Originally published in British Takeaway 5

The atmosphere at headquarters was thick enough to slice with a knife, causing Ray Doyle to hesitate just inside the main door wondering what had brought this feel to the place. It was something bad; he'd worked for CI5 long enough to know that--an agent killed, a mission gone wrong, something drastic. Something big enough to make people forget that it was almost Christmas and that only this morning furtive plans for the office party had been passed back and forth, everyone hoping Cowley wouldn't find out too soon. Now that cheerful holiday mood had vanished and the wreath had been pulled down that someone, probably Murphy, had hung on the wall opposite the entrance. They weren't celebrating any more.

It had to be the plane crash. He'd heard it on the radio as he drove in, responding to the call. "45, report to headquarters immediately." Not Cowley, but the order had come from him. The urgency had communicated itself over the R/T and sent him hurrying to the car, pausing only long enough to ring Doreen and tell her tonight was off. After almost three weeks, Doreen was used to it, and her impatient answer had warned him she would not tolerate it much longer.

Doyle forgot Doreen as he headed for Cowley's office. This was more important. He'd heard about a crash, a Pan Am flight out of Heathrow that had exploded in flight and gone down somewhere over Scotland less than an hour ago. There probably wouldn't be survivors. His instant theory was terrorists. A bomb. Maybe that was why he'd been summoned.

Doyle thought of the people on that flight to the States. Some of them must have been going home for the holidays. His Christmas spirit faded at the thought. Some nutter with a bomb had put an end to a lot of dreams and it was left for CI5 to help pick up the pieces. They were good at picking up the pieces, so good it was easy to forget they were pieces of other people's dreams. He was in a black humor when he reached Cowley's office.

Doyle half expected Bodie to be there before him, but when he opened the door and collided with Murphy leaving, there was no one in the office but the Old Man. Murph recoiled from the near collision, his face blank with something that looked like shock. He threw Doyle an alarmed look and said quickly, "Cowley wants you in there, Ray."

Doyle cocked an enquiring eyebrow at him, but he shook his head and hurried off down the hall while Doyle stared after him in surprise.

Cowley was sitting behind his desk and when Doyle entered, he raised his head, causing the agent to take an involuntary step backwards. He had known George Cowley for more than ten years, had seen him in distress before; sat with him at Bodie's bedside the time he nearly died three years ago, felt his disillusionment when he discovered the truth about Barry Martin, seen him react whenever they lost one of the Squad. But Ray had never seen him look quite this desolate, and his obvious shock and grief startled the younger man. Cowley didn't wear his heart on his sleeve, though Doyle knew he died a little inside whenever he lost an agent. He was a hard man, Cowley, and he'd faced more grief than most people did in their lifetimes. what would it take to make him look a hundred years old?

"Come in, 4.5," he said. His voice held no inflection whatever, and that was so different from the pain in his eyes that only a colossal effort of will could hold it steady. "Shut the door."

"Are you all right, sir?" he asked involuntarily. Cowley wouldn't want Doyle to remark upon his lapse, but he couldn't help it. This was far past the usual barriers that existed between boss and employee. Bodie and Doyle had come closer to Cowley than any of the lads--Bodie more than he, that was true, but he still had an edge over most of them--and Cowley was hurting. Doyle closed the door quickly, making as little noise as possible, and went to stand at the edge of the desk, resting the palms of his hands on the dark wood. "Can I help?"

"Och, Doyle," Cowley began, then fell silent again. "Sit down."

Suddenly Doyle was afraid. His concern had all been for Cowley, but now he realized a part of his reaction was concern for Doyle, and he froze. He saw his fingers splayed across the desk top, but, curiously enough, he could no longer feel them.

"It's Bodie, isn't it?"

Cowley didn't answer immediately and Doyle prayed for him to shake his head and say a good agent never jumps to conclusions, but he didn't. The pain in his eyes was the pain of grief. Later there would be anger, but right now there was only that pain, the frustrated and helpless pain of a man who can control destinies but who has suddenly confronted the one reality he cannot control.

Death.

Doyle's fingers tightened their grip, and he had the sudden, absurd notion he was digging holes in the desk top. "He's dead. That's it, isn't it? What the hell happened?" Anger came quickly to him, along with a wild need to rant and rave at Cowley, to accuse him, to blame him. Bodie had been his partner too long for him to accept the shock easily. It would be like amputating an arm or a leg. Would Doyle feel a phantom pain in the place where Bodie had always been?

"What have you done?" he shouted. He must be mad to shout at Cowley, but the Old Man didn't lose his temper. He only watched Doyle sorrowfully, his barricades down, showing his own pain that mirrored the younger man's. Bloody Cowley. In his own peculiar way he had loved Bodie like the son he had never had. Later on, maybe, Doyle would consider that. Now he only stared at him, unyielding, unwilling to share his suffering with Cowley, with anyone.

"I have done nothing, 4.5," he said flatly. "The perpetrators are from further afield, I'm afraid."

Then Doyle knew. The knowledge seeped into him as if it had flowed out of Cowley and into Doyle through the desk he was trying to mangle. "The plane crash!" Doyle burst out. "Why the hell would Bodie be on that plane? It was going to America. He wasn't working a terrorist angle this morning."

"He went to Heathrow to take Mohammed al Shahir to catch his flight."

That was right. Al Shahir was being shipped to Egypt, expelled from England in a bargain with the Egyptian government that Cowley had resented but had been forced to comply with. The Minister had come down on him for it and Bodie had been chosen to escort the hapless al Shahir to his plane and make sure he boarded it. What had happened to lead Bodie to investigate the Pan Am flight? Why would he board it?

"Sit down, lad," Cowley urged a second time, and Doyle freed the desk from his stranglehold and obeyed, relieved to sit down, for his knees had gone funny. He was still fuming helplessly. What could he do? If the plane had been downed by a bomb, it would take time to prove it, and according to the radio reports the flight had originated in Germany. This would not be entirely a British investigation. CI5's part in it would not be to sift through the wreckage seeking proof of the terrorists' identity. Cowley would prefer to keep Doyle out of it entirely. He did that when he thought his men had become too personally involved, but the Old Man had another think coming if he believed he could hold Doyle off this. Even if he were suspended he would find a way to learn who had done this.

"Don't tell me to sit down," Doyle snapped. "What the hell do you know about this?"

"Not enough," confessed Cowley ruefully. He looked down at his hands which were folded peacefully on top of the desk. When Doyle followed his gaze he saw the knuckles had whitened with tension.

"He contacted me briefly," Cowley continued. "He said he'd spotted one of the Heinsohn Group boarding the plane. I'm waiting for the passenger list so that we can verify it. He said he'd recognized him because he'd had that run-in with him two years ago, the time we caught Heinsohn himself and 6.2 was wounded. He said he would go aboard the plane and make sure."

"That's a lot different than going off to America with him," Doyle burst out in disbelief. "What authority would he have in America? He could have hauled the man off here in London. Or did he want to see who the man met in New York? We could have contacted the CIA or the FBI to follow up on it. That's procedure. Are you sure he actually boarded the plane?"

"He was assigned a boarding pass," Cowley said. "He was seen boarding the plane ."

"Maybe he hauled the man off," Doyle suggested, knowing it was futile. If Bodie were alive and safe, he would have called in. He wouldn't vanish when he knew he was believed to be on the flight.

"I've been in touch with. Pan Am," Cowley returned. "Bodie's boarding pass had been turned in. That meant he was on the plane. I hope to receive further information, but right now, matters are understandably confused. We might learn more later. I have requested a passenger list and it is due at any time. I'm sure the man Bodie went after was using a false name and passport."

"Which one was it," asked Doyle. "Gudegast?"

Cowley nodded. "Most of the others are in prison around the world. I could see a hijacking, an attempt to barter for their freedom, but for him to board the plane and go down with it--"

"We don't know what happened," Doyle said. He wasn't thinking properly yet, but he knew Gudegast would recognize Bodie. If he had carried a bomb on board in spite of airport security, he might have detonated it. It was too soon to tell. Doyle tried to think, his mind running away from logic to the picture of Bodie on the plane, the explosion. People rarely if ever survived midair explosions. Doyle couldn't let himself hope--but a part of his mind refused to let go. He and Bodie were too close. Surely his death would have resonated in Doyle's subconscious. Surely he would have felt it. But he had come in to headquarters expecting nothing more serious than another job-related crisis. Murphy's look should have warned him, but Doyle had felt nothing until he saw Cowley's face. Maybe that old theory was false. Maybe he wouldn't be able to feel it. He couldn't feel it now. He still expected the door to open and Bodie to come in with a joke, towing Gudegast in his wake. But no one came in except Betty, bringing coffee which she placed on Cowley's desk before turning to Doyle with a sympathetic look as she departed.

Cowley regarded the coffee without enthusiasm, and Doyle didn't reach for a cup. The cold, hard pit that had once been his stomach would revolt if he introduced it to coffee. But Cowley took a bottle of Glenmorangie from a drawer in his desk and added a healthy dollop to each cup, gesturing for Doyle to take one. He lacked the energy to resist and the double attack of hot coffee and pure malt kicked his esophagus into startled reaction. It burned all the way down, shocking him back to awareness. The pain of Bodie's death hit hard and it was all he could do to avoid crying in front of the Cow. God, if he cried...

Carefully avoiding each other's eyes, they drank their coffee-laced malt scotch like a pair of civilized old ladies at tea, then set the cups aside. Clearing his throat, Doyle said, "I want in on this."

"No."

"I am in on this, Cowley," he snarled. No 'Mr. Cowley,' no attempt to placate him, just a statement of fact. He was committed, and nothing Cowley could say would change that. He'd have to lock him away to keep him out of it and they both knew it.

Cowley let it ride. "Under my supervision, Doyle. I want no agent of mine running wild and interfering with the investigation out of a personal vendetta."

No, he wouldn't want that. He had to keep Cowley inviolate; there were always factions that wanted to close them down, fearing that CI5's brief gave Cowley too much freedom to bend the law. Only Cowley's integrity allowed the Minister to defend the agency, and only Cowley's integrity could hold Doyle back now, even if he felt the same need for revenge Doyle did. Had it been anyone but Cowley, Doyle would have left footprints over his face in his pursuit of Bodie's killers, but Cowley had cared about Bodie, too. If he insisted Ray stay out of it, Ray wouldn't obey him, but he'd play it carefully. Cowley would back him as far as he could, and they both knew it. If Doyle went too far out on a limb he'd have to saw it off, but as long as Ray played his game, he'd be there. They regarded each other with complete understanding.

Eventually Murphy returned with a passenger list from the doomed flight and Cowley took it, distributing sheets to both agents, gesturing for them to look over their pages. "I want to know if you recognize anyone on this list," he remarked. "The computer section with check it out as well."

Murphy received his pages and headed for the empty chair, pausing on his way to drop a supportive hand on Doyle's shoulder. "Sorry, Ray," he muttered, either guessing Doyle would want nothing more effusive or else holding it to a minimum in front of the Cow. Ray nodded stiffly. He didn't want to think about his loss yet. It hung over him like a storm cloud, brooding and threatening, while tension and misery knotted his stomach. He had to keep his mind on business or he would lose control.

The list held over 250 names, which tended to run together, blurring before his eyes as his mind failed to take in the immensity of the tragedy. The names in front of him were people, people who had died. Nobody knew yet what had caused the crash, but the abruptness of it spoke of something sudden and violent, a bomb. That made these names the latest victims in the war against terrorism.

Bodie's name was not on the list. Of course he had not held a ticket, only a boarding pass, but the plane had been in flight for fifty-two minutes before it vanished from the radar screens. There must have been contact between Pan Am jet and the ground in that time. Would a plane take off with someone on board who was not a ticketed passenger? Of course a CI5 man might work something out if there was the threat of a terrorist. Maybe Bodie had suspected a hijacking and had not known who besides Gudegast might have been involved. In such a situation, might he have gone along to be prepared to stop it--or wouldn't he have informed the airline quietly and tried to defuse the threat here in London, on the ground?

Whatever the reason, he had not left the plane. It had been over two hours now, he realized. If Bodie had deplaned, he would have returned to headquarters with his prisoner, and if he had been delayed, he would have used his R/T. What good did it do to speculate when it was obvious that Bodie had not left the plane?

Cowley was frowning. "I see several possibilities," he remarked as he exchanged his list with Murphy's and began to study it. "And remember that report we got just over two weeks ago, that an anonymous telephone call had promised a bombing attempt against a Pan Am jet from Frankfurt to the United States." He shook his head.

"You think they waited for a specific target, sir?" Murphy suggested.

"It's a possibility. Perhaps they hoped to lull the airline's suspicions. Without further study of the list, I see possible targets of a bombing. Bernt Carlsson, the UN Commissioner from Namibia. A Nazi hunter from the US Department of Justice, Michael Bernstein. There may be others."

"The Heinsohn Group might be interested in a Nazi hunter," Doyle replied, though he doubted it. The Heinsohn Group never looked back as far as the Second World War.

"Och, Doyle, there are many possibilities for a bombing. Abu Nidal comes to mind, and others. There will be time for that."

"We don't know it is a bombing yet, sir," Murphy suggested. "Why would Gudegast have boarded a plane he knew to be bombed? I don't think the Heinsohn Group could have been behind it if it was a bomb."

"There are only a few possibilities for such an abrupt disappearance of an airline from radar, 6.2," Cowley returned, though they knew the possibilities already. "A bomb, structural failure, a midair collision, a missile. There is no evidence to support the latter two theories at this time. When the black box is found, there may be a way to narrow it down."

"What about going up there, sir?" Murphy asked.

"The RAF will conduct the ground search. At this point, CI5 will investigate the possible involvement of the Heinsohn Group since a known member was seen boarding the plane. I want the computer section to determine which of these people was in actual fact Gudegast. I also want to someone to talk to the ground personnel at Heathrow. I've sent Lucas and McCabe to do that."

Doyle opened his mouth to object then closed it again. He could not solve the whole thing himself, as much as he wanted to avenge Bodie, and the thought of going to Heathrow and interrogating the distraught people who might have seen Bodie board the plane ranked high on the list of futile things to do. "Did they take pictures of the remaining members of the Heinsohn Group known to be at liberty, sir?"

"I am not in my dotage, 4.5. Naturally they did. If any other members of the Group were present at the airport, they may have been seen and noted." He returned to the list, and Doyle shared a desolate look with Murphy. He knew Murphy and Bodie had been friends, but Murph not been Bodie's partner. Maybe Murph had been wise to work alone and thus be spared the agony Ray was feeling now. Ignoring the other agents's carefully veiled sympathy, he corrected himself mentally. He would rather have worked with Bodie than not even if it meant that much more suffering now.

Over the next few hours, reports came in slowly, including one from Lucas that was patched through to Cowley. So far they had located no one who had seen any other members of the Heinsohn Group, and the only people who remembered Bodie were Pan Am ground personnel who had seen him board the plane. People at Heathrow were naturally distressed and it might be possible to get more information later. Doyle listened to the report with no visible interest, as if it had nothing to do with him, though he was seething inside. If it were the Heinsohn Group, if Gudegast had gone along, prepared to sacrifice himself for whatever bloody cause he was promoting this season, then Doyle was determined to get the rest of his people, no matter what it took. He let the hot rage surge through him, but kept it off his face. Cowley was too damned astute. If he thought Ray was letting his emotions run away with him, he'd be yanked off this case so fast his head would swim.

Sensing Cowley's eyes upon him, he looked up, carefully maintaining his impersonal gaze. But Cowley knew him too well, and the Old Man was frowning. He began to collect the papers that had accumulated on his desk as if he meant to tidy them away for the night, though Doyle doubted he would do any such thing.

"Go home, Doyle," he said. "You're no use to me exhausted. You too, 6.2. Be here first thing in the morning prepared to work very hard."

"But we haven't finished this," Doyle objected, waving a hand at the reports. "You're not going home, are you, Cowley?"

"That's Mr. Cowley." But the reprimand lacked its usual sting. "The last I heard, I was in charge here, 4.5. Take him out of here, 6.2."

"Yes, sir." Murphy caught Doyle's arm and gave it a slight tug. "Come on, Ray," he urged. "I'll drive you home."

Doyle opened his mouth to object and closed it again. He didn't want Murph to drive him home. He just wanted to be left alone. But when he rose, fatigue poured over him like a giant wave breaking, and he doubted he had the energy to get any further than the car park. Put a member of the Heinsohn Group in front of him and he would find the energy fast enough, but deprived of a target, he was too drained to do much more than trail in Murphy's wake.

The last thing he saw as he left the office was the sight of Cowley, pulling off the glasses he had donned to read the reports, massaging the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, his face bleak and vulnerable. Uncomfortable with the emotion revealed there, Doyle turned away. Cowley would thank neither of them for sympathy.

Doyle pulled the door shut hastily.

He didn't remember most of the drive home. Murphy tried to talk a little at first but when Doyle was unresponsive, he fell silent. Doyle had not found the silence uncomfortable. Instead he let his mind wander, remembering the time he and Bodie had spent together, at work, at play, double dating, being frivolous. Impossible to believe they would never again share a joke or a more serious moment, never try to steal each other's birds, never back each other against an enemy agent. It was all a mistake --it had to be --and before he knew it, Bodie would pop into headquarters or even Doyle's flat tonight, telling him everyone had got it wrong.

He sighed inaudibly. Murphy found a parking place near Doyle's flat and shut off his car. "Awake, Ray?"

"I'm awake. You needn't act the baby minder, Murph."

"You look like you could use a drink, and so could I."

Doyle didn't argue that. He found a strange reluctance to enter his flat alone, a place where Bodie had often come, leaving memories. He knew Murphy couldn't protect him from Bodie's ghost, a ghost he did not want to exorcize, but Murphy's presence would give him a momentary comfort, so he nodded.

They didn't talk much over the drinks. Doyle wasn't ready to talk about Bodie, not to anyone, not even to Murphy who had been a good friend of his. He knew Murph felt it, too, and that it might help to talk, but he couldn't find the words. Instead he sipped his beer and brooded at nothing, unable to respond to Murph's conversational gambits. But when Murphy asked if Doyle wanted him to go, he shook his head fiercely. He didn't want to be alone.

Some time later, Murphy all but put him to bed. "Want me to stretch out on your couch?" he offered.

Ray made a sound that could mean either assent or denial and Murphy took it for assent. He took the duvet Ray fetched out and left him to his futile attempts to sleep.

It seemed he lay awake for hours. At first, he tried to sleep, but his mind would not let go. Every time he closed his eyes he could imagine the explosion, the pieces of fiery wreckage raining down on the town of Lockerbie, the shattered bodies. He hoped it had been too quick to feel, that there had not been realization, that there had been no pain. Better it came unknowing than to have one's last seconds of life filled with terror and pain. He shuddered, pulling the covers around himself, staring into the darkness.

This was no good. Without sleep, he would be unable to do his job, to track down the killers. Resolutely he closed his eyes again, but it seemed to take him hours to fall asleep.

The telephone woke him. There was a moment of disorientation while he tried to remember where he was and what was wrong, then it hit him with the force of a blow and he lunged at the bedside phone before Murphy could pick it up. Maybe it was all a mistake. Maybe it was Bodie, calling to let Ray know he was alive.

He stopped with his hand on the receiver, a cold chill racing through him. Maybe they had found his body.

Bracing himself, he picked up the phone and answered. He saw Murphy in the doorway wrapped in the duvet, hair tousled, eyeing him in concern.

"Ray, love? Is that you? You sound peculiar."

It was his mother. She must not know; how could she? He said, "Mum. It's early."

"I wanted to catch you before you went in. Not sick are you? You sound all strange. Are you and Bodie still coming for Christmas? Jimmy and the girls are looking forward to it."

Ray froze, unable to think of an answer. What could he tell his mother? He would have to tell her something, but what could he say? If he told her Bodie was dead it would make it real, and if he didn't tell her, she would find out later from someone else and that would hurt her almost as much as the news. He stared helplessly at Murphy, who started forward as if to take the receiver and do his job for him, but Doyle shook his head violently and gestured for Murph to give him privacy. The other agent nodded and withdrew, his face sympathetic.

"Mum, I --" His voice caught and he cleared his throat awkwardly, fighting memories.

When they'd first joined CI5, Bodie had volunteered to work Christmas Day, and Doyle had suspected his new partner had no family, at least none he cared to be with on the holidays. By the time their second Christmas with the Squad had rolled around, they were firm friends and Doyle had asked his family if they minded him bringing along a mate for the day. The Doyle troop were always willing to open their homes and their hearts to one more. His Mum had said sympathetically, "You bring him right along, Ray. A body shouldn't be alone at Christmas."

"Mum says you're to come for Christmas," Doyle had told his partner, half expecting Bodie to disparage the holiday.

But Bodie's face had lit up as if he were a child himself though he'd only said, "Right," as if it didn't matter. Then, when Doyle hesitated, he had grinned. "Thanks, Sunshine."

The same kind of chemistry that drew Doyle to Bodie seemed to work for the rest of his clan. In the warmth and clutter of the Doyle family, the ex-merc unbent amazingly and Doyle was fascinated at this new side of his partner. Bodie was a wonder with Grace's young ones and with Jimmy's seven year old son. He claimed he had no experience with kids, but, faced with one, he took the time to talk seriously as if to another adult, and the child always responded.

After that, it became a tradition. When they were free on Christmas and weren't caught up in a case, they went to Doyle's Mum for the day. Ray had been surprised at the inventive gifts Bodie brought for everyone, and even more surprised at Bodie's open delight when anyone gave him a present. Doyle wondered if he'd ever had a real chance to celebrate Christmas before.

Now Ray's grip tightened on the receiver. "Mum--" he tried again.

"You can't come," she guessed, trying her best to conceal her disappointment. "What is it, love? That horrible accident? The plane crash? A bomb, was it?"

"They think so. But it's more than that." He steadied his voice. "Mum, Bodie was on that plane."

He could feel her sympathy before she said a word but there was grief, too. She had like Bodie and would miss him. "Oh, love," she said. "I don't know what to say. Should I come? Is there anything I can do?"

"Don't come. I've got to work. Tell the others for me."

"Of course I will. How are you bearing up?"

"All right." He wasn't all right, but what else was there to say? He couldn't say he wasn't all right and maybe would never be all right again, that he had lost a part of himself. He couldn't let go now or he'd never be able to do what needed to be done.

"I'll be all right, Mum. I'll try to come for Christmas, but I don't know if I can. We're working this." No further explanations could be made, but his mother was used to that. "I've got to go in now. I'll ring you when I hear more."

After hanging up, he retreated to shower and shave. When he emerged into the kitchen, he found Murphy there, putting breakfast on the table. He was sure food would choke him, but he didn't resist when the taller man took his arm and guided him to the table. "Eat."

"Not hungry."

"Eat it anyway. " He rubbed his unshaven chin . "Borrow your razor?"

Doyle nodded and sat at the table regarding the bacon and eggs and toast that looked back at him with an equal lack of enthusiasm. But as Murphy washed up, he made himself eat. Wouldn't put it past Murph to force feed him, and Murph was bigger than he was. He finished the breakfast, surprised to discover that Murphy was not a bad cook.

Cold ...it was too cold. He shivered, his mind not quite able to focus beyond the cold damp. Didn't know where he was. Didn't know why he was cold. Tried to sit up and couldn't move, but the effort sent queasiness churning through his stomach and pain stabbing through his body. Someone whimpered. He rather thought it was himself.

It took too much effort to wonder. He could only lie there unmoving, his head throbbing, his eyes blurred and unfocussed, his stomach twisting with nausea. Sick? Was he sick? Where was he? Didn't like being sick.

There had been a plane. He thought he remembered that. But this wasn't a plane. Where was it? He tried to think, but his thoughts scurried around like mice and he couldn't gather them together. He had been on a plane and then--and then what?

His memories went no further than that. A plane and someone...he had been after someone...who?

He tried to focus his eyes, but everything blurred before him and he could make out nothing but a few faint shapes close at hand. The light was dim and filtered and his head ached So much that it hurt to look at it. He turned his head away and that hurt, too. It felt as if all his nerve endings had been scraped raw and any concerted effort to get up would be pure agony, not to mention waking the nausea that shuddered through him into full-blown sickness.

There were distant noises he couldn't hear clearly, and he strained after them, wondering if someone was nearby and why no one came to help him. But something prevented him from calling out. He had opened his mouth to cry for help but a warning sensation stabbed through him and the call died unspoken. He had learned to trust his instincts in such matters. Better not.

The feeling of danger persisted. He struggled to move again, even though it hurt, and managed to rollover onto his side. After achieving this great feat, he lay unmoving, fighting to control his breathing, for unwary gulps of breath sent shards of pain plunging into his chest. Each breath was torture so he held himself still a long time to ease his breathing and the pain. Broken ribs? He wasn't sure. Every time he tried to reason out what had happened to him, it blurred again.

Didn't help that he couldn't make his arms move. When he tried, there was still more pain. Trapped! He felt trapped. That sent panic racing through him and he stilled himself like a cornered animal, waiting.

But the sound of his struggle must have aroused someone's attention, for he could hear footsteps approaching. He froze, waiting, unable to see the person, only a dark silhouette against the light. The ground beneath his cheek was cold and rough. When he tried to raise his head to meet the threat with as much self possession as possible, he couldn't manage more than an inch or two, and that with a colossal effort.

"Awake, are you?" someone asked, bending down. Bodie couldn't understand the sudden pressure against his hurt ribs, then it repeated sharply. A kick. He couldn't ride it, but he bit his lip against the choked protest that rose in his throat before the pain dragged him back into the confused darkness.

George Cowley folded the sheet of paper and returned it to its envelope with careful and delicate preCI5ion, concentrating on it as if it were the only task before him and an urgent one to boot. An agent in CI5 left a personal file containing letters to be distributed to family and friends in the event of his death, and this morning Cowley had opened Bodie's. He had expected a letter to Doyle, in fact, from the thinness of the file when Betty had brought it to him, he had not expected more than one letter. But when she had gone and he had broken the seal of the larger envelope, he had found two letters inside, one for Doyle and a second one addressed to him.

Cowley had grown accustomed to dealing with personal files; it was inevitable that agents die from time to time, though it never became easier to face the loss. Once or twice before, he had found letters to him among the letters for family and friends. Generally they had been perfunctory in tone, once or twice they had absolved CI5 for blame in their deaths. They had always touched Cowley though he could never show it. But Bodie's letter had not been perfunctory, though it had absolved him. Bodie had written a letter several pages long, almost a chatty letter, describing how much working for CI5 had meant to him, asking Cowley to keep an eye on Doyle and make sure that his partner didn't brood too much or seek revenge. Once that was out of the way, Bodie had bluntly informed Cowley that the same advice was intended for him. While Cowley stared at the page before him disbelievingly, Bodie had administered the coup de grace. "My dad never cared what happened to me. Don't go out of your way to tell him how I died. He never felt like a father anyway. I'd rather have had you." Then, like Bodie, he had simply sprawled his signature and ended the letter.

Cowley put the letter beside Doyle's on his desk and arranged them both with military precision. He rarely allowed himself the luxury of sentiment and he could not allow it now, though he could feel it building inside. He knew if he let it free it would be all but impossible to contain, so he squelched it firmly, putting on a stone mask to wear for the here and now. He would not even allow himself to think about how much Bodie's last sentence had touched him. Some things were too painful to face.

Instead, he would concentrate all his efforts on locating the bastards who had killed Bodie and the other passengers of that plane. His job was to prevent such things, and, failing that, to bring the ones who committed such atrocities to justice to keep it from happening again. He could not let it be personal. The fact that this time it was could be dealt with later. It would have to be.

He picked up Doyle's letter and looked at the sealed envelope. Doyle's letter might have an even stronger emotional punch than his had. Would it be better to hold the letter for a few days, to wait until after Christmas? No, Doyle deserved it now. Cowley heaved a sigh, taking off the glasses he had donned to read the letter and rubbing his tired eyes. He would have to give the letter to Doyle this morning.

The final reports from Lucas and McCabe's investigations at Heathrow were before him, and he had studied them carefully. They were inconclusive. Several people had admitted to seeing Gudegast, including the Pan Am personnel, who also remembered Bodie. Other people, airport staff, passengers waiting to board planes and those arriving in London, had been questioned, too, though some of them had scattered. One, an American girl who had chosen not to fly when the report of the Pan Am tragedy swept through the airport, might prove helpful. She reported seeing someone who looked like Ernst Braun, one of the few members of the Heinsohn group still at liberty. He had been walking through the airport with two other men, one who matched Gudegast's description and another one who 'looked mean' and who could have been any tall, dark-haired man. Another member of the group, Ritter, had been tall and dark, but no one had ever got a photo of him. Cowley thought he had been a bomb expert, which made him a likely possibility for the third man. Stuart had seen him with Heinsohn himself in 1984, and Murphy had seen him once. He had gone to ground after Heinsohn's arrest. Maybe he was making a new appearance. The report from the witness, Carol McBride, had been vague and unrevealing but he decided to question her again. He suspected the only reason she had paid any attention to the three men was because she found them attractive. He decided to send Murphy with Doyle to question her. If she liked tall, dark men, 6.2 might do better with her than some of his other agents.

No one else remembered Gudegast, Braun, or any of the other members of the Group. As yet, Cowley did not even know what name Gudegast had used when he boarded the plane.

Betty had been instructed to send Doyle and Murphy in when they arrived, but the knock startled him, making him realize he had sat there for some minutes, staring past the abandoned reports to the letters from Bodie's file. He straightened up, rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, then put on his glasses again before calling, "Come."

Doyle looked as if he had not slept, and Murphy was not much better, but Cowley didn't remark upon it. Instead he passed over the report from Lucas and McCabe for them to study, waiting in silence until they had completed it.

"I want you to talk to the American student, Carol McBride," he told them. "She seems to be the only lead we have."

"What of the third man, sir?" Murphy asked.

"I can think of two things it could mean," Cowley said. "Either the Heinsohn Group is recruiting new members or Ritter has come out of the woodwork. See if you can get a better description of the man in question."

"I still don't see why Gudegast would have boarded the plane if the Heinsohn group was behind the bombing," Murphy protested. "They might be a dedicated group, but they were never ready to give their own lives for the cause."

"We don't know what happened," put in Doyle. "Maybe the bomb wasn't meant to be used. It could have been one of those new 'safe' explosives that don't trigger airport security devices. It might have been intended as a threat."

Cowley was glad Doyle was thinking, but he didn't like the dark, brooding look in the agent's eyes. Instead of commenting on it, though, he merely watched 4.5, waiting to get a grasp on what was going through the agent's mind. Doyle, more than Bodie or Murphy or any of the others, lived within his mind. Bodie tended--had tended, he corrected sadly--to react openly to a situation. It didn't mean he was any worse an agent, but he was easier for Cowley to read, perhaps because they shared a military background, perhaps because they were, by nature, somewhat similar. But Doyle took his thoughts to a secret place within, where they didn't give anything away except to Bodie who knew him better than anyone else. Bodie could have read that brooding look of Doyle's. As for George Cowley, he would have to wait and watch and be prepared to react when the time came. He was not yet ready to pull Doyle off the street, but 4.5 must be watched very carefully. He decided to leave 6.2 paired with Doyle during the Pan Am investigation. After that, he would see.

"I want you to talk to Braun's sister, Elsa, as well," he instructed. "She married an Englishman and lives in London. Perhaps she has had contact with him. Go and check it out." He caught Murphy's eye as the agents prepared to depart and tried to convey a message to keep an eye on Doyle. Murphy's eyes met his chief's and then slid sideways to his companion. Cowley frowned. While considering the closeness that had existed between his best team, he had not considered Murphy closely enough. Murphy and Bodie had been friends as well. He hoped Doyle wouldn't talk 6.2 into revenge. He needed two clear headed, objective agents.

"I expect the two of you to pursue this investigation as if there were no personal motive," he said sternly. "If I hear of anything different, you will be pulled from the case. Is that understood?"

Doyle glared at him, bracing his slight frame, as aggressive as a pit bull, even his hair radiating tension. "I know how to do my job, Cowley," he snapped.

"We both do," put in 6.2. He caught at Doyle's arm and tugged him toward the door.

In spite of the discrepancy in their sizes, Doyle resisted long enough to hold Cowley's questioning look. Then he gave a disgusted shrug and went with Murphy.

Cowley looked down at the letters on the desk as if they were accusing him of duplicity. When Doyle returned, he would give him the letter.

"I've put out a call for Bertie Bennett," Murphy informed Doyle as they headed for Elsa Tennyson's last known address. "He has some contacts that might be useful. He gave me a good tip when we were dealing with that near miss at Harrod's last summer."

Doyle remembered the incident. There had been a bomb threat involving several major shops, and investigation teams had found a bomb at only one of them, Harrod's. It had been defused in time to prevent any damage. It had been Murph's informant who had come up with the necessary bit of information that had led to the IRA group that had planted the device.

"Thought he only knew the IRA types," Doyle muttered. They had taken his car and he was releasing some of his tensions at the wheel, which might have alarmed some passengers, but left Murph unfazed.

"Last I heard the Heinsohn Group had some IRA contacts. The Group has a history of supplying weapons to IRA terrorists and even backing them on raids a time or two. Besides, the IRA recruits in Europe. Bertie might know something. It'll take at least a day for him to get back to me."

"Playing coy?" Doyle asked.

"Playing safe. He still thinks his cover'll be blown if he talks to me face to face."

"Could be right." Doyle squinted up at a street sign. "This the place?"

"Looks like Elsa Tennyson lives high," Murphy commented, confirming the address.

The Tennyson residence was at the top of an elegant block of flats with a doorkeeper and a locked door. The sight of their CI5 ID's was enough to get them into the building, and a smooth and silent lift bore them up five floors to deposit them in a stylish entry.

The woman who answered the door had a cagey look in her eyes. Thick brown hair was swept back in a sophisticated style that most women could not wear, and her dress spoke of a designer label. She eyed the badges they displayed with nothing so much as resignation.

"Come in." There was a faint hint of German in her voice, which was evidently being overlain rapidly with upper class British by way of the BBC.

"You know why we're here?" Doyle asked as she offered them chairs.

"Ernst. I hope to God he has nothing to do with this terrible plane crash." Her eyes pleaded with them to reassure her that their purpose was otherwise.

"We don't know yet," Murphy replied. "He was seen at Heathrow, but that could be coincidental."

Doyle shot a look at 6.2 in annoyance. Ordinarily he was not immune to a pretty face either, but this was different. He didn't believe it was coincidental for a moment.

She flashed a wary look at him before turning back to Murphy. "I have not seen Ernst in two years," she said. "But he rang lip yesterday. He said he was in London on business and that he would visit me if I chose." She managed a defiant look. "I did not choose. My brother is a criminal, a terrorist, and I told him I wanted no involvement. Once, long ago, very close we were, but those days are gone. Charles has forbidden Ernst his home." She smiled faintly at the mention of her husband, a City businessman. He would want no taint of terrorism to touch his sterling record.

"Did your brother tell you what his business in London was?" Murphy asked her.

"He did not volunteer anything and I did not ask." She held her head proudly. "All he said was that he meant to see a friend off at the airport." A slight wrinkle puckered the skin between her eyebrows. "He was amused when he said that. Very amused." Then, suddenly, she looked alarmed. "He was not on that plane?"

"There's no proof of it."

Doyle couldn't tell if Murphy was buying everything she said or if he was only appearing sympathetic to gain her confidence, but it irritated him. He was unwilling to extend trust to this woman, who was kin to Braun. She might not believe in his 'cause' and she might shun him for her husband's sake, but she was still his sister and Doyle suspected she would help him if the chips were down.

She looked slightly relieved. "I can say nothing more." It was not an attempt to conceal secrets, even Doyle could tell that. "If he has done this terrible thing, then I never knew my brother--then he is no longer my brother."

Doyle's thoughts were cynical. Maybe Braun had done nothing on this scale before, but he had killed innocent victims more than once. He had never hesitated to risk other lives for his 'cause' and the freedom he claimed to want for 'the people seemed to be aimed at nothing more than freedom for him and the other members of the Group to commit random violence.

"Do you know the names of any of his friends in London?" Murphy asked practically. "Anywhere he might go if he wanted to hide?"

"He would never come here," she burst out. "Never. He knows I would only send him away. Charles would permit nothing else."

"Any names you can give us?" Doyle persisted.

"I am not trying to be difficult, Mr. Doyle. The only names I could give you are names you would know already. Gudegast. Heinsohn himself. Lotte Muller. Ritter. Most of them are in prison. Gudegast once had a flat in London, but that was two years ago and I did not know its location even then."

"You mentioned Ritter," Murphy prodded. "Do you know if he's been in contact with your brother lately?"

She shook her head as if to detach herself from the investigation. "I never met Ritter, and my brother does not inform me of his contacts."

They got nothing further from her, but when they called in to HQ afterwards, Cowley felt there was enough possibility of Braun's contacting his sister that he arranged a stakeout. Ray and Murphy were ordered to remain on obbo until a team arrived to replace them.

"I hate this," Doyle muttered as they waited. "Braun's got too much sense to come here. Knows he's not welcome, doesn't he?"

"Knows his sister's filthy rich," Murphy contradicted. "She might give him money even if she wouldn't give him time. She wasn't comfortable with us. Very righteous, but part of it was sham."

"And here I thought you'd fallen for her big brown eyes."

"You were playing the heavy with your glares, so I went the other route," Murph explained. "I think she suspects who her brother was with last night."

"Probably thinks it was Fritz Gudegast," Doyle countered, realizing his hands were gripping the steering wheel as if it were his hope of heaven and he freed it, flexing his fingers. "Gudegast's a nasty bastard. "

"Gudegast's dead," Murphy reminded him.

Doyle derived some satisfaction from the quiet observation until it reminded him of Bodie, then he went very still, the wrongness of the familiar job prodding him. How many hours of obbo had he spent with Bodie, exchanging quips and witticisms, mundane and serious discussions? Though he knew Murph and trusted him and had worked with him before, it felt wrong. He had an idea the Cow meant to team him with Murphy later. Six-two was a good man, but he wasn't Bodie. Ray's teeth worked his lower lip as he struggled to hold in all the feelings that wanted to escape.

Murphy must have picked up on it. "God, Ray, I'm sorry," he burst out. "Didn't mean to remind you."

"'s not something that needs reminding, Murph," he pointed out. "But I--"

He broke off abruptly, sitting up straight. All those hours of conditioning and training Cowley had invested in him had paid off because even this distracted, he had noticed the man leaving a cab across the street. "Braun," he explained.

"Where?" Murphy's eyes followed Doyle's pointing finger. He went for his gun.

They left the car and started forward, concealed at first by the solid bulk of the black cab.

Doyle knew the moment Braun saw them. He tensed, his whole body going taut.

"Don't try anything, Braun," 6.2 called out. "We just want to question you."

Both their guns were leveled at the terrorist. They were too close to him for him to have a hope of running, but he tried it anyway. He spread his hands in a gesture of surrender, then looked past them, nodding as if to give a signal to another member of the Group. If Bodie had been with Ray, they would have known instinctively which of them was to keep Braun covered and which to check out the possibility of the new threat, but Doyle and Murphy weren't that attuned to each other, so both of them started to react, catching themselves. It was a momentary check, neither of them gullible enough to fall for the oldest trick in the book, but it was enough to give Braun a start.

He ran like a sprinter, weaving to and fro to confound anyone shooting at him, but Ray Doyle was a top marksman and his bullet found its mark. He had not meant to kill, but at the last moment, Braun swerved just wrong and tried to duck and the bullet took him in the middle of the back. When they reached him, he was already dying.

He looked up at them with blurring eyes, but he knew them. Then, obscenely, he smiled. "I win," he choked out. "Lost a man, didn't you?" He chuckled, bringing up blood. "I could tell you--" His body went lax and his eyes became blank.

"They did it," Doyle raged, wishing the man were still alive so he could exact a slower revenge upon him. "They bombed the plane."

Murphy dropped a hand on Doyle's shoulder. "We don't know that. We do know he was at Heathrow and saw Bodie board the plane."

"I know," Doyle objected. "I know. The bastard was laughing at us, Murph." He wanted nothing so much as to kick the body, but he stilled the seething resentment. The bastard had laughed about Bodie. A quick death had been far too good for him.

Carol McBride was not an ideal witness. She had been shaken by the plane crash and had sent a wire home to delay her flight back to America. Even now she was still upset, though the sight of Colin Murphy did a lot to rouse her from her gloom. She smiled at him when he introduced himself, then looked doubtfully at Doyle, who forced himself to don a polite expression. After an uneasy moment, she turned back to Murphy, waving a hand at the couch of her bed sitter.

"I'm a student here," she explained. "I was going home for Christmas, but now I'm staying here instead. Maybe when the holidays are over I can go home, but I don't want to fly. Those men of yours last night said I'd seen some terrorists, maybe the very men who did that horrible thing." She shivered elaborately, looking up at Murphy as if he were her only chance of protection. Ordinarily Murph would have enjoyed it, but now he only nodded soberly as he sat down.

"Tell me about the men you saw," he encouraged her. "I know you told Lucas and McCabe last night, but I'd like you to go over it again."

"They said one of your men was on the plane. I'm really sorry. I'll do anything I can."

"Just tell us about the three men you saw. We have photos to show you."

"I saw some last night." She took the pictures he passed over and identified Gudegast and Braun without hesitation. "Those two --they had those pictures last night. They must belong to one of those horrible terrorist groups.

"Yes, " Doyle confirmed. "Now we have other photos for you to look at. It would help us to identify the third man. What can you tell us about him?"

"He was cold and nasty," she said. "That's why I remembered so well. He caught my eye and he gave me such a look. He didn't look like the usual type, and, well, I know what a pickup feels like and that wasn't it. It was just a significant look, if you know what I mean." She dropped her eyes then turned back to Murphy. "Maybe he thought I'd recognized him but I didn't." She shuffled through the other photos, people who had been know to have some contact with the Heinsohn Group. Although the reports coming in from various intelligence agencies did not point to the Heinsohn Group as the terrorist agency involved in the crash, their presence at Heathrow might indicate a connection with the group that was responsible for the bombing, and Cowley was determined to pursue their inquiries.

Murphy described Ritter to her as best he could, considering that it had been almost four years since he had seen the man and then across a dimly lit room.

McBride nodded hesitantly at first and then with more assurance. "Yes. I think so. It could be him. I'm sure of it." She passed the other photos back and smiled at him. "I can't remember what he was wearing--I couldn't look away from his face." She bit her lip. "He was good looking, but there was hate in his eyes."

"And the other two? Were they hostile, too?" Murphy prodded.

"They looked more furious."

"Could you describe him well enough for an artist to draw him?" Doyle put in. Carol was not the most skilled witness at giving descriptions he had encountered, but it would be to their advantage to have a drawing of Ritter to go on.

"Well, I think so," she conceded. "I can see him in my mind's eye. I've always wanted to do something like that. Don't they use computers now?"

Murphy nodded. "When did you see them, Miss McBride?"

"Carol. I know it was a long time before we heard about the crash. My flight was delayed, you see. Something wrong with the radio. When I heard there'd been a crash, I decided I didn't want to take a chance. Maybe the problem was caused by more terrorists. We were speculating, the people waiting for my flight, saying that it might have been a bomb. They always say that now. It's just that I got to the airport late and I wasn't there very long before the Pan Am flight would have taken off. I saw them right away. It must have been just before they boarded the plane. I don't know what time it was, though. I didn't look at my watch. I'm not even sure what time I got there."

Doyle had already realized that she wasn't very observant. They had learned nothing new here except that there were more people involved with the Heinsohn Group than CI5 or Interpol knew about. Listening to her innocent speculations was painful, with Bodie so recently dead.

He saw Murphy flash him a sympathetic look that held a similar pain and knew Murph was feeling it, too. Unobservant Carol McBride sucked in a startled breath and said, "He was your friend, wasn't he? The one who died, I mean. They should have given you time off. Why don't I just come to CI5 headquarters and talk to someone else about the man I saw?"

"We'll take you in," Murphy volunteered, eyeing Doyle apologetically.

Doyle shrugged. There was nothing else to do. He couldn't stop thinking about Bodie and it took an effort to wait calmly while she fetched a coat and her handbag, prattling innocently to Murphy all the while. She hadn't yet realized that Murphy was hurting, too.

They took Carol McBride to see more photographs before she would make an attempt to describe the man she thought was Ritter to the artist, and returned to Cowley's office.

The controller sent Murphy away and rose to his feet. "This isn't the best of times, 4.5, but one must sometimes make the time. Bodie left a letter for you. If you want to read it now, I'll leave you here." He handed over the envelope.

Something about the Old Man's face made Doyle wonder if he had received a letter, too, but one couldn't ask. Ray took the envelope and curled his fingers around it gently. "I'll read it," he agreed.

Cowley rested a hand on his shoulder on the way out. Startled, Doyle looked after him, opening his mouth to say something and only closing it when he realized there was nothing to say. "Thank you, sir," he called just before the door closed.

For a long time, he simply looked at the envelope. One part of his mind protested; opening the letter would make Bodie's death all too real. But the sick, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach wouldn't go away. He owed Bodie so much that to sit here stalling almost felt like a betrayal, so he slit the envelope and withdrew the sheets of paper.

The sight of Bodie's familiar handwriting almost unmanned him, but he plunged in anyway. He had to read every word. They etched themselves on his mind and he could almost see Bodie sitting there writing, that look of concentration upon his face that Ray remembered so well, occasionally lightened by a smile. The first page was almost all reminiscences, reminding Doyle of the good times they'd had, the shared dangers that were lightened because they had taken the risks together. "I've had a lot of mates," Bodie went on. "Out in Africa, in the paras, SAS. But I never had one like you. Makes you unique, Sunshine. I know we don't like to talk about it much, but you're the best friend I ever had. I won't get another chance to say so, so I want to make it clear to you.

"That reminds me of another thing. I know you, Ray. You tend to brood on things and let them get too intense. If I die in the job, if I get killed that way, I want you to promise you won't go off after revenge. That's not the way I want to be remembered. I know you'll hate whoever did me in--I don't mind that--I'm not too wild about them myself. But don't brood, Raymond. Go out and get drunk with Murphy and the others if you must. See if you can get the Cow drunk. I guarantee I'll be looking down on you enjoying every minute. Or," he added slyly, "looking up.

"I know I've left you the hardest part. I always had a hope that if one of us had to go first it would be me. I know that's the coward's way out, but I don't know how I could've handled life without you. It's lousy of me to wish that on you, but you've got strength inside, Sunshine. I know how I would feel right now if I were reading a letter like this from you, so there's not much more to say. Only that you've been the best partner a man could have ever hoped to have and the best friend. Sorry if this gets a little maudlin, Ray. Pretty hard to keep it light.

"I asked the Cow to look out for you, and so I'll ask you to do the same for him. He's not a bad old bastard and he'll miss me. Take note of that bit of ego. I appreciate my own worth even from the grave." Ray gave a sputter of reluctant laughter that was far too close to tears. "So mind the Cow for me, Sunshine, and if they pair you with Murphy or somebody, make the best of it. Murph's a good sort.

"That's all I have to say. Any more and this'll turn into a wallow. All the best, Ray. I'll be thinking of you."

The flamboyant signature trailed down off the bottom of the sheet, and Doyle traced over it with his thumb. He couldn't bear to read the letter a second time so soon, but he hated to put it away. It would be too final. So he sat there a long time, holding the letter, smoothing out the pages. Finally, he folded them gently, returned them to the envelope, and tucked it into his pocket.

He wasn't surprised to find he'd been crying, though he hadn't noticed it at the time. Embarrassed, he scrubbed his face with his fists. But Bodie deserved more than a few embarrassed tears. Ray shivered suddenly, unable to let go. It wasn't finished yet. Except for Braun, the men who had done this to Bodie hadn't been brought to justice. Ray caught himself up short. Bodie hadn't wanted him going after revenge, and Braun was dead.

That's it, Ray, he thought. Didn't take you long to go against Bodie's last request, did it? Then he thought it through. He had wanted revenge, but he hadn't killed Braun for that. He had shot to wound, not kill, to stop him, and he would have killed him only if there was no other option. He wanted revenge, but he hadn't taken it, not yet. The urge was still there, prodding at him to find the men responsible for that horrible loss of life--including the one life that mattered most to Doyle.

Ray stood up and went over to the window, resting his forehead against the glass, staring unseeingly out the window. The only thing that mattered was Bodie. He had been right in his letter; he had the easier job. Going on without Bodie... He heaved a shaky sigh. All the jokes that the shared with his partner, the exchanged looks, the things that no one else would appreciate as much, all stung at him. Alone. All the others around him and he was still alone. "Damn you, Bodie," he muttered with a combination of weary affection and lonely exasperation. "Wish we could've been together."

A knock on the door called him back to the here and now. He knuckled his eyes once more before composing himself and turning to face George Cowley. Take care of Cowley? As soon as take care of Old Nick himself. Ray's mouth quirked ever so slightly as he imagined Bodie's reaction to that thought, then he had to stiffen against the treacherous wave of sentiment that surged through him, gathering cold dignity around himself as if it were a shroud.

"Wake up, you bastard."

The shout, accompanied by a kick, jarred Bodie and he opened his eyes even as he winced away from the new pain that stabbed his rib cage. At least his head was clear this time, and he could see enough to realize that the man who kicked him was Fritz Gudegast, the man he'd pursued onto the plane. How had he come from there to this cold, dimly lit building? The room he was in was a rest room of some sort, with sagging couches, ash trays, a coffee table, a broken old refrigerator whose door had been removed. The walls of the room did not reach all the way to the ceiling, which was several floors overhead and adorned with catwalks, electrical cables, pipes and air ducts. Windows near the ceiling let a little daylight into the place. A warehouse?

Gudegast kicked him again. "That's for Ernst," he snarled.

"Ernst Braun," Bodie realized aloud, some of his memory coming back. He had gone on board the flight after Gudegast, had brought him off the plane in the confusion immediately preceding take off. His intention was to take Gudegast in for questioning, but before he could take out his R/T to report it, he had felt something poking into his back--a gun.

"Try nothing," a voice had purred in his ear. "There are many innocent people here. To us they are mere tools for the People's Army and I will not hesitate to kill them to escape. I do not think you want that."

Bodie stiffened. The man was right. He couldn't risk a shooting in this place full of holiday travelers. So he was forced to allow a widely grinning Gudegast to remove his gun and R/T while the second man, Braun, kept him covered. He tried to signal passers by with his eyes, hoping they would report him to airport security, but no one caught on.

Once away from the flight concourses, Bodie would be free to act, but they anticipated that. As they walked, he felt something prick his arm and he stiffened, realizing it was a hypodermic needle. Heathrow blurred before his eyes, dancing and distorting in a crazy kaleidoscope of shifting colors and twisted, staring faces. He heard Braun explaining with false heartiness and a decent British accent, "Me mate's had a bit too much of the grape. Came out to see the wife off for the States. Celebrating his freedom, then, isn't he?

The guard who had questioned them grinned and nodded. "You see him home then," he ordered. "Don't let him drive."

Bodie opened his mouth to frame a protest only to feel the pressure of the gun against his side under cover of support from Gudegast.

He was thrown in the back of a lorry, bound and gagged. In the drive that followed, he soon became too confused to judge where they had turned and when, though his last clear thought was that they had returned to the heart of London. He could hear other vehicles near his own and there were frequent stops and starts.

One too many of them took him over the edge into the darkness.

Now as he tried to curl around himself protectively to shield his ribs, Gudegast kicked out angrily again and caught him in the side. "Bastards," he ground out in his accented but fluent English. "Your mate's the one who did it. Doyle. Maybe I'll have to arrange a little treat for him."

"He'll surprise you," Bodie managed to say, wheezing and struggling to catch his breath--the first kick had winded him. "He'll find me."

To his astonishment, Gudegast gave a full-bellied laugh. "I doubt it, my CI5 friend. I doubt it very much indeed. No one will find you. No one will look for you."

"That's what you think." Bodie was confident. Doyle would find him. He didn't know where he was, but he was fairly sure he was still in London. Even if he had been somewhere in Germany, Doyle would find him somehow. Gudegast was trying to break him, to convince him he would never be found. While that might happen, CI5 would not abandon him without a fight, and Ray would search until there was no hope left, and would search a little more beyond. Bodie was so sure of it that Gudegast's laughter didn't disturb him.

From the feel of his body, he had taken more than a couple of kicks, and his hands were tightly bound behind his back. Surreptitiously he tested the ropes and found they were secure, efficiently tied. He might work free, but not now whilst he was being watched. "Doyle must be on your trail," he pointed out. "He wouldn't have got Braun otherwise."

"A fluke. Braun went to his sister for money. She wouldn't hide him but she agreed to give him money. Your Doyle was there. I'm going to give him what he gave me--his mate's body. But not just yet. Oh, no. It's too soon. I'll make him suffer first."

"You aren't taking him into account," Bodie countered. "Give him a little time and he'll be beating down your door. Think you can come up against CI5 and walk away free and clear?"

Gudegast laughed again. "I have walked away free and clear, if you only knew." The laugh swelled, full of genuine amusement under the sarcasm of his voice.

"Braun wasn't free and clear," Bodie reminded him. "You won't be either."

"Damn you!" Reminded of his mate, Gudegast's face contorted in a frenzy of anger, causing Bodie to wonder if he were entirely sane. with a shout of rage, the terrorist lunged at the bound man and began to rain blows upon him. Though Bodie fought, drawing up his knees and lashing out at the man with his bound feet, twisting to evade the attack, he was in no condition to defend himself. Where are you, Ray? he thought as he struggled, growing steadily weaker as Gudegast took out his fury on the helpless man. Come and find me. He concentrated on Doyle with all his strength as consciousness faded, as if by doing so he could draw Doyle to this place in time to free him. As the darkness took him, he almost believed it would work.

Doyle awakened with a headache and a sense of lethargy that drained his will and made him reluctant to emerge from the warm cocoon of his bed, though it had not been a safe haven. The dreams had been worse tonight. He had dreamed of Bodie in pain, of him falling to the earth alive and aware, knowing he would die. Twice Ray had come awake sitting bolt upright in the night, his body drenched with sweat, his eyes wide and staring. He was glad Murphy hadn't camped on his sofa tonight because he was sure he had cried out, and that would have meant facing Murph. He knew his temporary partner meant well and that he was worried about him, but he wasn't quite ready to talk, not while it still hurt so acutely.

Wearily he dragged himself out of bed and under the shower. For a long time he stood there under the beating water, letting it wash away the sweat and anguish and the tears he'd held within. when he finally emerged and toweled himself off, he felt no better, but he thought he might have discovered the energy to face another day.

It was worse at headquarters. The sympathy of the other agents was tinged with their anger at the explosion and their determination to unearth the bombers. The Heinsohn Group was a handy target, but more and more it looked as if they had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time--or working for another terrorist group. Two separate groups had claimed responsibility for the Pan Am disaster: the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution claimed it was revenge for the accidental shooting down of the Iran Air flight last summer by the U.S. cruiser Vincennes, and the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine General Command also claimed responsibility. Cowley spoke of other terrorist organizations as well, but as yet, nothing clear had come through. Speculation on how a bomb had been brought onto the plane was rampant, but new bomb designs were resistant to most airport security equipment. It seemed likely that such a weapon could have been smuggled aboard, possibly in a cassette tape player. The plane's 'black box' had been found and was being analyzed. Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher had gone to Lockerbie. When the press demanded answers, she said, "Speculation is not evidence." But there was plenty of speculation at CI5.

Carol McBride had been unable to give an adequate description of the third terrorist she had seen, and the picture circulating was that of a generic terrorist, a man with shifty eyes, short dark hair, and no outstanding features. Stuart remarked he looked enough like Ritter to make it likely that it was he that Carol had seen, and Murphy confirmed it. The only difference was the hair, but it had been four years since anyone had seen Ritter and he could easily have changed it.

Since other terrorist groups were claiming responsibility for the bombing, McBride had been shown pictures of known members of those groups, too, but had recognized none of them. It was likely the bomb had been brought aboard in Frankfurt, anyway, and that there had been nothing to see at Heathrow.

That day, a bomb threat led to another incident when an Air India jet was returned to Heathrow. The anonymous threat was only that, for nothing was found, but everyone was too uneasy to ignore any possibility of danger. It only made things worse at CI5.

Doyle and Murphy spent the day following routine procedure, contacting or attempting to contact people who were known to have interacted with possible suspects. Many of the people they sought out were unavailable, had moved house, or had vanished into obscurity. The ones they did find were hostile, unwilling to talk to CI5, answering questions under pressure, revealing nothing. As Doyle's frustration built, Murphy was forced to play peacemaker more than once. Finally, late in the day, when Murph had dragged him away from one more hostile witness, Doyle exploded.

"Damn it, Murph, you know he's keeping something back from us."

"Maybe, but we don't know it's important."

"It might be the one thing necessary to solve this." He flung himself into the passenger seat, brooding. Murphy's eyes rested on him a long time. "Come on, Ray, let's get something to eat. Chinese takeaway. You like that. "

"Not hungry."

"I am. I've more to keep up than you do." He grinned wryly. "We're not doing any good like this."

"We're doing something. We're trying." But Doyle suspected Murphy was right. No matter what they did, they couldn't do the most important thing, bring Bodie back. Or those other people who had been going home for Christmas. Doyle shivered. Useless. All his training and experience and he was useless. All he'd done since this began was convince himself he wanted revenge, then kill one terrorist almost accidentally. All for nothing. Alive, Braun might have led him to the rest of his Group. Dead he was just another corpse.

"We're not making much progress," he admitted wearily.

"It's been less than forty-eight hours. We'll come up with something."

Less than forty-eight hours ago, Bodie had still been alive. It was hard to believe--it seemed like years since Wednesday night.

Murphy reached over and patted Ray on the shoulder. "I know it's rough," he soothed. "It is for all of us, but worse for you. Just let us know if there's anything we can do to help."

Doyle shrugged the hand away. "I should have been with him," he muttered.

"Why? The Cow didn't assign you to the mission. Bodie could handle Mohammed AI Shahir on his own."

"I should have been there," Doyle repeated persistently.

"So you could die, too? What bloody good would that have done? Bodie would have said the same thing. Don't, Ray. You can't blame yourself for any of this."

Ray could and did. He shook his head stubbornly. "I'm his partner," he insisted. "It's my place to be with him."

"It ' s your place to do your job and go on 1iving." Murphy gave his arm a jog. "That's the hardest part of all this, going on without him. I miss him, too. I wasn't as close to him as you were, but he was my friend. How do you think Cowley is taking this? Bodie was his blue-eyed boy. If anyone could get round the Cow, it was Bodie. He's hurting, but he never lets it show."

"That doesn't help," Doyle burst out miserably. "Just leave it, Murph. What's the point of dragging it out? I made a mistake when I killed Braun. I wanted him dead and I was glad when he died--but it was too bloody easy. "

"Death is never easy. Come on, Ray. This isn't your way. Don't go overboard. You couldn't live with yourself afterwards."

Did it even matter without Bodie? Doyle shoved Murphy's hand away. Maybe if he'd been with Bodie they could have taken Gudegast off the plane.

He pushed those thoughts into the back of his mind where they became a distant chorus of accusation, and donned an impartial expression. "Chinese takeaway, you said?"

Murphy opened his mouth to protest Doyle's refusal to speak, then he sighed inaudibly and started the car. Doyle straightened up and began an artificial conversation about the people they had seen that day. He wasn't ready. It was too soon.

Damn it, Bodie, he thought helplessly, Why did you do this to me?

"I brought you a gift, Bodie."

Bodie twisted around painfully, squinting through bruised and swollen eyes to see Gudegast enter the room. It was the third full day of his captivity, which meant it was Christmas Eve. Bodie grimaced at the thought. Here he was, locked away, and no one had come close to finding this place. Somewhere out there, Doyle must be tearing London apart searching for him.

.

"A Christmas present?" Bodie returned. "Thoughtful of you, mate. I didn't expect a pressie from you."

"I hope you like it when you understand what it is," the terrorist replied. He put a cardboard box down on the coffee table and began to remove items from it, a detonator, plastic explosives, a timer. Bodie's eyes widened in alarm before he masked his dismay. Another plane? Or something closer to home? Gudegast confirmed his second suspicion. "Twelve o'clock tonight, Christmas. That's when your 'pressie' will go off. If your mates haven't found you by then, then you will 90 off with it."

Bodie tensed, wondering uneasily if Gudegast might arrange for CI5 to find him--at the wrong time.

As if to prove his theory, Gudegast smiled. "Of course I just might help then along. Together for Christmas, does that appeal to you, Bodie?" He kicked him unexpectedly, the blow catching him on his thigh, just above the knee. "They'll come to bring you home for Christmas. By then, of course, I will be long gone." His smile widened. "And soon after midnight you, too, will be gone, pig." He kicked him again and turned aside to work on his device.

"You needn't feel you can get to this after I am gone," Gudegast said as he worked to assemble his bomb. "Or try to escape. I simply cannot allow you to leave before Christmas."

He produced a stout length of rope and looped it between Bodie's arms, already pulled behind his back. When he fastened the rope to a metal hook on the wall, Bodie had no more than five or six inches' purchase.

"That should do it," the terrorist said confidently, returning to the time bomb. "I think it will do better if you cannot see the timer. That way, you will wait and wonder if the time has come. You will die a thousand times before the bomb goes off."

"They'll find me before that," Bodie insisted. "You don't give them enough credit."

Gudegast brayed with laughter. "You give them too much. They will not find you. They are not looking for you. One does not find what he does not seek." He laughed again with genuine amusement. "Merry Christmas, asshole." He made a final adjustment. "There, I have done it. Much better, I think, to celebrate the holidays thus. When it is over, I shall personally notify your CI5 and tell them how you died."

With one final kick for good measure, Gudegast strode from the room.

The moment he was gone, Bodie began to struggle. It didn't matter if he took the skin off his wrists; he had to get out of here. Like as not, Gudegast would arrange something devious, notifying CI5 just before the bomb went off. Bodie couldn't let that happen. Ray and Murphy and maybe even the Cow might come bursting in here in a heroic rescue just in time to go out with him.

If he strained to the end of the rope's purchase, he could just reach the leg of one of the broken chairs. Curling around to get at it with his feet, Bodie kicked at it again and again until the chair collapsed, the wood snapping. Gasping with pain, he lifted his legs to try dragging the smashed wood closer with his heels.

The first time he tried, it slid away from him. Cursing, he stopped, caught his breath, tried again, failed. Almost sobbing with despair, he tried again, arching his body to its full extent. His left heel caught the wood, and it came toward him, slipped, caught again. Inch by inch, he worked it into position, ignoring the agonizing signals his battered body sent him, ignoring the stabbing pain in his rib cage, ignoring the cold chills that shook him from time to time. He wondered if he was going into shock, but there was no time to think about that. The only thing that mattered was getting his freedom.

Finally, the piece of wood was in position and his numbed fingers faltered as they fumbled for it. He dropped it twice, only to pick it up again, maneuvering it into position. Then, tightening his grip to keep it from slipping out of his sweaty hands, he began the laborious task of sawing at the rope that held his hands together. The loop of rope that held him tied to the wall was out of reach, caught around his elbow, but the ropes that dug into his wrists were accessible.

Where was Ray? Where were the others? Why hadn't they found him before now? Why did Gudegast think it was so funny? Desperate to free himself and warn the others away, Bodie worked with furious determination, even as a part of him resented them for not finding him. How long had it been? The light that came from the narrow windows near the ceiling was bright. Midday? Probably shortly after unless Gudegast's bomb could distinguish between A.M. and P.M.

That thought produced a frantic flurry of activity, and he nearly dropped his piece of wood. His deadened fingers tightened on it convulsively until the sick feeling in his gut eased. He had to concentrate on getting free. Nothing else must be allowed to matter.

Diligently he applied himself to the task of sawing through his bonds, refusing to allow himself the luxury of thoughts of Ray Doyle, of Cowley and the others. Once free, he'd break out of here, find a telephone, maybe even his R/T, though that would be too easy.

His eyes squeezed shut against the pain of movement, he sawed his tool against the ropes, over and over.

Christmas Eve. Doyle had awakened from another night of dreams to the most unwelcome Christmas Eve in his life. When he turned on the radio and a Christmas carol blared out at him, he snapped the radio off so hard he twisted the knob free and it came away in his hand. With a curse, he flung the offending knob across the room.

When Murphy arrived to pick him up, he looked grim and depressed. Doyle eyed him sourly, hating himself for taking it out on the hapless Murph but unable to stop himself. Obviously, he didn't stand up to adversity as well as he'd like'd to believe. It was a wonder Murphy put up with him. It was a wonder anyone did.

Bodie would have spotted his black mood a mile away and found a way to break through before it got out of hand. He wasn't the type to hold his problems inside, not in the same way Ray did. He went out and did something about them, while Doyle let it build up until it was out of control. That he recognized the fault didn't mean he knew how best to deal with it.

Murphy muttered a greeting, adding, "Bertie Bennett was in touch. Says he'll know something later today."

"Took his time, didn't he?" Doyle replied grudgingly.

"It's not easy. He's paranoid. Afraid every terrorist on the planet will come knocking at his door. But he's got a lead on a hideout Gudegast uses."

"Gudegast's dead," Doyle pointed out. Like everything else, that reminded him of Bodie and he stiffened against the memory.

"The rest of the Heinsohn Group might know about it. Ritter might be there. I should hear from Bertie this afternoon."

"Just in time for Christmas."

"That's enough, Ray," Murphy said sharply. "You're only making it worse."

"So now you're an expert," snapped Doyle. "Look, Ray, I know how bad you feel about Bodie "

"The hell you do."

"You think I've never lost anybody?" Murphy plunged on.

Not like Bodie, Doyle thought bleakly, then he controlled himself. He wasn't the first person to lose someone and he didn't have a monopoly on grief, but that .didn't ease the pain. He heaved a choked sigh.

"How do you cope, Murph?" he asked more softly, clinging with desperation to the cold hardness that had settled around his heart. If nothing could get through, then nothing else could hurt him. But he made the mistake of looking at Murphy, and saw the misery in 6.2's eyes. Quickly he turned away.

"You just live through it," Murphy said unconvincingly. "Look at the Cow."

"That old bastard," Ray snapped. "Sends us out to get killed, one after the other." He knew that wasn't true, or at least that Cowley didn't emerge unscathed either. He'd just lived long enough to develop a thick hide. Of all his men at CI5, Cowley probably cared most for Bodie. "You look at him," Doyle said stubbornly, then he cut himself off. "Sorry. I'm a right bastard myself."

"You've got cause."

But Doyle wasn't ready to talk about it yet. "Tell me about Bertie," he insisted. That was easier to think about and he hoped Murph would take it for the apology it was meant to be.

"Called me this morning. Says he'll arrange a meet this afternoon. Always plays it melodramatic, does Bertie. Likes to think he's a spy."

Doyle groaned. He'd encountered the type. "How good is he'?" he asked doubtfully.

"He gets results. At least he hasn't been caught yet."

"Think the Heinsohn Group was working with some other terrorist bunch?"

"Not enough of them left to work on their own," returned Murphy.

"Takes only one man to smuggle a bomb on a jet," Doyle countered.

"Takes someone who has enough contacts to get the raw materials or someone who knows how to build a bomb. Braun wasn't that good."

"Gudegast was."

"Gudegast was a passenger on the plane. Dying without making a statement to the world seems a waste. That's why I think the Heinsohn Group connection is a red herring. If he'd meant to go out in a blaze of glory he'd have sent word to Fleet Street. He would have wanted headlines to remind the world of Heinsohn and the other members in prison. More likely, he'd do a hijacking and offer to trade passengers for Heinsohn and the rest."

Doyle nodded. That's what he thought himself. Gudegast was enough of a fanatic to kill himself for his cause, but he was not foolish enough to die for nothing. The way it stood, no one outside the intelligence community knew enough about his death, and that wasn't the way the man worked. "Think he was just incidental?" he asked.

"I think he might've been used. Somebody else had him smuggle the bomb on board without letting him know it was a bomb. He might have thought he was smuggling information or drugs or nuclear components ."

"I should have thought of that."

Murphy grinned faintly. "We'll be further ahead when we've talked to Bertie."

But not far enough. Self important and wary at the same time, Bertie greeted them in the most shadowed corner of a pub as the lunch crowd was leaving. Concealed behind the edge of the booth, his face buried in a paperback version of Smiley's People, he nodded welcomingly at Murphy, regarding Doyle with startled wariness. "Now mate," he began in heavy Cockney, "You promised I'd be safe."

"Ray works with me. He has a stake in this, too."

"You Doyle?" Bertie asked, eyeing him meaningfully. "Word is they're not pleased with you."

"With me?" Doyle was surprised.

"'at's right. Killed one of them, didn't you? Word is they'd like to get you if they could."

"They?" Murphy asked. "Who're we dealing with, Bertie? There's not that many members of the Heinsohn Group at liberty."

"One's enough. Can't get much information, Murph. Word is there's a certain ware'ouse down by the docks where a little pressie is waiting for you."

"What kind of pressie?" Murphy asked.

"Don't know. 's a set up, I'd say. Waiting for you, maybe. They want you to find them, but the sooner you go in the better chance you 'ave to get the jump on them. "

"A certain warehouse isn't very specific, Bertie," 6.2 objected.

"You've got CI5 behind you. Find it then, won't you?" He polished off his pint. "Place is abandoned, condemned, ready to be pulled down. Don't think I'll do all your work for you, Murphy." He stood up and eased out of the booth, closing his book and tucking it under his arm. He went out the back way.

"A certain warehouse," Doyle mocked.

"We'll find it. Turn the computer section on it," Murphy observed. Like Doyle, he preferred field work to computers, but there were times, when the legwork seemed interminable, that he valued the computers.

Neither of them liked the idea of the 'pressie' waiting. A hostage? Another bomb? They'd have to sweep the area carefully before they went in. It could be the remaining Group members waiting with automatic weapons ready for any CI5 agent who dared to enter.

They returned to headquarters to make their report, and the vast resources of CI5 were turned on the possibility of locating one particular warehouse in all of London. It wouldn't be easy, but neither would it be impossible. It would just take time.

Doyle and Murphy went to the rest room for coffee, where they were questioned by some of the other agents, though most of them seemed uneasy around Doyle. Other teams took the sight of him as a reflection of what might happen to them one day, the thought of losing one's partner weighing heavily over the Christmas plans that some of the mob had been discussing when 4.5 and 6.2 came in. Murphy watched them make excuses one by one and trickle out. Ray's head came up from his coffee cup as he noticed it and realized why it was happening, then he lifted the cup again to conceal his features.

Murphy hid a sigh. Always comfortable working alone, he'd never minded not being paired with anyone. Right after he'd joined the Squad, he'd seen a man die and his partner devastated by the news. Made him glad no one was assigned to partner him.

He'd been watching Ray for the past few days, not sure how Bodie's death would affect him. Cowley felt it too, but the Cow wouldn't thank Murphy for noticing. But he knew Ray rather better. Ray felt it badly and he refused to let Murphy try to help.

Bodie had been reported difficult to work with, but Murph always got on with him better than most of the mob did. It was Doyle who had been harder for him to know, which had almost seemed a contradiction at first. There was an idealist buried in Ray Doyle who chose to appear at perverse moments, and a complexity to his nature that fooled a lot of people. Cowley had seen past the surface Doyle, the tough ex-copper with the cherubic mop of curls, and discovered a different man beneath. Bodie knew him well, sensing Ray's moods instinctively. Murphy got on with the pair of them but invariably found himself more comfortable with Bodie, though he was as tough a bastard as you'd want to meet--and as loyal a friend. Sometimes one could surprise a heart of mush under that stone facade. Murphy grinned sadly at the memory, then wiped it away before Ray noticed.

Ray Doyle was strung tight and ready to explode, and Murphy was afraid of the possibilities waiting behind his green eyes. He'd been strange over Braun's death, following procedure all the way, but disappointed when he looked down at the body, as if he wished he could revive him long enough to make him suffer. Murphy was afraid Ray might go after the remainder of the Heinsohn Group.

There might be a catharsis in it, but in the long run, Doyle was the last person who should act in vengeance. He might find some rough and ready satisfaction in blowing away the people responsible for Bodie's death, but after it was over, he'd realize it hadn't helped, and then the guilt would begin. The little bugger had a knack for guilt that could top anyone in CI5, and it would be left for Murphy himself, and maybe the Cow, to pick up the pieces.

Murphy wasn't the type to go over Doyle's head with the problem. The best thing he could do was to stick with Doyle, to back him if need be, to present a target for Doyle's bitterness and resentment, to let him vent his spleen on someone handy--and loyal--before it got out of hand. If that didn't work, he was bigger than Doyle and could sit on him if necessary. Of course he wouldn't let the poor sod know what he had in mind, but he'd stick around and keep Doyle from doing something he'd not be able to live with.

Coming to that conclusion, he looked over at Doyle and found a pair of green eyes fixed on him narrowly as Ray stared at him over the lip of his coffee cup. When he saw Murphy catch the look, he lifted the cup in a gesture reminiscent of a toast. "I've been a dumb crud, haven't I?" he asked.

"Used to it, aren't I?" Murphy grinned. He saw the calculation behind the charm in the question. Doyle was trying to pull one over on him again. He shook his head. "I know you too well, my lad. Just stick with Papa Murphy and all will be well."

Doyle's mouth quirked in a sour smile--nothing was well and wasn't likely to be in the near future. But he seemed to appreciate the sentiment. "Thanks, Murph," he said. "Just bear with me. I'm doing the best I can."

"What about tomorrow?" Murphy asked. "Cowley says we can take the day if we need to. We should have this warehouse raid sewn up by midnight."

Christmas? Spending the day with his family? Murphy saw Ray consider it, saw him reject the idea. "No. I want to see this through."

More likely, he didn't want to spend the day in a happy, holiday atmosphere, though the Doyle clan would be mourning Bodie, too. Ray probably thought it safer to keep on the way he'd started. After a while, the momentum could carry a person along and keep him from falling flat on his face. Once Ray sat back and really looked at the problem, he might fall apart. He was entitled, but he wouldn't let it happen yet.

Murphy sighed. He wasn't keen on his own Christmas plans. Loner though he was and between girlfriends at the moment, Murphy had considered Bodie as close a friend as he would permit. His own regret and sorrow prodded at him, but he wasn't the type to let them show. This Christmas was the worst one he could remember.

It was late before everything came together. Several agents warned Doyle that Cowley was prowling around the building, hunting down reports that didn't come fast enough to suit him. The Old Man finally pounced on Doyle and Murphy, who were brooding in the rest room and sent them out for takeaway, urging them to return quickly if they knew what was good for them. His eyes rested on Doyle more knowingly than Doyle liked and the younger man retaliated, noting the shadows around Cowley's eyes and the faintest trace of a slump in the normally erect posture. The Cow was hurting, too. Doyle turned away quickly, unwilling to acknowledge the bond that Bodie's death had created between them. He had to hold everyone at arms' length or else he wouldn't be able to handle it.

He and Murphy brought back food for some of the other men, and they gathered around to eat it while they prepared to investigate the warehouse Bennett had told them about. Ordinarily there would have been a lot of laughing, talking back and forth, speculating about the night's mission, teasing each other, but tonight they ate in near silence. Jax and Stuart tried to get a conversation going about Stuart's new girlfriend, and there were a few ribald comments, but they died an unnatural death when Doyle stood up for a refill of his coffee. He cast an apologetic glance at the others. Instead of taking his coffee, he muttered something about getting some fresh air and left the room, and the building. Temperatures had been in the SO's; there was no chance of snow for Christmas, which suited his present state of mind.

The air felt cold all the same. He stood drawing deep breaths, staring at nothing in particular. He wanted this finished. He wanted the raid completed. Bodie's memorial service was to be the day after Boxing Day, and Ray dreaded it, but there was something about a funeral that tied up loose ends. He had been to more than his share of them since joining the squad, but this would be the worst. He didn't even want to think about life without Bodie, but maybe when the funeral was over, he could start facing up to life again. He didn't want to face it yet; that would mean letting go of Bodie, and Bodie had been closer to him than any friend he'd ever had. He didn't want it over.

But first there was the raid. Until then, he'd hold his control. Only Murphy--and maybe the Cow--could see past it, but he'd tried to alienate Murphy and had avoided the Cow except in strictly official matters. Maybe he'd been unfair to the Old Man. After this was over, maybe he and the Cow could break out another bottle of malt scotch and talk about Bodie. He knew a time would come when he would want that. But not yet.

"Ray?"

It was Murphy. Doyle didn't turn around. "You'll be following me to the bog next," he groused but without malice.

"Cowley's calling a briefing," Murphy said simply. "They think they've found the warehouse and he wants to plan our strategy."

"All this work and it'll probably be empty."

"Then it'll be empty. At least we'll know that we've finally seen the end of the Heinsohn Group."

"It's too expensive, Murph," Ray returned. "Too expensive. All those people, in the plane, in Lockerbie." He caught his breath, added flatly, afraid his voice would break, "Bodie."

Murphy started to reply and Doyle cut him off. "All those people and the only one I can think of is Bodie. The damn job isn't supposed to get personal."

"But it does because we're human, Ray," Murphy replied. "Don't castigate yourself because Bodie mattered to you more than strangers did."

Murphy was perceptive. He'd pinpointed part of Doyle's disquiet and Ray stiffened as he realized that Murphy was right. He nodded because Murph deserved that much, but when the taller man clasped his shoulder sympathetically he shifted away. "Cowley wants us," he reminded his temporary partner. "We'd better get back." He turned and looked at Murphy. "Thanks, Murph," he said. "But not yet. All right?"

"All right," Murphy agreed and matched his steps to Doyle's as they returned to headquarters for Cowley's briefing.

Bloody Cowley. And bloody Christmas Eve. Doyle looked up at the dark, imposing bulk of the warehouse and wondered if there was anything to the tipoff after all. Murphy's grass was usually reliable, but the place looked dark and empty, and Doyle could sense no threat. Nothing to raise the hairs on the back of his neck and warn him that trouble waited just the other side of the sliding door.

He activated his R/T. "Four-five. I'm in position. I'm going in."

The response came immediately. "Six-two." Murphy could sound calm when everyone else around him was ranting and raving and blaming various crises on other people, and this time was no exception. "I'm in position at the back. Slowly, 4.5. Don't make a target of yourself."

Doyle spared a few seconds to consider that. In spite of Doyle's deliberate attempts to keep him at a distance, he was here, in position, prepared to back Doyle come what may. Lucas and McCabe, or Jax and Stuart might have gone to Cowley if they suspected his motives, but Murph would back him and Doyle felt a sudden sliver of gratitude pierce the armor plating he'd put round his feelings.

"Keep low yourself," he returned in what he hoped was a normal voice. "you make a bigger target than I do."

He tried the sliding door, half afraid it would squeak on its treads, but the sound it made was negligible, hidden by the hum of distant traffic. He worked the door just far enough along to slide his compact frame through the opening and stepped into the warehouse.

If the Heinsohn Group had been here, they were gone. It was cold and empty, giving him no feeling that anyone had been here recently. There were no lights and nothing moved in the silence. Christmas Eve, Doyle reminded himself. They might be terrorists but they were a German brand rather than Arabs, and they might have chosen to leave the business of terrorism for the evening to spend time with families or, unlikely as it seemed, attend church services. Wherever they were, they were not here.

Doyle's torch was taped over to give off very little light--the last thing he wanted to do was make himself a target for the bastards who'd caused Bodie's death. He flashed it around cautiously as he moved forward, just enough to keep himself from tripping over a crate or packing box. A forklift loomed out of the blackness and he circled it cautiously, heading for the office that had been marked on the map Cowley had produced. There was a rest room of sorts near the office and it might have made a good headquarters had any of the furniture been left behind. While Murphy worked his way up to the catwalks overhead, Doyle would investigate the office and environs.

He was nearly there when he heard the first indication that the place was not abandoned after all. It was the tiniest of noises, as if some small thing had shifted, perhaps a mouse, then it was repeated louder, the kind of scrape that might indicate a foot dragged across a rough piece of floor. Doyle doused the light instantly and tightened in grip on his gun.

"Alert," he breathed into his R/T, the signal agreed upon to indicate that he had found something. Murphy's silence was also prearranged, but Doyle knew he would assist if necessary, and that he would alert Cowley and the others outside.

Doyle drifted soundlessly in the direction of the noise, gun in hand. Once he thought he heard something, a sharply indrawn breath, almost a gasp. Had he been seen?

As he neared the place, he could feel another presence very tangibly. His eyes had adjusted enough for him to make out large shadows in the pale light from the nearby street lamps filtering down from the dirty and broken windows high overhead. He didn't look up, knowing that much light would affect his vision and prevent him from seeing what he needed to down here.

There! Something shifted nearby, a cautious, wary movement, maybe an assassin waiting to pounce. Doyle raised his torch, prepared to pin the man in the light, blinding him long enough to be disarmed. He knew a skilled opponent would fire to one side of the light where a man would be standing, but he held it in his left hand. Would the terrorist know he had a gun in the other hand?

As if the silent figure knew where he was, it moved cautiously, slowly, gliding to one side, then jerking to a halt with a grunt that could have been pain. Maybe it wasn't a terrorist, but a night watchman or some homeless person who had wandered in and been attacked.

Doyle flipped the switch of his torch. The pencil thin light shot out and pinned the other man in its beam. He pulled back at the light, choked back a gasp of pain at the sudden movement, then raised his head defiantly and stared at Ray.

It was Bodie.

Doyle almost dropped the torch. His hand tightened on it so hard that the light dipped and danced, casting weird shadows that didn't disguise the condition of Bodie's face, the left eye swollen shut, the cut lip, the blood that had trickled down the side of his face from a raw place at the hairline, the vivid bruises.

Doyle could hardly believe his eyes. Bodie? But Bodie was dead, his body broken in the explosion. How could he be here? It was impossible, but it was real. His heart thumped painfully in his chest and his breath caught sharply.

Blinking, Bodie put up his hands to shield his eyes, revealing raw and bloodied wrists where he had struggled to get free. The rope still trailed from his left wrist.

"Back, are you?" he asked. "Didn't finish your job the first time, is it? Wanted to get a few more kicks in?" Though weak, his voice held defiance. They hadn't broken him.

"Bodie?" Ray's voice shook. "My god, Bodie, it's you!"

"Ray?" Bodie's voice cracked on the one word. with the need to resist swept away, his body sagged and Ray jumped forward to catch him as the larger man collapsed gratefully against him. Awkwardly juggling the torch and his gun in one hand, he supported Bodie against him with the other, feeling his body tremble with fatigue, pain, and relief.

"You took your damned time," Bodie accused. "Where the hell have you been? Cowley knew I'd found Gudegast. Why didn't anyone come after me?"

"Because we thought you were still on the plane," Doyle replied, never loosening his grip on his partner and mate. He had thought Bodie was gone for good, and he couldn't bear to let him go. "And that plane exploded and went down over Scotland. Everyone on board was killed, and they haven't found all the bodies." His relief manifested itself in an angry outburst though the last thing he wanted was to shout at Bodie. "Damn you, I thought you were dead!"

At that, Bodie sucked in a startled and painful breath. Gathering himself together, he put his arms around Doyle. The two of them stood there drawing stren9th from each other while Bodie's hand reached up and stroked the tangled curls. "I'm sorry, Sunshine. I wouldn't have had you go through that. I didn't know. I kept telling Gudegast you'd find me, and every time I did, he laughed like a drain. Wouldn't say why, but it makes sense now."

"They worked you over pretty good, " Doyle observed. "Let me call up an ambulance."

But suddenly Bodie stiffened with memories. "No time. They put a bomb in this place. I took all the skin off my wrists to get free before it went off."

"When's it due?" Doyle demanded as he pulled out his R/T. "Murphy, get out of here! There's a bomb about to go off," he called, the urgency negating the need for silence.

"Midnight," Bodie replied. "He laughed about that, too. 'Merry Christmas,' he said."

It was close to midnight now. Ray took Bodie's arm to help him along as Bodie drooped and nearly fell. "Can't make it, Ray," he gasped, one arm pressing close against his chest. "Get out of here."

"Shut up, Bodie." He dragged his partner's arm across his shoulders, slid his own around Bodie's waist and steered them toward the door. Bodie almost pitched forward, unsteady on his feet, most of his weight draped against his partner. Doyle put his hand on Bodie's chest to aid his balance and started the agonizing marathon walk to freedom.

They didn't make it. The door was still three or four steps away when the whole building seemed to quiver, collecting itself and trembling as if an earthquake had hit London. Then the sound, appallingly loud in the enclosed space, was followed by a vast wind that lifted them both off their feet and slammed them forward into the dust just short of the door. Doyle's head thumped against the metal of the frame, stunning him while glass shattered from the upper windows. Crates and bales disintegrated violently. Bodie's breath went out in an agonized whoosh that Doyle couldn't hear over the roar of falling rubble but could feel through the arm that still lay protectively over his partner's back. Something huge and heavy crashed down within inches of Doyle's foot and the door bowed out away from them, coming off its track as if the blow from Doyle's head had sent it flying.

He threw up one hand to protect himself from the debris that rained down upon them, finding the strength to rise against the wind of the blast and fling himself over the already injured Bodie. Having found him once, he wouldn't lose him again.

For what seemed years, pieces of wreckage crashed down around them and on top of them. One of them grazed his leg, another struck the arm that covered his head, numbing it. His dulled mind wondered if his arm was broken. Then there were only small pieces falling, bits of broken glass from the windows--he'd be picking it out of his hair for hours--a stray board or two, splinters that prickled his legs and back. Finally silence fell, a billowing, dust-laden silence.

George Cowley stared in appalled horror at the ruined warehouse. Most of the walls still stood though they bulged out at alarming angles. It wouldn't take much to bring the place down. Dust billowed out the broken windows and holes in the walls. Somewhere inside a fire had started and the red glare made the jagged holes stand out vividly against the flames.

"Four-five?" he called urgently into the R/T. "Six-two?" He'd already lost one man to this mess; now it looked like he had lost two more, two more of his best. The report had been a trap, a set-up, and as George Cowley stared at the blasted warehouse, he felt ancient, tired and bitter. Christmas, he thought wearily, unconsciously echoing Ray Doyle's earlier sentiment. Bloody Christmas.

Then a tattered Murphy emerged from the dust, favoring one leg but otherwise intact. He limped painfully across to join Cowley and the other agents as they converged on their leader. "Ray?" he demanded urgently. "What about Doyle, sir?"

Cowley looked at the wreckage and the men who raced toward it to investigate. He turned back to Murphy and said nothing at all. Murphy's shoulders slumped, his face crumpling in dismay.

It was then that Cowley saw the ghosts, two shapes materializing out of the smoke and dust as if they were not entirely solid. Neither of them was very steady on his feet, the slighter Doyle using what little was left of his strength to hold up the bigger man. With wavering footsteps they came closer and closer as Cowley felt Murphy tense beside him like a gun dog scenting prey, his whole body going rigid.

George Cowley stared, disbelieving and astonished, the dust catching in his throat and stinging his eyes, making them water. Step by painful step, 4.5 brought his prize up to Cowley, who was frozen in place, unable to go forward to meet them. He watched as Doyle looked up in response to something the other man said, shook his head in protest, but kept on coming. It must have hurt them both, but their determination was strong enough to stand in the face of a dozen explosions.

Finally they halted in front of Cowley. "Sweet Christ," Murphy breathed in stunned elation beside him. Cowley opened his mouth to speak but for once, the words would not come. It was Bodie, miraculously alive, who found the words to say, and they stabbed through Cowley with a combination of joy and pain.

"Three-seven reporting for duty, sir," Bodie said, his eyes locking on his superior. "Sorry to be late." He smiled, a crooked smile pulled off balance by his cut lip and bruised cheek, but Cowley thought it was one of the most beautiful smiles he had ever seen.

Then without a sound, Bodie's eyes fluttered shut and though Doyle tried to stop him, he went limp. He would have measured his length on the pavement if Cowley and Murphy hadn't shed their paralysis to help Doyle catch him.

Doyle rode with Bodie to hospital, determined to keep an eye on him now, to make up for failing to find him before. It would take the unbeatable team of God and George Cowley to separate him from Bodie now. Finally, Bodie came round and recognized Doyle who sat gripping his hand tightly. He was alert enough to ask several muzzy questions before he drifted off again. The ambulance attendant assured Doyle he was asleep, but Ray stuck firmly at his side until the doctor separated them at the hospital.

Once there, he was joined by Cowley, Murphy, and several other agents. Cowley had sent most of them back to the warehouse to help sort through the rubble with the firemen who had been called. CI5 would make sure no one else had been in the building and would try to locate traces of the device. He let Murphy and Doyle wait, though, staying himself after disappearing long enough to make some telephone calls, probably reporting the incident to the Minister.

Ray's injuries were treated and proved to be minor. Though his arm was badly bruised and he had assorted cuts and scrapes, there seemed no question of admitting him or Murphy, who was only bruised. Freshly bandaged, Ray rejoined Murph and the Cow. Murph made a ribald remark about Ray's appearance that won him a few retaliatory comments. It felt good to spar with Murphy again. They grinned at each other with complete satisfaction, the tensions of the past few days fading back into normalcy.

Finally, a doctor appeared and reassured them about Bodie, though Ray insisted on seeing him. Frowning, the doctor glanced over at Cowley, who nodded. "I might yet get some use out of him if you let him visit," he said. "Come back here afterwards, 4.5."

The doctor reassured him Bodie would recover completely. The worst of it was two broken and cracked ribs, which would give Bodie a restless night. Exposure was a factor and the doctor had been unhappy with his condition when he first came in. Now Bodie was stabilized; medicated, bandaged and warm. He was sleeping. The doctor said, 'sleeping comfortably,' but Ray, who wasn't prepared to be pried away from Bodie now that he was safe and free and miraculously restored, guessed that in actual fact Bodie was sleeping very uncomfortably. His wrists had been scraped nearly raw in his attempt to free himself from the ropes, but once free, his attempts to escape the warehouse had been futile; he no longer possessed the energy to move fast enough to get away. Several days without food and water were not recommended, and now Bodie was connected to an IV to deal with his dehydration.

So Ray was admitted to Bodie's room. Though the lights were dim, he could see his partner sleeping in the light from the doorway. He didn't wake him but stood there watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, listening to the regular sound of his breathing, assuring himself that Bodie was all right.

"He'll be as uncomfortable as hell for the next few days," the doctor told him, reassuring Doyle all the more by his tone. "But he won't die. It will be a miserable experience."

"What do you mean?" Doyle demanded suspiciously. The humorous note that had crept into the doctor's voice irritated him.

"Bodie makes a terrible patient," the doctor replied, and suddenly Ray, in his overwhelming relief, found it funny. It was true; Bodie was a dreadful patient. Once he started to recover he would make everyone's lives miserable. He could bear a serious problem with irritating stoicism, but as his ribs healed, he would have everyone hopping, waiting on him hand and foot; then, when he decided he was well enough, usually several days before the doctor did, he would start his campaign to be discharged. He'd expect Ray to smuggle in malt scotch and Chinese takeaway, and he'd make dates with every pretty nurse on the floor.

Doyle should have been laughing, but suddenly his eyes stung with tears, and he fled the room before they could overflow. He had believed Bodie dead and those days of companionship gone for good. Now Bodie was restored to him, battered but alive, soon to be well, and it was all Doyle could do to keep from breaking down.

The doctor clapped him on the shoulder. "He might wake up any time, if you want to wait around. Ordinarily I'd send you home and tell you to get some sleep and come back in the morning, but I know you and Bodie. Cowley's waiting, too. Go and sit with him."

The thought of the Cow restored Doyle's control. Drawing several steadying breaths, he thanked the doctor and returned to Cowley who told him he had sent Murphy home.

Though it was late, Doyle rang up his Mum and told her what had happened. When she answered, her voice was shaky and alarmed as if she feared the worst, and Doyle realized it was after two o'clock. It seemed much later than that.

"It's Ray," he said quickly. "Sorry to worry you calling so late, but I had to tell you. Bodie's alive. We've just rescued him from terrorists. I'm not sure how it happened --he's in hospital and they've drugged him up, so he'll tell us in the morning, but he wasn't on the plane. Don't know if I'll make it for dinner or not. I want to stay here until Bodie comes around."

His mother expressed her relief and even cried a little. "We'll wait," she decided, "until Bodie's well enough to come too. We'll celebrate Christmas then. Give him my love, Ray."

When he joined Cowley again, he found the Old Man sitting outside Bodie's door in a chair that a porter had drawn up for him. A second chair was waiting for Ray, who hesitated, watching Cowley as he massaged his bad leg. The Cow looked beat, as if the past few days had added years to his age. Suddenly Doyle was worried about him. George Cowley had more to bear than most people and he wasn't a young man.

When he approached, Cowley looked up, stilled the hand that rubbed his leg, and favored his agent with the kind of look that Doyle would not have dared to cross. "Och, Doyle, there you are. Come and sit down. Gudegast is still at large, though it looks like Ritter was never here. I thought it best to see that 3.7 receives protection for the night. I've called for backup, but until they come, we will wait."

That Cowley was past the age of a field agent and Doyle had a number of minor injuries was carefully overlooked by both men. Soon someone fresh would come and relieve them, but until then the two who would have minded Bodie's loss the most would guard him.

They didn't talk at all. Doyle wondered if Cowley was actually uncomfortable with him now or if the Cow was being tactful, which would be a new experience. Instead they sat quietly, listening to the busy little sounds that characterized a hospital even in the wee hours of the morning, drawing comfort from the quiet routine. Occasionally a nurse would hurry past to check a patient or administer a medication and sometimes there was a low voiced conversation at the nurses' station, but nothing else happened.

Doyle's happiness was such that he finally began to relax. He had slept so poorly the past few days he was exhausted. Every so often he would catch himself drifting off and would jerk upright again. He half expected Cowley to reproach him for it, but he didn't and it wasn't too long before he caught Cowley himself jerk upright as if he, too, needed his sleep. And here I thought he was invulnerable, Ray mused, remembering the jokes he and the other agents made about the Cow. Oddly enough, the sight of his boss fighting off sleep made Doyle feel an unexpected surge of protective fondness for him.

When it happened, Ray was almost asleep, and only his reflexes as a trained agent--pounded by hours of Macklin's sadism--allowed him to react at all. It was Cowley who acted first, his abrupt movement startling Doyle into full attention. He came awake alert but sluggish, his hand already reaching for his gun as he jumped up.

A doctor had started toward them down the hall, carrying a chart and perusing it carefully. He was headed for Bodie's room and he was a stranger.

But as Cowley reached his feet and Doyle was halfway up, the chart went down, revealing the gun that was concealed behind it. Doyle looked beyond the white coat and the horn rimmers to recognize Gudegast running toward them, aiming his weapon.

Without hesitation Cowley fired and Doyle's shot was an instant echo. Both bullets found their mark and Gudegast stopped as if he'd run into an invisible wall, jerked backward, and collapsed without a sound. The gun pitched from his hand and skidded across the tiled floor to fetch up under a gurney.

A nurse screamed and call lights went on all down the hall, but Doyle and Cowley, guns at ready, checked the downed man first. At a gesture from his boss, Doyle knelt beside the terrorist and felt for a pulse in the side of his neck, a wasted effort for there were two small holes in the front of his white coat, close to each other just over the sternum. Gudegast was very dead.

Nodding at Cowley, Doyle climbed to his feet, raking the corridor with his eyes to make sure a second terrorist wasn't waiting in reserve before holstering his gun. But Gudegast was the only one Bodie had mentioned. Gudegast had planted the bomb in the warehouse and Gudegast had come after Bodie. Maybe he and Braun had really been the only members of the Heinsohn Group who were still alive.

"Ray?"

At the familiar voice he and Cowley turned to find a white-faced Bodie, shaky on his feet, towing the IV stand behind him as he came. From the grip he had on it, it was apparent it would have served as a weapon if need be. Now he caught his balance in the door frame as Doyle jumped to support him. "What happened?"

"Gudegast decided to bring you a sleeping pill," Doyle returned as he and Cowley guided the protesting Bodie back to bed. "But the doctor told us no visitors. " He grinned." Just mopping up."

"He wanted revenge," Bodie told him. "He knew you'd killed Braun so he left me in the warehouse hoping you'd find out I'd been there. Not a candidate for citizen of the year."

"Enough chatter, 3.7," Cowley interrupted. "Back to bed, and that is an order."

Bodie, who had been vaguely resisting, turned to Cowley and favored him with his best smile. "Oh, well, if it's an order..." he conceded and allowed them to put him to bed.

"And what do you bet he'll be clamoring to get up the minute our backs are turned?" Doyle asked Cowley as they went out to deal with the fallen terrorist.

"Now, 4.5," Cowley returned with a hint of humor. "you know I never bet against a sure thing."

"So what happened?" Doyle asked that afternoon. Bodie was feeling much better, sitting up in bed. Ray had arrived to find him surrounded with nurses and not an ugly one in the bunch, but Bodie had shooed them away the minute his partner arrived, with the air of a sultan dispersing his harem. Doyle ground his teeth.

"What happened? I hauled Gudegast off the plane--and why the hell they didn't report that to the ground or somebody on the ground didn't notice..."

"We'll never know. There was an American girl who saw Gudegast and Braun with you, only her description didn't quite match you. She was such a bad witness we got the idea it must have been Ritter, that bomb expert Heinsohn was working with four or five years ago."

"There was a blond girl giving me the eye as they hauled me away," Bodie remembered. "I tried to get her attention, hoping she'd tell security."

"You scared her. Twisting your face around in a grimace would scare anyone." Bodie twisted it into a fierce grimace then winced. "Remind me not to do that for the next few days, " he instructed. "Hurts."

"We'll get her here to kiss it and make it better," Doyle suggested with a twinkle in his eye.

Bodie brightened. "Now that, Raymond, is your best suggestion of the day." He shifted carefully, favoring his ribs. To judge from the colorful bruises that decorated his face and arms, Ray could imagine how his legs and ribs must feel and he winced in sympathy. "Couldn't let them start shooting innocent bystanders," Bodie went on. "Then Braun drugged me. After that, they said I was drunk if anyone asked. Don't remember much until the next day. They never told me about the plane crash. I kept expecting you to come bursting through the door like the American Cavalry."

"And I didn't," Ray said regretfully. "Sorry, Bodie. I didn't know."

"Seems to me you did, mate," Bodie pointed out. "You found me in time without even looking. We should hire you out as a psychic."

"Should have found you sooner," Doyle lamented ruefully, turning away for a minute before facing Bodie again.

Bodie narrowed his eyes then shook his head sententiously. "Ray, Ray. What am I to do with you? You have no sense, sunshine."

"I have no sense?" Doyle objected, protesting automatically as Bodie must have known he would.

"Ray Doyle has to be infallible?" Bodie went on. "You thought I was dead. Seems like that's enough to put up with without taking the blame for not finding me right away."

"But you--" Doyle began, gesturing at Bodie's battered condition.

"Not saying I wouldn't have appreciated seeing you earlier," Bodie conceded, "But you can't do everything. Mind that ego, Doyle. You may be my chosen partner and therefore close to perfect, but I couldn't have you completely perfect, could I?"

Bodie's eyes glinted with humor but Doyle gave him the straight line anyway, realizing Bodie was trying to absolve him of any blame in the incident. He was grateful that Bodie meant to restore the status quo. Both of them knew how lucky they were, and the opportunity to joke and tease each other was a blessing. Ray had thought those days gone for good. "Why not?" he challenged gleefully.

"You'd show me up," Bodie replied. "I'm as close to perfect as is allowed at CI5. Just ask the Cow."

"Ask the Cow what?" came a stern Scots voice from the doorway. Bodie gulped and slid down in his bed, eyeing Ray ruefully as their boss entered, looking as if he would like to pull the covers over his head. No one, not even Bodie, dared to call him 'the Cow' to his face, though he knew of the appellation.

"We were discussing how long it would be before I returned to duty, sir," Bodie said smoothly. Trust Cowley to have been listening at the door and know it was a lie, but his face gave none of that away.

"Not before a session with Macklin to get you back in shape," Cowley returned promptly. He looked as if he was enjoying the idea. "You're not as young as you were, 3.7. I want you certified completely fit before you return to active duty. Perhaps you could put in a few weeks in the computer section in the meantime." His mouth quirked in an attempt to hide a smile.

Bodie groaned. "Please, sir, I'm not a well man."

"Yet," Cowley replied. "When Brian finishes with you, you'll be fit enough." He reached inside his coat and brought out a brown paper bag that looked suspiciously as if it might contain liquor. "You'll put this away, lad, when the doctors are about."

Bodie took the package and peered into it suspiciously, no doubt remembering the time he and Doyle had taken Cowley malt scotch in the hospital, concealed under a bunch of grapes. This time, Cowley had made no attempt at concealment, either due to the holiday or his relief at Bodie's survival. Bodie grinned like a child and slid the package under the sheet. "I owe you one for this, sir," he admitted.

"See you remember that, 3.7."

Bodie shot a sideways look at Doyle, quirking an eyebrow. Doyle made his face bland. He and Cowley had agreed that neither of them were to discuss the letters Bodie had left for them unless Bodie brought up the subject, and while Bodie and Doyle had enjoyed a somewhat emotional reunion, the subject of letters had never come up. Doyle wondered now what Bodie could possibly have said to Cowley; the controller was remarkably mellow.

"Is there any word about Gudegast and a connection with whoever put the bomb on Flight 103?" Bodie asked, shifting slightly to ease his ribs. "I got the feeling he had no connection. He didn't give much away, but once he implied he'd been going to New York for a recruitment drive. Now he's dead, what'll happen with the investigation?"

"It will be waiting for you when you return to duty," Cowley said with mock sternness.

"They haven't resolved anything yet," Doyle told his partner, "though there are theories and suspects