in front is entirely in the sun."

"Did you see any cars in the parking lot? Or where you parked yours?"

"Erm… there were a few cars, at the parking, I think. Not where I had put my car though."

"Did you see anyone entering after you got out? Or anything unusual?"

"No - not at all. It was very quiet. Can't say that I paid much attention. There might have been someone, but I don't think so."

He shifted away from the window a little and she squeezed her eyes shut against the incoming sunlight. Doyle's curly hair was lit by it. Almost as if he's got an aura, Geraldine thought. He said something to her that almost escaped her attention.

"Go on."

"I closed the door of my car. Walked--"

"Did you take anything with you? A purse or something?" To her affirmative nod he asked, "Did you leave it in the car?"

"I put my briefcase in the boot but took my purse along. Matter of habit, I suppose. I walked through the park, sat on a park bench for a while and headed back around ten to two. That was when I saw the new terrace wing."

"You hadn't seen anyone? Spoken to anyone in the park? Did someone see you?"

"No, apart from the elderly couple I told you about. I saw Albert, the owner, working at the terrace. I asked him about the new wing and he said I could go in and take a look. There --"

"Wait. You spoke to him - for how long? What about? Did he call you by name?"

"Yes, he certainly did. I've known him for quite a few years. We didn't really talk - it was more 'good afternoon' and 'how are you'. I just asked about the new wing and he said if I liked to, I could go in and take a look. Which is what I did." She shivered suddenly as the scene from the restaurant came back.

"There was a door that led to the lounge but it wasn't open. I didn't pay attention to it - I looked at the sculptures and paintings. They're very beautiful and--" She fell quiet.

"I know - I've seen them too." Doyle said, much to her surprise. She couldn't see his face because of the sun in her eyes. But she could have sworn she heard an unexpected mildness in the tone of his voice.

"Next thing I knew was the shot - the shots. The door to the lounge was closed and I don't think they saw me. One of the shots shattered the window in the door. I saw their reflection in the mirror when I ducked for shelter behind a big cabinet."

"Describe the men, please."

"There were two of them. They wore dark clothes, trousers, sweatshirts and short jackets. Black or maybe dark blue. They looked well trained, slim. One had dark blond hair, fair and he had a moustache. He was wearing sun glasses. The other one had darker hair, in a pony tail and very long sideburns; he also wore sun glasses. That's all. They spoke to each other when they - when they were done."

"You heard them talking?"

"Yes - Russian, from what I could gather. But it all happened very fast and in such a blur - I might be wrong. They left, they ran out the door."

"What happened next?"

"I ran over to Nipkov who was on the floor. I checked for vital signs, called the Emergency team of the Ministry of Defence and when they came they took over."

"I know what comes next, yes," Doyle nodded slowly. "Why are you here? Did Nipkov ask for you? Why didn't you go with the men of the Emergency squad?"

Again she was surprised. He had noticed so much but he hadn't seen she'd been injured? Even though she had asked the doctor to keep quiet about it, she had assumed he knew.

"Because the Doctor wanted to check me out for shock," she lied. It felt odd to admit to an injury. She was pretty certain he would regard the graze as unimportant and trivial. She would not grant him the satisfaction of knowing she had been hurt.

"Did Nipkov say anything, while you were waiting for the ambulance?"

"He mumbled a few things in Russian, but I couldn't understand. He was in pain and scared, that much was obvious. He wouldn't let go of my hand until he was wheeled into the ambulance."

"I see. How did you get here?"

"Sorry? Oh - one of the Rescue men drove me here. My car is still at La Pierre's."

Doyle nodded, apparently in deep thought. Quite suddenly he jumped to his feet and said: "Come on, let's get your car. You've seen enough for one day."

*

Doyle gallantly held the door open for her and followed her out of the room. Professionally he had switched off his aversion towards Miss Geraldine Mather and everything she stood for - the narrow minded view of people who knew nothing whatsoever of the work of CI5. Those who judged so easily, who thought they knew about the stress and good and bad and justice and injustice and what was wrong and what was right. Sometimes the borderline was thin, so thin that even the most hardened agents lost their grip on reality. Black and white? The area were they were working was one grey field where every nuance was important and could make the difference between life and death. But her kind - they had blinkers on and refused to see there was more to it than waving a gun and a badge.

He looked at her back. Her brown hair curled lightly and fell shoulder long down. She was slender, well built and very feminine. An echo from the past whispered in his ear - Bodie, saying that she could prosecute him any time. Ha! That was before she'd torn him off before the committee.

It wasn't until then that he noticed the speckles on the white blouse, but still thought little of it. The speckles were probably from Nipkov's blood. It was a bit of an odd place though. Then again, blood seemed to splatter to the most unlikely of likely places, he had learned through the years. She put her blazer over her shoulders and he forgot about the stains.

She walked wearily, a little shaken and he decided she was just tired and needed a drink and a good night's rest. They walked in silence through the grey painted corridor, their shoes clicking on the vinyl floor. It was the only sound that accompanied them and the quiet was uncomfortable. The feeling of unity they had shared for a moment was gone when they had left the room.

A woman, dressed in white came their way and Doyle saw it was Nurse Ratchett, the woman who was taking care of Bodie.

"Hello," he greeted her.

"Oh, Mr Doyle. Have you been to Bodie today?"

"Yes, but he was asleep. Has he gone into some kind of remission? He doesn't seem to be doing anything else but sleeping."

"He certainly did this morning. Declared himself fit for a ride in a wheelchair and ended up so miserable and sick that we had to sedate him to prevent things from getting worse."

Oh. Doyle was numbed for a second. "That's Bodie for ya - if he can find a way to leave, he will."

"He won't for at least two more weeks, Mr Doyle. But what I wanted to ask you - he asked me to tell you to post the blue envelope on the sideboard at home. Tax return papers and they're due end of the week. He remembered yesterday but as he was in no condition to talk to you so I said I'd ask you."

She smiled. Doyle liked her, she had the maternal warmth of a caring person who had ended up exactly where her skills came out best and he knew Bodie was in good hands.

"I'll post it, don't worry. And thanks for reminding me. I'll tell Bodie to buy you a big box of chocolates when he's back on his feet. "

She chuckled, said goodbye to the two of them and left.

"Mr Bodie is here?" The voice of Geraldine Mather was soft and puzzled.

"Yes," answered Doyle curtly. It's Bodie without the mister. What did she care?

"I'm sorry. Is he injured badly?"

Doyle didn't answer but she stopped him by putting a hand with long fingers on his arm.

"Mr Doyle? What is wrong with him? What happened?"

Their eyes met, only shortly, and to his surprise Doyle saw a genuine worry shadowing in her glance.

"He was whacked over the head by Jerry and John Milton, two--"

"Two rough thugs who thieve and rape and are not afraid to use violence," She filled in before he could finish her sentence. To his look she shrugged a little apologetically. "I once prosecuted them. Bad news, those two. What happened?"

"A robbery, a chase, we ended up in forest. Bodie got caught in a poacher's trap and Jerry tried to use his head as a baseball. We sho-- we rendered both men harmless but Bodie was badly hurt. Concussed, his leg a mess… "

Miss Mather nodded and said softly, "I'm sorry. It must be hard on him."

Doyle sighed and continued, "He'll be alright but it will take a long time to recover."

"Especially if he pulls stunts like he did this morning," she remarked with dry humour. Doyle couldn't hold back a chuckle. But he checked himself when he saw her face lighting up. Don't you make cheap jokes on other people's behalf, lady.

"Let's go," he said coolly and gestured her out the swing doors into the warm afternoon air.

The green Ford Fiesta stood where Miss Mather had parked it that afternoon, to the right side of La Pierre's. Doyle got out of the Capri, told Miss Mather to stay put and checked it out first. It hadn't been tampered with, he saw to his relief. Then he signalled her over. She exited the Capri and walked, a little unsteadily, over to her car. When she reached Doyle he suddenly saw her eyes losing focus and was just in time to grab her before she lost control over her legs.

"Ouch..." she hissed and Doyle saw her flinching as he tried to hold her.

"What the…" Quickly he let go of her arm and made her lean against the car, "Easy, Miss Mather. Easy does it. Take a few deep breaths." He watched her with an inquisitive look. She was pale, but had been like that all the time. He had contributed it to shock. He could see sweat forming on her forehead and noticed her breathing was shaky. He waited until she steadied her breathing, fetched a small flask from the glove compartment of the Capri and made her drink some of the whiskey. "Better?"

She shook her head and began to mutter an apology. Doyle peeled off her blazer and saw the tear in the sleeve and the red flowered fabric around it. Beneath the white cloth he could see a bandaged upper arm.

"What's wrong with your arm? What happened?" he inquired, the sarcasm and bitterness disappearing from his voice. She didn't answer but looked embarrassed. "You got hit? They fired at you?"

"No, no, no," she replied and shook her head, "it was a ricocheting bullet, I think. They weren't aiming at me - they didn't even see me."

"Why didn't you tell me? I would have taken you home first and ask questions later." Doyle said, trying not to sound unfriendly.

"It seemed so unimportant, compared to Nipkov's injuries. I didn't want to sound like I was complaining about it."

" Was it a graze?"

She nodded and let out a shivering sigh.

"You're in no state to drive. Come on, I'll drive you home. You can sleep and we'll look into this further in the morning." She was tougher than he'd given her credit for, he had to admit. Even a graze was nasty and this was no exception.

"Wait," she said suddenly before Doyle could shift gear, "My briefcase. It's in the boot and it better not stay there."

"Good thinking," he acknowledged, went back to pick up the briefcase and then drove to Miss Mather's home.

*

Bodie woke with a feeling he described afterwards as Fluid Shit. He could remember harassing the nurse to take him to the X-ray room in a wheelchair and how much he had overestimated his own strength. He was so nauseous now that he could only lie very still - one false movement would send him over the edge. A lot of what had happened after that was gone - a pounding headache and a painful leg had taken its place. The pain in his leg just kept getting worse. It set the grey cells to work. The chances of a full recovery for his leg seemed so small - what would he, no, what could he do if it wasn't in this line of work? His head wasn't very co-operative yet, but he knew from experience that that would change. The headache, and the dizziness and nausea it caused would fade in a couple of weeks, he could start planning properly then. He liked being a fisherman, like his dad had been. He had enough funds to buy a trawler and do it, but…. But would his leg hold?

Bile rose in his throat. He couldn't tell if it was the realisation that he might not be able to use his leg as he had been up to now or if the concussion was playing tricks on him.

He only just had time to hang his head over the edge of the bed, retch and throw up on the dark blue floor. Out of nowhere the cool and soothing hands of Nurse Ratchett helped him. Her voice was worried.

"Done, Bodie? Is that it?" she asked softly and pushed him back gently. Quickly she checked him out, his pulse, his temperature and his physical appearance. He couldn't bear to face her. Embarrassment about throwing up and littering the ward made him feel bad as it was - but he also couldn't show her that something had struck home. The message of the doctor made itself heard, shouting through the pain in his leg to listen. Wake up Moses, smell the roses, whispered a vindictive voice from a corner of his mind.

"Bodie? What is it?" she pushed again. She saw it, even though she couldn't say what exactly. There wasn't much that escaped her attention - even his smirk couldn't fool her.

"m tired. Me leg 'urts", he mumbled.

"I'll have the Doctor check on you when I'm done", she said gently, and that made him feel even worse. Lying to her hurt even more. "I bumped into Mr Doyle and told him what you told me about the tax return papers. He said he'd mail them," she talked calmly while cleaning him up first and after that the floor. Then she told him he'd been in the company of a woman. No, she didn't know a name. The woman was attractive yes, but it was unclear if she was a friend or a colleague.

Bodie closed his eyes. For the first time since he'd been here, even nurse Ratchett was too much for him. He was tired, very tired and the pain that radiated in his leg contributed to his general feeling of misery. Cowley would come in soon, tell him his days in CI5 were over and he would be given an ugly golden fountain pen which wouldn't work. He would tell him that the leg injury was a shame, and if it hadn't been for that trifling matter he would have been able to stay. All things considered he hadn't gained one bloody thing from all these years. Look at the sacrifice - he couldn't use his leg anymore. All for God, Queen and Country. All for CI5. And Doyle wasn't one bit better, pulling some bird while he was stuck here. Ray was having fun while he was fighting a private war. Screw you, Ray Doyle! Screw you, George Cowley! Screw CI5!

*

The ride home had been in silence. Doyle pondered on Miss Mather's unexpected behaviour, while Geraldine tried to get herself in check. It was clear her energy levels were running low after all that had happened and she needed a good rest. The CI5 man had asked for the right direction to her apartment and drove there quickly but carefully. Once they had reached her flat, he parked the Capri in the garage in the basement and helped Miss Mather out. He carried her briefcase while leading her to her home. He stopped her every time she wanted to open a door or take a corner and checked it out first. One impatient gesture of his hand and she handed him her keys, opened up and did a quick scan. Once he found the place was safe, he let her in and closed and bolted the door thoroughly.

"Are you expecting someone?" Geraldine asked.

"Nope, but doesn't hurt to be careful," Doyle replied. He took her blazer, put it in a closet and took a closer look at her features. She was almost swaying on her feet.

"Why don't you take an aspirin and go to bed?"

"Yes," she replied with a shuddering sigh, "yes, that might actually be a good idea."

Without another word she turned away from him, went into her bedroom and shut the door behind her. In the quiet, clean bedroom she kicked her shoes off, threw her blazer onto a chair and undressed. She fell onto the bed, exhausted, and even though she had expected not to be able to sleep, she was asleep in less than five minutes.

Doyle fetched an orange juice from the kitchen and sat down on the couch. He let his eyes roam through the apartment. It was smartly furnished and decorated - tasteful and expensive, Doyle thought and noticed his own resentment, with money that's been used to free criminals.

Cowley had emphasised that she had only been doing her job. Deep down, Doyle knew his boss was right - he had said the same to many girls who broke off their friendship with him for a similar reason. They didn't like what he was involved in, they didn't like him to carry weaponry, they didn't like his interest in martial arts and combat - even though he had told them many times that he was only doing his job.

Can't compare the two, Ray, whispered a little voice, you catch the criminals to bring them to justice, she releases them for money. One nod of her pretty head and all your hard work goes down the drain.

Restlessly he stood up and paced the room. Over a fireplace he observed a reproduction by Van Gogh - crows in cornfield. He took a step closer and to his surprise he saw it wasn't a printed poster, but a genuine painting. Somebody had copied, quite good actually, the artist's flamboyant brush work and lively oil paint colours. Doyle had to admit - it was done quite beautifully. He stepped closer to it until he was only inches away from the painting. In the corner of the picture he saw letters below the crude Van Gogh signature: GAM. Geraldine A-something Mather? Would she paint as well, just like he did to unwind? He returned to the couch and, while taking in the warm, lively colours of the reproduction, his eyelids slowly drooped, after making a mental note to ask about the initials.

In the middle of the night the telephone rang. Doyle was wide awake even before the first ring had died completely and jumped up - he didn't know if Miss Mather had a phone in her bedroom but he assumed she didn't because the ringing continued consistently. He grabbed the telephone, which had a long extension cord, went over to her bedroom, knocked once and entered. She was asleep and hadn't heard the ringing. Carefully he shook her naked shoulder, on which only a small strap of lace was visible. "Miss Mather, wake up. Phone call, might be important."

She opened a sleepy eye and gazed at him with little comprehension for a moment. Then she pushed herself up and accepted the telephone. She listened, spoke little and hung up after a minute.

"That was the hospital - Iwan Nipkov has asked for me. He wants to make a statement and is apparently determined to talk to me."

Doyle couldn't help being attracted to her body. She was a good-looking woman indeed and in the shady light of the corridor his eyes found a firm body, well-shaped breasts which were held by a lace brazier, slightly muscular arms - one of which was bandaged even more than he'd expected - and a nice flat stomach. She kept in shape, from what he could tell.

She was suddenly aware of his looks because she piously drew the sheets higher and said, uneasily: "Give me a moment to get dressed."

He nodded abruptly and left the room, angry with himself for giving in to the enticements of the flesh so easily. To get his mind off these powerful thoughts he forced himself to focus on the case. For a moment he considered using his RT and calling Murphy at the hospital to tell him they were on their way, but then he recalled that RT's were not allowed in the hospital.

Faster than he'd expected Miss Mather appeared next to him in the living room. The business like blazer and skirt had been changed for tight blue jeans and a grey sports sweater. She'd put an elastic band in her hair and the ponytail gave her a youthful look. Quickly she tied her shoes, fetched purse and briefcase and gave him a look of 'ready to go'.

*

It was very dark, a moonless sky and the headlights of the car pierced the darkness. Doyle drove quickly, undisturbed by traffic and while steering, he picked up the microphone from the dashboard and checked in with CI5 HQ. Ruth Pettifer, who was on the night shift, took his message and promised to pass it onto Cowley when he arrived in the morning. Next to Doyle, Miss Mather had been observing him and asked, when he broke off the connection, "Is that standard procedure?"

"Yes, ma'am. We're always supposed to call in and report on what we're about to do, especially when we're in the company of a witness, like yourself."

She tapped her chin thoughtfully and mumbled "I see. It's imperative that HQ knows where we are, then?"

Doyle only nodded and suddenly remembered the painting over the fireplace. He didn't feel like discussing company policy with this woman and chose a different subject - oddly enough the initials on the painting were the first that came to mind.

"Who is GAM, Miss Mather?"

He heard her laugh quietly, and then she replied by asking him a question.

"You've been looking at the Van Gogh imitation, right?"

"Do you always answer a question by posing another?" Doyle snapped irritated. He shifted gears and changed lanes. A feeling which he could not quite put his finger on, had settled beneath his skin. It made him uneasy. He threw another glance in his rear view mirrors.

"Buckle up, Miss Mather," he unexpectedly summoned her. "Please."

She lost her laughter instantly.

"Is something wrong?"

"I don't know - just a hunch."

The ride continued in silence. Doyle kept looking around, trying to spot tails or unexpected visitors in his mirrors, but nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. As far as he could tell, they were not being followed. For a moment he considered giving HQ a call but as there was nothing right now which supported his hunch he abandoned the idea. He drove the Capri straight into the hospital's parking garage one floor below street level. He got out carefully and scanned the area around him. Then he opened the passenger door and, not losing his guard for one minute, guided her to the doors that would lead them upstairs.

Miss Mather had picked up on his concern. She moved like he did, quickly and silently, looking around her for anything suspicious. Without even a hint of trouble, they reached the floor where Nipkov's room was and everything seemed very normal. There was little light on in the hallway. Up ahead Doyle saw Murphy seated on a bright red plastic chair. He was taking a little kip, dozed off over a book he'd been reading on his lap. Every so often, most of the agents took advantage of the quiet moments to sleep in the most unconventional places and uncomfortable seats. Murphy was no exception.

"Murph - Nipkov has--" Doyle broke off when he touched Murphy's shoulder and before he could hold him, his fellow agent fell sideways to the hard floor. Even in the dimness of the nightlight Doyle could see a web of blood running down his temple. He crouched next to his partner, decided Murphy could do without his help for the moment, and simultaneously took his gun from the holster. Murphy moaned, hovering on the edge of consciousness. Miss Mather pushed her back against the wall and Doyle was in front of her in one step.

The swing doors through which they had entered flew open with a bang, and shouts echoed through the corridor. Two silhouettes were visible.

"Doyle!" cried Miss Mather in terror.

4.5 grabbed her hand and ran off with her in the opposite direction, pushing against doors and running as if the devil himself was chasing them. If it had been only him, he would have paused, turned and fired but with Miss Mather he felt exposed and handicapped. She could run fast, he noticed. Thank goodness for the comfortable shoes and the sporty outfit - at least she wasn't hindered by formal clothing.

At the end of the hallway another door opened and two more men appeared. Behind them, Doyle and Miss Mather could hear the shuffling feet of running men. Doyle yanked at Geraldine's arm and pulled her into the stairwell. For a split second Doyle stood still to think: up or down?

"Go up to room 216, it's Bodie's," Doyle hurried to say while taking the stairs two at a time and pushed Murphy's gun into her hands, "wake him up if you have to, tell him what happened and call CI5. Keep to the walls so they won't spot you."

"You?"

"I'll divert them. Go, go!"

She didn't hesitate, and followed his orders immediately. He waited for a few seconds, saw her running up before she took the side of the walls and soon he could no longer hear her footsteps as she moved lightly and unheard.

Doyle ran down. Big letters on the fire escape doors indicated which floor he was on. He had only just passed the door when he heard the banging noise that told him they had found the same exit. He could take them out - he only needed a place to stand behind and from where he had a good view on his assailants. He hoped they'd concentrate on him, seeing him fleeing down the stairs and presuming the woman was with him.

He heard shouting, followed by shots that echoed through the bald walls, and the adrenaline rush gave Doyle wings - he leaped down, only once stopping to look up and fire. A cry, followed by that unmistakable sound of somebody falling down the stairs told him he'd taken out at least one. Grimly he pushed against the only door in corridor and discovered he had landed in some kind of prosthesis ward. This was a laboratory, a place in which hands, feet, legs and arms were dangling from the ceiling. Unable to go elsewhere with the Russians so close behind him, he ran in and found shelter behind a desk full of artificial ears, noses and fingers. It gave him the shivers. He waited, gun in hand, for them to come in through the door.

Quickly and silently Geraldine ran upstairs, murmuring gratitude for her stamina. All those hours in the gym finally pay off, she thought with a bitter taste of satisfaction. She stopped when she saw a door which was marked '2' with one giant blue letter.

Room 216, Doyle had said. But Bodie? Bodie was in no shape to be able to do more than sleep, she'd concluded from what she had heard.

She heard shouting, heavy voices and then shots were fired. She took a deep breath, crossed the little landing which would expose her for just a few seconds and pushed the bar down to open the heavy door. It squeaked as if somebody was strangling a cat and immediately there was a reaction from downstairs. First shouting, loud voices again, and then footsteps came up the stairs.

Geraldine ran through the corridors in search for room 216. A night nurse was working in a ward and did not see her as she ran by. Frantically she read the numbers on the doors- 214, 215… nothing for a while and then - there it was: room 216.

She pushed the door open and recognised, even though the light was poor, the sleeping man in the bed at once.

"Mister Bodie?"

A grumble came from the bed.

"Is it morning already? Don't want tha' bloody thermometer, sjust now."

Despite her fears a nervous little laughter welled up.

'Mister Bodie, Mister Doyle sent me. Wake up, he's in danger."

Another grumble came from the bed. "It's Bo-die," followed by a less sleepy, "What's happening?"

She pinched his arm.

"Come on, Bodie, Doyle said I could count on you. Wake up, please! He's in danger!"

That message hit home. The man in the bed opened two incredibly blue eyes and the drowsiness in his voice was completely gone.

"Doyle? In danger? Miss Mather, is that you?"

From the bed he saw her startle. She froze when she heard muffled sounds in the hallway, approaching rapidly. Doors were opened and closed again.

"Hop in, Miss Mather," Bodie whispered and held the sheets and blankets aside so she could lie down next to him, keeping himself between her and the door. She didn't hesitate for a second and slid under the covers. She pushed herself as close to him as she could while he slowly turned to his side so he could face the door. He could feel how she shoved something cold and heavy towards him.

"This is from your colleague. Doyle said to give it to you," she whispered.

"Shh," he only mumbled curtly. His sensitive fingers took off the safety and he tightened his grip around the gun below the sheet. Only seconds later the door went open slowly. Bodie breathed, slowly and rhythmically as though he was asleep but through his eyelashes he peered at the silhouette in the doorway. There was just one man, and he came in, not even trying to keep quiet. He walked around the bed, looked behind the opened door and ducked under the bed to see if his victim was there.

One firm blow to the back of his head sent him to dreamland. Soundlessly he slid to the floor. Bodie held still, waiting for more men to arrive. But none came.

"Come on, Miss, help me. We've got to find Doyle," he said.

Miss Mather stuck her head out from under the covers. It provoked a grin on Bodie's face and he smirked: "I didn't expect you to join me in bed so easily, Miss Mather."

She put on an aggrieved expression and inside Bodie chuckled.

"Don't worry - I won't tell anyone if you won't," then he turned serious and said, "Get the wheelchair and help me out. I can't walk but I sure as hell haven't forgotten how to shoot."

Without any further questions Miss Mather jumped out of the bed, released the brake on the wheelchair that stood in the corner of the room and rolled it to Bodie, who had pushed himself up to a sitting position. While she helped him from the bed onto the wheelchair, she quickly explained what had happened and finished with: "Doyle said I had to call CI5."

"Yeah - they should send reinforcements," Bodie agreed and held on the armrests, waiting for the slight dizziness to evade. He could feel the pain flashing in his leg, which was held in a plaster splint, as he had asked to reduce the amount of painkillers he was still on.

"There was a man in the corridor, Doyle called him Murph - he was out cold."

Carefully they exited the room and entered the hall. It was empty. Quickly Miss Mather pushed Bodie in the wheelchair to the elevator. The leg support came first, followed by Bodie and Miss Mather. Bodie realised that made them an easy target. If they had to appear somewhere, they had to be fast or the leg support would betray them.

"Where did he go?" he wanted to know, meanwhile thinking about Murphy being out cold and Doyle somewhere on his own, having to fight off two or three armed attackers.

"I don't know - down was all he said. I went up, we were on the second floor."

"That leaves the first floor and is there a basement?"

"Yes plus a parking garage - that's in the basement too."

The doors of the elevator swooshed open with a 'ping'-sound.

"The basement - that sounds most logical. His car is there," Miss Mather figured.

"His car. His car." Bodie mumbled, overtaken by a slight feeling of disorientation when the elevator moved downward.

"His car - that silver Ford. It's in the parking below the first floor," She shook him from his reverie. "Mr Bodie, did you hear me?"

"His car - euh.. yes, yes I did. It's Bo-die. Sorry," he admitted to his own distraction. Again he experienced dizziness as the elevator stopped but when the doors opened Bodie's adrenaline level was already rising and clearing his head.

"Act normally. Push me as if you are heading for a car. Use your eyes and ears - look and listen."

Miss Mather did not lose her calm. He could hear her swallowing once, then she took a deep breath and pushed the wheelchair into the parking. It was scarcely lit, just some night lights in the far corners prevented it from being totally dark.

Bodie's hand was firmly locked around the butt of his gun. He waited for a sign, a signal from either way or either person that would start the finale to this strange case he was mixed up in. He couldn't tell why it felt like the ending, but he knew it was going to be that.

But there was no sound in the parking. No people walking, no whispering - nothing. Then Miss Mather saw the small units at the far end.

"There, Mr Bodie. Units, offices or something like that."

"It's Bo-die, Miss Mather, without the Mister," he whispered almost automatically. Then he peered to where she'd been pointing at, hoping to spot either Ray or someone else. Miss Mather pointed to a small sign on the wall, which said: Prosthesis Studio at the far end. Deliveries at first booth please.

The moment they laid eyes on that marker, they heard sounds - shots, gunfire, screaming, coming from one of the studios. Miss Mather began to run while pushing the chair. Bodie clenched his teeth. The pain in his leg told him he was not supposed to be doing this, nor was he up to fight the upcoming dizziness again - it hit him like a wave every time and now was certainly not the moment to stop and be sick. He would not give in to it. There was plenty of time to muse about being a fisherman in ten years - now was all that mattered.

Doyle crawled further back when the first shadow passed the window outside the studio. He would have to react fast - if he had counted well, there were at least three men. He couldn't rely on the certainty that the shots he'd fired had actually taken one man out. Being injured was not the same as being dead and Doyle was not one to be surprised by underestimating his opponents. One of them had run upstairs, following Miss Mather's trail. He prayed that she would have found Bodie and that 3.7 would be able to help her. He hadn't been much good since he was brought in ten days ago and over the last few days he had grown even more moody and curt. Something was bothering him - probably the fact that he couldn't leave and that he was being left to the tender mercies of hospital staff. Most likely the nausea still bothered him a lot - he had been grumpy to the point of being rude.

The agent called his wandering thoughts to a halt. If he was going to come out of this alive, he'd better focus on what was happening here.

Doyle kept swinging his head from left to right - there were two doors and he had to keep an eye on both of them. One offered access from the corridor, the other led to the parking garage. If they had any sense of strategy, they'd go for both sides and his instincts told him that this pause was only the proverbial silence before for the storm. He had not chosen the most ideal spot - the door on the left, the one to the garage, was just outside his vision. On the other side of the studio however there was nothing to hide behind, and he would be even more exposed if he waited for them there.

He didn't have to wait long - with one blast from an enormous shotgun the door was lifted straight from its hinges and one man rolled inside. Doyle dropped to the ground and fired, but the other had already hidden behind a large iron canister that stood only a few feet from the door. In almost the same moment the door on the other side was shot at as well, but this one was thicker and still held. Doyle knew he'd been lucky: someone from this studio had locked that side for the night and that was what still kept them out - and him in.

His assailant at the door fired with unexpected precision. A trained killer, was the thing that popped up in Doyle's mind, a professional as well. He returned fire when he saw a tip of the dark hair but the bullet missed the head by an inch. Instantly a shot came back, missed his forehead by a hair's breadth. The third shot in rapid succession grazed his right hand. Instantly he lost control over his fingers and the Smith and Wesson fell from his hand to the floor. He picked it up with his left hand, withdrew deeper under the desk and hissed from the heat that radiated through his fingers.

The other entrance was finally giving in and with a number of shots which destroyed the lock, the second door flew open. Doyle shot twice, as precisely as he could with his left hand - he was trained to shoot with both hands, but his left hand lacked the accuracy and speed of his right. Combined with the fact that his good hand hurt like hell he knew he was in for a bad time. He put the gun on the floor quickly, fumbled in his inside pocket to get another clip and clumsily tried to reload the Walther. It was hard - very hard. He could not bend the fingers of his right hand, totally lacked control over it and feverishly he tried to clench the gun between his knees and use his left hand to get the clip out. With a clattering sound his gun fell to the floor and slid out of reach.

Damn!

Before he could lunge forward to grab it the Russians reacted, picking up on the sound. The man who had been firing at him first approached cautiously. Doyle saw him coming closer and crawled back further until his feet touched something. It was an artificial leg, covered with a skin coloured layer already but the knee joint still bare. The intricate and delicate technique wasn't finished yet, that much was obvious. Threads, bolts and screws were still sticking out. Doyle took it in his hand and held it firmly by the ankle, awaiting the men who were approaching him cautiously.

He was playing for time, he knew. One stick to hit with was no match for the shots which were soon to penetrate his skin, his bones - his heart. Would he die instantly? Would he suffer before entering the hereafter? Would he---

The feet of the man were suddenly in front of him, kicking aside the gun that he had not been able to reload. He didn't hesitate for a second but swung with all the force he could gather the knee joint of the prosthesis at the lower legs he was facing. He could hear the sickening crack as the stone hard material broke one of the bones. The Russian screamed, raw and loud, and tumbled backwards, holding on to his leg like a rugby player holding on to a ball for dear life.

One down, two to go, Doyle thought grimly. He hadn't waited for the Russian to retaliate, because even from the position he was in, this man could still take him out. He backed out from under the desk while keeping his eyes locked on the outer door. The prosthesis stuck into the man's leg and Doyle was again without weaponry. Certainly the man who had forced the lock would jump in now, taking him out with one shot if Doyle stayed where he was. With an agile leap he rolled through the space between him and the far closet. Bullets flew and hit the wall, ricocheting against the metal cupboards and filing cabinets. Luckily the remaining two didn't seem to be as well trained with a hand gun as the first one, the man with the broken shinbone. One of the men began to shout to the others. The man on the floor didn't move - he had lost consciousness. Doyle didn't understand a word but he needed no interpreter to see they were going to close in and take him out. If he didn't get up, the man at the inside door would see him as a sitting duck. But if he moved more to the right, he'd step straight into the arms of the one who had just forced the outer door. Doyle could see his shadow and knew he was trapped.

Around him he saw many prosthesis of all kinds but mostly present were hands and feet. He grabbed two feet, experiencing an eerie sensation as he held the foot by the toes and then threw, as hard as he could, the first one at the inner door. Immediately the man appeared and Doyle threw the second one, precisely hitting the Russian against his temple. It took him completely by surprise and he tumbled backwards, hitting his head against the sharp edge of a metal filing cabinet. The hard, dry snap told Doyle that the Russian no longer lived.

But number three, the man at the outer door had reacted as well. He jumped forwards, screaming illegible Russian and aimed to fire - aimed to kill. Doyle's throat turned to sandpaper. This was the end. Of all the places he had been, he had not expected to die amongst artificial legs and arms with hands that stretched out to him. Glass eyes, neatly organised in pairs, were staring at him from a shelf. On the shelf below ears were caught in Perspex shapes, displayed in order of size and shape.

And then the shot sounded.

*

Time stood still while Doyle was observed by lifeless eyes and deafened ears.

Or was it that the man stood still?

The eyes of the third man turned glassy. For a few long seconds, he stood there motionless. Then he toppled over and loudly flopped to the floor. A dark stain in his neck showed the precision of the shot that had taken him out. The shot that echoed in his ears, had not been from the Russian gun and it hadn't been aimed at him.

Doyle got to his feet, a bit shaken up. Then he saw a leg in a splint, strapped in a leg support, appearing in a wheelchair from the parking lot behind the outside door, followed by Bodie and pushed inside by Geraldine Mather. A big grin that split the pale face in two, then the tired but cheerful tone of 3.7 echoed through the open space.

"I can't leave you alone for one minute, can I?"

4.5 stepped over the dead body and laughed with a shudder, relieved beyond belief that his partner had shown up and been there just in time.

"Thanks, Bodie. That was close."

Bodie grinned, a feeble attempt to hide his own relief. Then his eyes began to turn glassy and his head lowered to his chest as he slid sideways in the chair. Murphy's gun slipped from him fingers and fell to the floor. 3.7 had passed out.

"Bodie?" No answer.

Geraldine Mather picked up the gun and watched silently as Doyle put his hand in Bodie's neck and checked for a pulse.

"He's out of it. He did a good job."

She nodded and swallowed.

"Yes, he did. And you too."

Doyle ignored the compliment. He wanted to get Bodie back to bed, learn that his friend would be alright and then find a doctor to treat his hand as soon as possible. "Did you call for backup?"

"Yes - in the elevator. There was a phone there and I called security and your Major Cowley."

Doyle hauled Bodie a bit straighter, concerned that his partner might fall out of the wheelchair. The face of 3.7 was almost greyish and the cold sweat that had formed on his forehead didn't look good, as far as Doyle's limited medical knowledge was telling him.

He rose, only to be startled by a scream and four shots, rapidly fired from the gun that Bodie held only seconds ago and that was now in the hands of Geraldine Mather.

Doyle whirled around, saw the body of number one on the ground twitching in a final spasm as the bullets had already found their way and begun their devastating work. His hand was still holding the gun, which he had meant to use to shoot Doyle in the back. It had not slipped Geraldine Mather's attention and she had instantly pulled the trigger of the gun she had just picked up.

4.5 owed his life to a woman who had tried to crush him in the past.

The hollow clicks of the emptied chamber kept coming as she kept pulling the trigger. Doyle saw the inevitable shock appearing in the wide-eyed look and the chattering teeth. The hand that held the gun trembled, the knuckles were white from squeezing the cool metal and it took him effort to make her release the weapon. Very unexpectedly he was overtaken by a feeling of sympathy for her. She had just killed and already her action was taking its toll. He knew from experience that the realisation of what she had done would haunt her. "Let it go, Geraldine. It's over," he said softly, "Let it go."

*

Miss Mather was treated for shock, Bodie had been wheeled straight back into bed where he woke briefly and then fell asleep, and Doyle had been given proper treatment on his hand. Once the painkillers were starting to work and the cool linen of the bandages and the sling made his hand rest more comfortably, Doyle found the time to sit back and tell Cowley, who had arrived, what had happened. Doyle had accepted the cup of tea with a sip of whiskey gratefully - that was just what he needed.

"It's not over yet, Doyle," Cowley said thoughtfully, "we still don't know who sent them or why they wanted to take Miss Mather out. Three out of four dead and the third man, the one Bodie hit on the head, in coma - that leaves us little to go on."

Doyle blew the steam away. Cowley exited the room and left him alone with his thoughts. He couldn't help but reflecting on Miss Mather's reaction. If she hadn't fired, he wouldn't have been sitting here right now. Actually, he had to admit, there was more to her than he had been willing to see. He had been confronted with a woman who was more than just a lawyer who went for the big money. In fact, she didn't seem to be like that at all. She had given the helm to him when the trouble had started but she hadn't released it entirely. She assisted him, rather than undergoing this in resigned acceptance as he had seen so often in people who were exposed to danger and who were put into the care of safety personnel. They let go of everything, pushed the responsibility on the shoulders of their guards and waited for them to make the first move. Not Geraldine though. She had shown remarkable independence and kept her head cool, accepted his orders and propositions but kept thinking for herself as well. Geraldine… he was aware that he had thought about her using her first name.

He got to his feet. He would doze off if he stayed here, but Doyle knew there was no time for rest yet. Driven by an irrational impulse he wandered over to the room where Iwan Nipkov was admitted. The Soviet man was still in very poor condition - Doyle felt sorry for him. It must be hard, he reckoned, to be forced to make a run for a different country with a different culture and an illegible language, and then on top of that, be gunned down by men from your motherland.

The door opened and Geraldine stepped in. She looked surprised to find him there, then smiled ruefully and said, "Seems we think along the same lines. Is he awake?"

Before Doyle could answer the man in the bed moved. He opened his eyes at the sound of Miss Mather's voice and immediately stretched out his hand as if to urge her to come closer. Doyle met her eyes and nodded but she needed no encouragement and brought her face close to his. He began to whisper, hasty and scared and Doyle could hear his breath, ragged and superficial as he tried to tell as much to Geraldine as he could. He couldn't understand the language though. Miss Mather had mentioned earlier that she and Nipkov spoke German, and he recognised it vaguely but his linguistic skills were limited and he couldn't follow the raw whispering. He was surprised to see that apparently Miss Mather could understand him very well. Every now and then she asked him something in German and to Doyle's untrained ears it sounded fluent.

He knew that the pieces of the puzzle were finally all coming together. He knew too that the larger picture would appear and heads would roll - instinctively he was aware of the fact that there were men in high places involved.

With a sigh, Nipkov sank back into the pillows. His eyes rolled away and he had drifted off into oblivion again as the exhaustion took over. Miss Mather turned to Doyle, her beautiful eyes lighting up in the shady room, bit her lip in deep thought and then said: "According to Mr Nipkov it is someone within the National Security Council. That's where we have to look."

*

"The National Security Council?" Cowley was, to put it mildly, highly surprised.

"He was very convincing, Major Cowley," Geraldine nodded while gently stroking her sore arm which had begun to make itself noticed again, "although I haven't been able to make him tell me who. He was unconscious again before I could continue my questions."

"Has it been confirmed where the phone call came from?"

Murphy, perching on the table corner, shook his head. A large bandage hid the gash on his forehead. But his eyes were clear and bright when he answered: "Not yet. I already checked. I don't know where they came from and I haven't seen anyone on the ward who didn't have clearance."

"They must have waited for Miss Mather and me to arrive," Doyle said thoughtfully. He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled them out slowly, as if that could make the answers to all the questions pop up.

"Meaning…?" Cowley couldn't quite follow Doyle's thoughts.

"Geraldine Mather got the call around ten past two. We were here in less than fifteen minutes. Murphy was out cold but hadn't been unconscious for more than a few minutes. They tried to kill me and yet they didn't bother to pop Murph, right?"

Murphy put on an aggrieved face and mumbled: "Thanks a bunch, Ray."

But Cowley saw where he was heading.

"Yes, yes of course. Miss Mather was the one they needed and it was not before they actually saw her arriving that they disabled Murphy here because he would be in the way. But killing a CI5 agent was a risk they couldn't take."

Doyle filled in, "Until they saw Geraldine wasn't alone. I was a liability too, once I had seen them."

"Which leaves us with just one question - who ordered the hit?"

Miss Mather spoke slowly.

"I have a secret telephone number. There's only a handful of people who know it and I keep it hidden very well. Usually, when someone calls me, he must leave a message at an answering service, which I call regularly and thus find out who's been trying to contact me."

"This was a direct call, right?" asked Doyle even though he knew the answer.

"Who within the Security Council knows your number, Miss Mather?" Cowley stepped closer to her and observed her features. She still had a wan complexion and deep shadows under her eyes but he noticed a belligerence he liked. She was not going to give in to this easily, that much was clear.

"I can give you a list if that helps."

"Yes please, if you would," Cowley magically made pen and paper appear. "Don't forget the close friends and relatives." She looked at him with an expression that left no doubts to her thoroughness.

"This may come as a surprise, Mr Cowley - there are no close friends on that list. I've always kept private and work affairs well separated. Real close friends and family have a different number and don't know of the existence of this one. I'll stick to the number which was used."

She sat down and began to write. Looking over her shoulder Murphy raised an eyebrow. Doyle did the same. But Cowley was more decisive and pulled a telephone towards him. "Alpha to control. Miss Pettifer, I want you to run a level two security check on the following people…."

After all the commotion the final arrest was a bit of an anti-climax. Cross checking the telephone calls and the list that Miss Mather had provided, showed that the call was made from the heart of the Security Council, Sir Henry Markham's hotline phone. Confronted with the accusations he rose with dignity and allowed himself to be escorted out of the building. He only curtly briefed his secretary, Mrs Bertha Jones, that he'd be out of the country for a while.

Cowley tapped his finger on a set of papers. Doyle waited for the commander to explain what it was.

"It's a statement Nipkov made, sent to us by the Embassy in Paris - it was intercepted by Sir Henry before it could find its way outside. By pure chance Nipkov found incriminating papers which were to be smuggled into the USSR in his factual luggage, after he had attended the GraphiVak in the Hamburger Messe."

"What kind of papers, sir?" Doyle rubbed his eyes wearily.

"List of names of undercover agents - many of whom have died over the years, most likely due to this. Sir Henry had received information from his Russian comrades that a certain Iwanovitsj Nipkov was going to travel to Hamburg for business. The GraphiVak is a big business exhibition, held only once every four years, with more than 50.000 printers, business men, graphical developers, and similar visitors in three days time. They come from all around the world and carry heaps of paper with them."

"Very convenient if you want something to find its way to the other side of the Iron Curtain," Doyle understood and asked: "How long has it been going on?"

"As far as I can tell now, at least six years. Nipkov stated that five years ago, shortly after the exhibition, his belongings were put through an extensive check, which was beyond the normal routine. He didn't miss anything at the time and never stopped to think about it. It wasn't until the next fair, when he stumbled unto papers that he knew were not supposed to be in his possession, that he began to smell a rat. He photocopied the papers only shortly before he had a burglar at home and the original documents were stolen."

"And that's when he decided to come this way?"

"Aye," Cowley said slowly, "it's hard to tell what drove him to do what he did. Being aware that your actions might make a difference in world peace is as good a reason as anything else."

Doyle fell silent to think about what he'd been told. Cowley drove him home, after the Doctor had told him Doyle should not drive with one arm. Tired, Doyle rested his head against the seat when they left the office of the Security Council behind them. A special team from CI5 had already been summoned to track down every bit of information - they were the best and this case would be closed in a satisfactory manner.

"Sir, were you aware of a moll?"

"I knew someone had been filtering information to the other side, yes. But up until now I've been completely in the dark as to who that must be. He did it in a very clever way, Doyle. Very scarcely, only once every eighteen months or so - not even regularly. But nevertheless, he's responsible for the deaths of many good agents."

"Geraldine Mather doesn't seem to fit in."

"Correct - she doesn't. Sir Henry's personal assistant, Dan Leroy, assigned the case to her when Sir Henry was taken down with the flu. Sir Henry realised once she got to talk to Nipkov, she'd blow the whistle on him. So he ordered Nipkov's killing before he could talk and Miss Mather would never know. After all, he had Nipkov's statement in his possession, right? It wasn't only till later that he learned she had witnessed the shoot out and that it wasn't over. If Miss Mather hadn't reacted so quickly back then at the restaurant, Nipkov certainly would have died. Did you know she pressed shut an artery? He would have bled to death if she hadn't."

"Poor girl," Doyle mumbled, much to Cowley's surprise.

They continued the ride back to Doyle's home in silence.

*

Two days later

It was a nice, bright and sunny afternoon. Geraldine closed the Venetian blinds a bit more and turned around to face Bodie.

"That better, Bodie?"

"Yeah, ta. Still can't take much light but I'm on the mend, though," he sounded more cheerful than Doyle had described him.

"And how are you? The arm still sore?"

"No, not really - a bit stiff, that's all."

"And the rest?"

"The rest what?"

"There's the little matter that you were forced to kill a man, Geraldine. That's enough to give you nightmares for a long time."

She turned away from him again and toyed absentmindedly with the wires of the blinds.

"How long does it take before that feeling evades, Bodie?" she asked after a few minutes, "to you it must not feel like a big deal anymore, but …"

"It never wears off, Geraldine," Bodie cut in, a little angrily, "never. It got easier for me when Cowley convinced me that for every man I don't take out, hundreds of innocent people may die. But the look on the face of the first person that died because of a shot from my gun… I'll never forget that."

He saw how much effort it cost her to keep her feelings under control.

"Hey - come over here," he said softly. He patted on the bed and saw how she mechanically answered to his request. She sat down on the bed, next to his healthy leg and he took her slender fingers in his hands.

"It was either him or us. You did the only right thing."

"I've always taken pride in my sense of justice, my clear view on what was right and what was wrong," she began to defend her own confusion. "I just knew with a hundred percent certainty that I never was what you were. And now I've become what I hated most - a killer."

"Wait a minute - you don't think - really think - that what you do is anything different, do you?"

He could see her look, more confusion and questions in her puzzled glance.

"You fight for justice in court, we do it in the field. And that's only because the people we're up against are too clever or too dangerous to even make it to the witness stand. Every man we catch finds his way to court--"

"If you don't kill him first," Geraldine interrupted.

"Oh, wake up! You saw it yourself. If you hadn't reacted the way you did, he would have blown out Doyle first, you and me after that. No-one would live to tell the tale afterwards, don't you realise that?"

"It goes against everything I stand for!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Geraldine. You didn't hesitate for one second when I offered the safe place in my bed and as far as I've been told you followed Doyle's words to the letter. When it comes to dear life, you kiss your principles goodbye and fight to survive only."

Bodie exhaled slowly. His head wasn't completely up to this kind of intensive thinking and talking yet.

"Survive," she mumbled.

"Yes - and that's what we; Doyle, Murphy, Cowley, the other lads, me, are doing - every day, every minute of our life."

Bodie could see how she struggled to find an outlet for her emotions. He realised he felt a compassion for her because he could relate, even sympathise for her feelings. He softened his voice.

"Close the chapter, will ya? It's been a hard lesson but it's over and done with now. Believe me, the day you forget you killed a man, is the day I will come to remind you of it personally. It's something you must never forget. But you have to give it a place in your life. Learn to accept it as part of your job - the professional way."

She sat in silence on his bedside for a long time, then stood up when she realised he was dozing off again and kissed him softly.

"You're a nice man, Bodie. Underneath that hard shell, you're actually very gentle."

He smiled, almost wickedly with his eyes closed.

"You sound like Ray. A big softie, 'ey?"

She chuckled.

"Yes, a big softie. I'll be around tomorrow again. Get some sleep, Bodie."

*

Some days later

"Thank you for the evening and the dinner, Ray. I had a nice time - you're very pleasant company."

Doyle smiled and offered his arm to Geraldine, who took it and smiled back. She looked extremely beautiful tonight. Her skin had a nice glow, her eyes radiated and she had gone through some effort to look her best - and had certainly succeeded. "The pleasure is all mine. Maybe we can do this more often?"

"Maybe," she answered.

"We both paint - perhaps, if we can find the time, we can visit some art galleries or exhibitions together."

"Perhaps," she smiled.

The glow in the atmosphere between them stayed there all the way home. They strolled through the late spring evening, the warmth of the day still present, the scent of blossom and flowers all around. When they reached Geraldine's house, she stopped at the front door and said: "I'm not going to invite you in. It has been nice but---"

"But this is where it ends," Doyle sighed theatrically. But he nodded and gently touched her shoulder. "I owe you an apology. I was wrong about you. You're not the cold hearted lawyer I took you for."

Geraldine touched his curls and while pretending to study them, she managed to avoid his look.

"I had to change my views as well. You're not the cold hearted gun lover I thought you were either," she looked uncomfortable all of a sudden. "Back then, with the Coogans - I was so convinced you had beaten that man to death and I was so determined to make you pay… it's very embarrassing."

"Maybe I did beat him to death - he had a ruptured spleen."

"Bodie said he'd been sparring with his brother and that might have caused it. It should be investigated."

"Bodie talks too much. There's no way either thing could or will be proved. It's over now. It's in the past."

She nodded silently, obviously glad to have said what she had on her mind. Then she unlocked the door and kissed Doyle on the cheek. Her scent tickled his nose and he had to fight the urge to put his arms around her and hold her.

"Goodnight Ray. I'm glad I've seen another side of you."

"Goodnight, Geraldine. Sleep well."

When Doyle walked home, he felt content. This is what they call closure, he thought. Cunning old Cowley. He'd done it again. Opened people's eyes in his own, typical, professional way.

EPILOGUE

several months later, the house of Mrs. Bertha Jones.

Mrs Bertha Jones, ex-secretary to the former Head of the Security Council Sir Henry Markham, opened her briefcase and took out some papers, which she spread out on the coffee table. Intensely she looked at the copies, studied their contents one by one and made two piles. One was for the shredder; the other was material that was interesting for certain persons in the communist community, called the Soviet Union.

When she had seen them all, she turned the paper shredder on and from the first pile she fed sheet after sheet through the machine. On the other side the documents came out as confetti.

Then she stapled various sets together and put them in a large, brown envelope, which she sealed. On a little mail scale she read the weight, calculated the required postage and put the necessary stamps on.

With a black pen she wrote, in neat capitals the name and the address on it:

In the left lower corner she wrote, with small letters: GraphiVak Appliance Forms.

There was no way anyone would ever have to find out, Sir Henry had said. Either one of them could continue this work if the other found themselves 'out of the country for while'.

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