Adversaries
Set in Dec 1984 - early 1985. No copyright infringement intended.
She loved Christmas. The snow, in the few hours before it turned to slush, the lights in the windows, the unexpected gentleness in faces seldom seen in such a light. Her work was just as important, her manner just as brisk, but an occasional smile peeked out, softening the stern lines of her expression, and she didn't stay late in Chambers every night of the week. She actually went home on time one, sometimes two nights each week in the month of December.
This was one of those nights.
She didn't often cook, having neither the time nor the inclination. But her parents were gone, her older sister was in Australia playing family matriarch, and her younger brother was even more hopeless in the kitchen than she was. So one night, a week before the day, she dug out her cooking books, laid out her ingredients, and mounted a campaign on a goose. Over the years, it had been a draw. This was a good year.
For the goose.
The take-out arrived on the doorstep with David. She grinned at him, inviting him to share the joke. He smiled back, but the usual sparkle was absent, and the smile strained the thin skin around his eyes. She should have known then.
Of course, she didn't. Berating herself after the fact was not her style. Neither was crying.
She would do both.
Later.
First, there was curry to dub 'Goose', and one more night of memories to make.
Christmas day dawned bright and clear, and for once no one tried to blow up London. George Cowley stared across the neat rows of files on his desk, listened to the satisfying silence that was CI5 Headquarters on a quiet day, and wondered what Doyle would be cooking for lunch. It wasn't often he allowed himself the pleasure of a day of socializing with his men. But Christmas was for family.
And they were as close as it got.
A shadow of a smile ghosted across his lips at just how close they were, in fact, before Betty rapped discreetly at the door. The smile disappeared as he read the cryptic warning.
So much for Peace on Earth. "Get me 4.5 and 3.7, Betty." Reaching for his secure line, he dialed directly to Scotland Yard, and wondered what it would take to get everyone to take a day off from causes once in a while.
So much for Christmas dinner.
She placed the champagne flute perfectly at an angle with the wine chilling in the bucket, and checked her watch. It wasn't like her brother to be late, although David had seemed preoccupied when they'd met for dinner the previous week. Perhaps a problem at work? He wouldn't talk about that. Too sensitive. But usually he was adept at talking around it enough that she was able to understand the root of the problem, if not the specifics. He was not the talkative type, her little brother, although he'd startled her a little with an unexpectedly fierce hug and whispered, "Love you, sis" on the step before heading home.
Nearly two. That most certainly was not like him.
As she was reaching for the telephone to ring him up, the doorbell rang. She grinned to herself. Perfect timing, as always. Her mouth was already opening to tease him about his absentmindedness when she realized there were two men, not one, on her step.
Both were in uniforms.
Both were frowning.
"Miss Geraldine Mather?"
She nodded. Her hand clenched around the knob, knowing without knowing why that she was about to be dealt a body blow.
"We regret to inform you, Miss Mather, that there has been an accident."
Only it hadn't been. One doesn't accidentally take a .38 Police Special in one's hand, nor put the barrel in one's mouth by accident. One certainly doesn't pull the trigger and destroy one's skull accidentally.
She stared down at her brother's face, very like her own in shape and coloring, oddly lopsided now, in spite of the attempts the morgue attendants had made to pillow the remains of his head. His expression, what there was of it, was peaceful. It was a lie.
A voice somewhere outside her confirmed that yes, that was David Mather. It was thin, reedy, not at all the usual deep cadence she was used to hearing from her mouth, and she looked around vaguely, wondering who was speaking for her. There was no one there but the policeman and the morgue attendant. She turned and walked from the room.
The shivers hit her in the cab going back to her flat.
There hadn't been very many questions. It seemed a simple enough case. A note -- "I'm sorry." Nothing else. Seasonal depression, she had heard one say to another with that pseudo-wise authority of those who see everything and know nothing.
He'd been distracted.
Why was he sorry?
And why was he dead?
She stared at the congealed mess that had been giblets and gravy, knowing she should clean up, when the vivid mental image assaulted her of precisely what her brother had looked like. She was vomiting into the giblets before she could stop herself.
The bowl hit the side of the sink so hard it shattered, a stray shard slicing into the side of her hand. She slammed the handle of the faucet and water began to pour into the mess, porcelain bits, chunks of turkey liver, pieces of celery, strings of vomit, washed in a pale spray of blood.
He'd been sorry. So sorry he hadn't been able to tell her. So sorry he'd had to blow his own head off.
Staring through a hazy, melting landscape, not feeling the tears streaking down across her cheeks and blurring her vision, she wondered.
Why?
There were times when being a well respected barrister, a physically imposing woman, and a grieving sister who happened to have an excellent security clearance, came in very handy. She stared around the dull beige walls of her brother's office, deep in the bowels of the Foreign Office, and sat slowly behind his desk. All of the real secrets had been cleared away already, but she knew David, or thought she had. He wouldn't leave her with so little. 'I'm sorry' wasn't nearly enough.
Three hours later, she stared at the pitifully small number of documents she'd managed to gather. Whatever the trigger had been, it wasn't here. Her brother had been very good at his job, and part of that job had been to make sure that no one else ever figured out what he did, beyond the bland and misleading label 'civil servant.' Patting the top sheet gently, she turned to leave, thinking perhaps there would be more information at his flat.
Ensconced at his desk, surrounded by his papers, the letters had leapt out at her from the innocuous notes on his daily agenda for the previous month. 'TP. GY. Nic.' She sank back into his chair and stared at the paper. Running one index finger down the sheet, she backtracked. Nic appeared in November, September, and August. The December sheet was missing from the book. TP and GY appeared at odd intervals for over a year.
Staring off into space, letting her mind click it over, she tapped the papers again. She couldn't take them with her, of course, since the government claimed anything left behind by its workers, especially those workers who had died both violently and at their own hands. Luckily, she had an eidetic memory, and if that failed, a notepad.
She didn't remember the drive to her brother's flat, nor letting herself in, but several hours later she sat surrounded by a pile of pamphlets and scribbled notes, and wondered if she had ever known David. True, she'd known that he was brilliant, an analyst of some repute in his own little corner of the world, a caring, decent man with a dry sense of humor and a knack for practical jokes when one least expected them.
She hadn't known he was homosexual.
She certainly hadn't known he was being blackmailed for being so.
'Why' struck her again, hard, and she crumpled forward, holding his appointment book to her mouth, clamping her jaw down tightly on the sob fighting to break free. He could have told her. She would have listened. She would not have judged. He should have known that.
Anger began to lick at her mind, forcing back the numbing black grief weighting her limbs, raising her head and drawing her lips back into a feral snarl. He had been sorry. He had been ashamed.
He had been stupid.
So had she.
Someone was going to be much, much sorrier than her brother had been.
She scrabbled through the pamphlets until she found an old, well-worn one. It fit two of the sets of initials in David's appointment book, GY and TP. At least, it was the closest fit she had been able to make. One Thomas Pellin of the Gay Youth Organization. Mr. Pellin might be able to tell her who Nic was. And Nic would tell her why David had been so sorry that he'd had to take his own life.
Then, then she would know who had made him sorry. And she would make them pay.
"May I help you?" He put all the friendly support he could in his voice. Whoever she was, she looked like hell. Fine dark eyes were red rimmed, sunken, and deep lines bracketed her strong features. She resembled someone, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out whom she brought to mind.
"Mr. Pellin?"
She had a voice that in other circumstances might be compelling. As it was, it simply sounded painful. "Yes, I'm Thomas Pellin. What can I do for you?" He stood and gestured to the single chair crammed in beside his small desk. His office was tiny, but the money was needed elsewhere, and he spent very little time behind that desk.
"My name is Geraldine Mather." She sank into the chair, her spine rigidly upright. Ah, of course. He smiled warmly at her.
"David's sister! He doesn't talk much about his family, but he has mentioned you. He was looking forward to Christmas day with you." She was looking at him as if he was an ax murderer. A shiver crawled up his spine. "I say, is there something wrong with David?"
"You don't know." From the ghastly blankness in her eyes, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"What happened?" His voice lowered automatically into the tone he usually reserved for the survivors of AIDS patients.
"That's what I'm here to find out."
Thomas stared at her, completely at sea. "I'm very sorry, but I don't have any idea what's going on. Is David all right?"
"David committed suicide on Christmas day."
Pellin gawked at her like a landed fish. "David?"
She nodded. He found himself shaking his head, no. Some of the ice melted from her eyes, in response to his honest shock, and he gripped the edges of his tiny desk, trying to regain his composure.
"He shot himself. In the head."
"Why, for god's sake?" His voice sounded strangled. He'd known David Mather relatively well for the last several months, and the sense of waste made him shake.
"He was being blackmailed." The ice was creeping back into her voice. She looked capable of murder, herself.
"About what?" She raised one brow and glanced around the office. Gay pride posters, AIDS awareness posters, safe sex pamphlets, lists of MPs to write or ring, a Rainbow Coalition flag hanging limply on a thin pole in the corner of the bookcase. "About being gay? That's ridiculous."
"How much do you know about his life, Mr. Pellin? Professionally?"
He shook his head again. "Not much. He was discreet, but then, we all are, to some extent. I knew he worked for the government, but he didn't talk about work."
"What did he talk about?" The intensity in the question made him shiver again.
"Everyday things. Football. Plays, books, my kids, you, a little. Current events."
"Did he ever mention a man named Nic?"
"No," he answered slowly, staring at her, realization dawning. "You're going after him." It was a statement, not a question, and he read the answer in her eyes. "You don't know what you're getting into." He leaned forward in his chair, anxious in his need to reacquaint her with reality. "If he was being blackmailed, the people who were doing this to him, they're dangerous people. You could put yourself in danger, as well. David wouldn't want you to get yourself hurt out of some need for revenge."
"If they did it to him, Mr. Pellin, they're doing it to others. I'm not going to sit back and allow that to happen."
He could see she wouldn't. "Then at least let me call in some allies."
"This is not your concern, Mr. Pellin. I came here for information, not to draw you into the middle of this."
"Too late, Miss Mather." He wasn't going to let it go that way. "David was my friend. I have other friends, too, friends who know how to handle people like blackmailers. Let them help us. Help you."
"David was an intensely private man," she responded, resisting the idea of more outsiders. "He wouldn't want his business known. He killed himself, for heaven's sake, trying to protect that privacy." She stopped, her throat working as she swallowed, before forcing the last words through tight lips. "He didn't even tell me he was gay."
Pellin closed his eyes at the pain in her voice. "David trusted me, as far as he trusted anyone. Will you trust me, as well? To help you find, and stop, whoever did this to him?" He opened his eyes and stared back at her, willing her to listen. "I trust my life to these men. They're friends of mine. They know how to keep a secret, and they know how to root out evil and put it to rest. Will you let us help? Before another young man like David falls into these people's hands and takes the wrong way out?"
She stared at him for long minutes, before something she saw brought her to a decision. She nodded, sharply, once. "Call your friends. I want whoever did this stopped." Dead, echoed unspoken, and he reached for the telephone before she could change her mind.
The telephone was answered before the first ring completed. Pellin nodded reassuringly at Mather, and spoke into the phone. "Hello, Ray."
"Thomas! What's up?" Ray Doyle's warm voice immediately reassured him. Doyle and Bodie were tough, and Mr. Cowley was incredibly smart. Between the three of them, they would be able to fix this. As much as any of it could be fixed. Nothing was going to bring David back.
"Are you two free this afternoon? I have something important I need to talk with you about, prefer to do it in person, and as soon as possible."
"Are you in immediate danger?" The cool, professional tone took a weight off Pellin's shoulders he hadn't realized he was carrying.
"No, but something awful has happened to a friend, and I think you are our best hope of keeping it from happening to anyone else."
"We'll be there. Your office?"
He mumbled assent.
"Now okay?"
"Please. And Ray -- thanks."
"Thank us when we fix it, mate," Ray returned grimly, then rung off.
He cradled the handset and glanced up at the clock. "They'll be here in a few minutes, Miss Mather. They'll help. It's going to be all right."
She shook her head, fingers curling into fists, clenching and unclenching rhythmically. "It may be many things, Mr. Pellin, but it is definitely not going to be all right."
Unable to think of a thing to say in response, he sat there and watched her brood until the knock came at the front door. Nearly bounding from his chair in a combination of relief and adrenaline, he opened the door to his friends. "Thank you, Ray, Bodie." He returned their nods and ushered them into his office. As usual, their quiet air of deadly competence made him feel much better. Shutting the door carefully behind him, he didn't see his first guest's reaction to the new arrivals. The first indication he had that there was anything wrong was Ray's startled, "Bloody hell!" and Bodie's growled "What's all this, then, Pellin?"
Thomas swung about and stared at the tableau frozen in the center of his office. Ms. Mather was on her feet, staring at his friends as if he'd suddenly let wild animals loose in the parlor. Ray was white about the lips, staring at her, one strong arm thrown across Bodie's midriff, in what looked like either a crutch to keep his balance or a restraint to keep Bodie away from Ms. Mather. Maybe both.
"Set a killer to catch a killer, Mr. Pellin?" Her voice was cracked ice.
Bodie twitched and lunged for her, an instinctive move that Ray quelled only by shifting himself directly between them and leaning back into his partner, hard. Bodie grunted with the effort, and Ray barked sharply, "Bodie, stop it!"
Bodie froze. The only thing moving was his eyes, which were raking up and down Geraldine Mather as if he'd like to carve her up in strips with a pocket knife and feet her to the dogs. Thomas swallowed.
"Uhm, Ray, what's going on?"
"That's what I'd like to know, mate. What's she doing here?" Ray's voice was deadly calm, but dark beneath the surface. Thomas swallowed again and gingerly moved between Ray and Ms. Mather.
"We need some help."
"Ha! Sooner help the fucking Russkies!"
"I do not need any help from CI5!"
"Help? Are you kidding?"
Bodie's yelp, Mather's declaration and Ray's disbelief overlapped. Thomas had enough. Raising both hands like a referee at a boxing match, he pitched his voice enough to be heard over the melee and gave it his best shot.
"A friend of mine, working out of the Foreign Office, has been blackmailed and driven to suicide. We need to find out who did this to him and stop them from doing it again."
Serious green and cold blue eyes stared at him. "What's she got to do with it?" Bodie asked him, cocking his head at Mather but not looking at her.
"He was my younger brother," she said quietly. Ray's head swiveled between Thomas and Mather.
"Do you accept our help in finding the man who was responsible for your brother's death?" Ray asked her directly, just as quietly as she had spoken.
"Why wouldn't she?" Thomas chimed in, confused by the undercurrents in the room.
"Ms. Mather led the inquisition into the circumstances surrounding Paul Coogan's death a few years back." Ray's voice was dispassionate, but the white line hadn't eased around his mouth.
"Tried to pin Doyle for murder, when it was Coogan's own brother pounding on him that killed him!" Bodie interjected.
"Why should I?" she answered Doyle's question. "It hasn't been my experience that CI5 are particularly concerned with the rights of individuals. Why should they care about one more homosexual proving that he's a security risk?" She was glaring at Bodie and Ray equally at this point. They were glaring back, Bodie more viciously than Ray, oddly enough, given that it'd been Ray who'd apparently been on trial.
Or maybe not so oddly, under the circumstances. Taking a deep breath, Thomas edged a shoulder between the combatants and concentrated on Mather.
"Mr. Cowley doesn't think that way." She opened her mouth, undoubtedly to dispute his claim, and he hurried on. "Seven years ago, I got into trouble in a small town north of here. I was trying to set up an office for the GYO, and the local police ran me out of town. The burnt the office, and they beat me. I went to Mr. Cowley, because he has a reputation for being a fair man. He listened to me, and he investigated. He sent Ray and Bodie up to the town, and they went undercover as homosexuals making another try to set up a GYO office. The three of them gathered enough evidence to stop the whole gang of corrupt police and send the inspector behind it, and his gang of thugs, to prison. Mr. Cowley hates prejudice of any kind, hates those who prey on the weak, and did everything he could to help me."
She still didn't look convinced, and he felt his temper slip. "Ray and Bodie very nearly died helping me, Ms. Mather! They were shot at and beaten up and came within an inch of being murdered, to help me!" Deliberately unclenching his fists and taking a steadying breath, he continued in a more moderate tone.
"Afterward, Ray and I kept in touch, and we've become good friends. He and Bodie are the best help we could possibly hope to get to find out who did this to David." Studying her closed expression, he continued softly, "You want to find out who did this. You want to stop them." He nodded at his friends. "These men are the best chance you will ever have of doing that. For David."
Her composure cracked, the tiniest bit, and Ray spoke over Thomas' shoulder. "We're going to find him, Ms. Mather. You can either be in it with us, or get out of our way."
Thomas glanced back at Ray and swallowed at the fierce expression on his friend's face. Bodie looked just as determined.
"Why?" Mather's voice trembled. He swung around to look at her again. She looked confused. Exhausted. Angry.
"This is what we do. We stop the predators before they can hit again."
She took a deep breath, still staring at Ray, then nodded. Once.
"Use your phone, Tom?" Bodie asked, already reaching for the handset. Thomas nodded pro forma agreement.
Five minutes later, George Cowley was on his way over.
He looked the same as the first time she'd seen him, an adversary in a stark, echoing basement room. In the years since they'd had occasion to cross one another, usually in a court of inquiry, always on opposite sides of the table. The ice blue eyes were as clear of emotion as she'd ever seen, excepting the sparks they'd thrown in his impassioned defense of CI5. To her intense surprise, they sparked again as Thomas Pellin explained the situation.
She never would have thought to see such anger in George Cowley on her behalf. Or her brother's.
David was the only reason she was still in the room. Every instinct shrieked at her that she couldn't trust these men, that they were amoral killers who trod roughshod over every principle she believed in and who'd not hesitate to do the same to her. Every instinct, that is, but one. The one small, insidious voice repeating, incessantly, that they were her one chance at vengeance. Her one chance to make restitution, in some small way, for her stupidity, her blindness. Her loss.
She hadn't spoken a word, merely nodded slightly at him as he came in the room. She was too conscious of all of them : Cowley, eyes like an eagle, soaking up Pellin's description of David; Bodie, staring broodingly at her, holding her at bay with his eyes, body squared to hers as if expecting her to attack at any moment; Ray Doyle, tense muscles beneath a deceptively casual stance, eyes trained on his boss, subtly keeping himself between her and Bodie; and Pellin, shoulders tight, hand motions held in, voice intense as he explained what he knew of the situation. Eventually a silence fell, and Cowley turned to her. Staring at the anger threading through his eyes, she felt the knot in her stomach loosen an inch.
Her mouth opened and words came out. She hadn't made the decision to trust them. But somehow she was. She told him everything she knew, everything she'd seen in David's office and flat, the mysterious 'Nic', the pitiful excuse for a suicide note. Her voice was solid throughout the recitation, and she didn't notice the nails cutting into the palms of her hands until Doyle, of all people, stretched across and dropped a handkerchief into her lap.
That's when she realized her hands were bleeding.
"We will do everything in our power to apprehend the person or people responsible for your brother's death, Miss Mather." Cowley's voice was gentle, and she found she couldn't hold his stare. Her eyes dropped to the small square of cloth draped over her thigh, and she absently plucked at it, balling it up and pressing it against the half-moon cuts in her palm. "Blackmailers are carrion, and aside from the very real threat to security, they must be stopped for the sake of those they would make victims. A man who makes his way on the misery of other men is an affront to decency. We will discover him, Miss Mather. And we will stop him."
She looked up, then, and found herself staring into Ray Doyle's grim face. For a moment, she saw a skull painted over his features, then she blinked, and it was gone.
Killers.
She was putting her quest for justice in the hands of killers.
Before she could force her mouth to form words, Cowley was gone, Doyle and Bodie in his wake. Pellin followed them to the door, then returned to her. His hands stuck in his pockets, an abstracted expression on his face, he hovered over her.
"Why?" she repeated. "Why should they help?"
"Mr. Cowley hates injustice," he answered her simply. "As for Ray and Bodie, they're not too fond of people who target others just because they're different, being a couple themselves."
Her normally incisive mind was hazy, buried under grief and exhaustion, lagging a step behind the conversation. "A couple of what?" she asked, confused. Pellin raised his brows at her.
"Well, you know, a ... couple." She gazed at him, lost. "A couple. You know. Lovers."
Vaguely aware that her jaw was agape, she shook her head at him. "That I don't believe." She stood up, making her way to the door, raising a hand to forestall any further comment from him. "I've read their files." Pausing at the door, she looked back over her shoulder at him. "Mr. Pellin." He stared at her, lips clamped shut, a frustrated expression on his face. "Thank you ... for being there ... for David." Before she lost what was left of her composure, she shut the door firmly and headed down the steps for home.
It echoed when she closed the door on her flat. Staring at the empty room, she wondered when solitude had become loneliness.
George Cowley stared at the telephone sitting innocuously on the corner of his desk as if he expected it to turn on him and bite him. He'd just held a brief, uncomfortable conversation with Geraldine Mather that had ended in his inviting her to his office for a short meeting. In the six weeks since she had been tripped into asking CI5's help, they, explicitly he, had come up empty. None of his innumerable contacts in the upper echelons of power were talking, but the silences themselves were more telling than the men realized.
This had been going on much too long. Too many of the wrong sort of people were afraid in the wrong sort of way. He'd unearthed at least eight suicides or suspicious deaths over the previous fourteen months, with another three that set the hair at the nape of his neck tingling. The knowledge of the blackmailer, hidden in deep shadow, feeding on the fear of his victims, itched under Cowley's skin. The need to root out the evil, eradicate it, grind it into dust, grew in him.
As one avenue of investigation after another turned up nothing concrete, his mind searched out more and more devious traps. The scheme he finally settled upon was risky, but it was an acceptable risk.
It had to be.
He had to scratch that itch. Had to shine a searchlight into the shadows, and put the evil to rest.
The only possible stumbling blocks were an old enemy and the dearest person to his heart. He would have to bring Geraldine Mather in, on an informational level, before he set his plan in motion. She knew too much already, and might inadvertently expose the investigation if she didn't know what to avoid seeing. She also had access to the most recent victim's effects, and there might be a clue they could use buried in David Mather's personal papers.
The second barrier would wait until after he had taken care of the first. A brisk knock at his office door interrupted his train of thought.
Straightening an already ramrod straight backbone, he stood as McCabe, duty officer that day, ushered Ms. Mather into his office.
"Ah, Miss Mather. Thank you for agreeing to this meeting." He gestured to the straight-backed chair in front of his desk, and she perched on the edge.
"Any information, Mr. Cowley?" she asked before he could continue.
"Not at this point." He ignored her frustrated sigh and continued, pitching his voice as soothingly as he could. "I do have a plan, however. It's one that will require some delicate handling. While I am not asking your permission to go forth, I am seeking your assurance that you'll allow CI5 to handle it unfettered of outside interference."
She glared at him. He could practically hear the debate in her head, her own need for justice screaming against the bounds of her conscience, that so hated the unilateral brief of CI5. "I take it this will be another case of using Mr. Doyle and Mr. Bodie as bait, as you did in Mr. Pellin's case?"
"Hm. No," he glanced down at his desk, completely free of papers for once in preparation for an interview with an uncleared civilian, then squared his jaw and looked back at her. "Bodie and Doyle are too well known as being in a marital relationship to make such a blackmail scheme plausible."
Mather stared at him like he'd lost his mind. "I don't believe it." He raised a brow at her questioning his veracity, and she reiterated, "I simply do not believe it. I have seen their files. I have met the men. While I am forced to believe that they, or at least Mr. Doyle, might cultivate a friendship of sorts with a man such as Mr. Pellin, known to consort with homosexuals, I find it completely unbelievable that they are themselves involved in any sort of sexual relationship."
He was impressed despite himself at her vehemence mixed with her calm deliverance. He'd seldom been called a liar so smoothly. "Nonetheless, it is true."
"You say you are intent on stopping the man who caused my brother's death. Yet the only viable tethered goat scenario, one you have used with success in the past, is one you refuse to use. You're going to have to do better than that, Mr. Cowley."
Abruptly, he was angry. Angry with Mather, yes, for her distrust and stubborn disbelief, angry with himself for failing to find another way to accomplish his goals, angry with the bloody blackmailer for catching them all by the goolies and twisting hard. Angry with wasting so much time trying to convince this pig headed woman that he knew what he was doing. He glanced down at his watch.
Remembering her reaction to the visual evidence of the results of her insistence on naming names in a public inquiry, in the form of one Henry Parker, beaten to a bloody pulp, he stood. It was time to stop wasting time, and show her what she needed to see. Then perhaps, as she had at the inquiry, she would stop beating her own drum and listen to what he had to say. Seeing was believing, after all, and Doyle should just be arriving back from his month long op in Ballymena.
"Come with me, Miss Mather." Not giving her time to respond, he swept her along in front of him, out of his office, down the corridor, passing several startled agents along the way, a sandy-haired tornado in a dark suit towing a woman commonly known as The Enemy of the Squad along deep into the bowels of CI5 headquarters. He didn't stop until they landed in the Communications Security room, a cubbyhole with a desk stuffed into a cocoon of video screens.
"Sir!" Byrnes, the agent on duty, started to rise, startled by the intrusion. Cowley waved him back to his seat.
"Sit down, man, and keep your eyes on your screens." Mather opened her mouth, and Cowley answered her before she had the chance to ask her question. "This is our internal security system. Agents give up their right to privacy when they join the Squad and become targets for all those poor innocents you defend so well. Two years ago an assassin nearly killed Doyle in his own front room. Shortly thereafter we installed security video cameras in all A squad agents' flats. Had one been there when May Li shot Doyle, we'd've gotten help to him much sooner, and caught his killer before three more men were shot and a man killed."
He gestured at the screens, views flickering every few seconds, a kaleidoscope of images. "All main rooms in each flat, rotating every four seconds, capability of freezing and maintaining any individual shot at the controller's command." Still not giving her a chance to get a word in edgewise, he turned to Byrnes. "Bring up cameras seven prime and front."
"But that's-" Byrnes sounded strangled.
"Aye, I know that, man." Cutting him off, firmly.
"But Doyle's been on assignment and he'll just have-"
Cowley glared at him, and the protest died in the man's throat. Nodding curtly to Ms. Mather, he stated, "I'll be in my office. McCabe will bring you round when you're finished here."
Byrnes tried one more time. "Do you want to-"
"NO." Cowley turned on his heel and exited the room, closing the door with a decisive snap. He may have to spy on his men for their own security, and allow others to do so in order to further his plans, but he refused to be a peeping tom when he knew precisely what he'd be peeping in on. He stamped back to his office, shut the door behind him, and poured himself a generous measure of scotch.
On reflection, he poured a second, in another glass, and awaited Ms. Mather's return. Staring out the window, possibilities ticking over in his mind, he mentally confronted the second obstacle to his plans. He had the nasty suspicion Mather had been a piece of cake compared to what lie ahead.
The agent Cowley had neglected to introduce to her was refusing to look at her. Instead, his hands flew over the large electronic board in front of him, a maze of buttons and levers that reminded her uncannily of the cockpit of a jet airplane. Finding the silence somewhat unnerving, she asked, "How can you stand this? Snooping like this?"
He shot her a withering look. "Better watched than dead. Here. Mr. Cowley wanted you to see this. So here it is."
Geraldine noticed he wasn't looking himself. "Are you not interested?" She was genuinely interested in his response.
"I don't watch things it ain't for me to see. I look for threats. This is your business, I guess, 'cording to Mr. Cowley. Not mine." With that, he resolutely turned his shoulder to her and ostentatiously studied the flickering screens, ignoring the two screens near the lower right corner of the array that were stationary. Shrugging, she turned her attention to the view.
An entryway in a standard issue flat, and a shot of the front room, showing a man moving from the settee toward the front door. He looked vaguely familiar, but his back was toward the camera, and at that moment the front door opened. A figure appeared in it, and she recognized Ray Doyle immediately. He hadn't changed that much in the last few years, hair a little shorter, shot through at the temples with gray. He looked tired. The figure, who she'd now identified from his carriage as William Bodie, reached past the man slumped against the door frame and flipped locks, pressing keys in a pad next to the door in a sequence so fast his fingers were a blur.
Then things became strange. She found herself staring, unblinking, as Bodie wrapped his hands around Doyle's skull and kissed him so thoroughly he appeared to be trying to eat the man's face.
Doyle just stood there.
After a minute that felt like several hours, Doyle dropped the bag he'd been carrying onto the floor beside them and, instead of hitting Bodie as she'd expected, wrapped one hand around Bodie's waist to pull him closer, and threaded the fingers of his other hand in Bodie's hair.
Now they were eating one another.
Staged. It had to be staged.
She was vaguely aware that the agent sitting beside her was humming, and that her jaw was beginning to ache. She consciously shut her mouth, and leaned forward toward the screen, squinting slightly. A muffled, "Oh, for christ's sake," escaped the agent but she ignored him. She couldn't possibly be seeing what she thought she was seeing. It had to be an act. Why, she wasn't sure, but she didn't trust Cowley an inch. There had to be a reason--
Oh, my heaven, she thought clearly. Bodie had stopped endeavoring to chew Doyle's lips off and had slid down to his knees in front of the man. Somewhere along the line Doyle's shirt had come undone, and one of Doyle's hands was ranging lazily through the expanse of hair scattered across his bare chest.
The other hand was back in Bodie's hair.
On his head.
Which was currently attached to Doyle's groin.
From the way Doyle was squirming against the door, Bodie was apparently attempting to eat something else, now. Doyle had no objections.
The two men moved with a curious grace, as if they were well choreographed or had enacted this scene a thousand times. The implications of that hit her in the solar plexus, and she gasped.
So did Doyle.
So did the agent beside her.
She ripped her eyes away from Doyle arching into Bodie's grasp long enough to look down and see that the agent's right ear and what she could see of his neck was bright red. He wasn't watching the screen. She swallowed, and looked back.
Merciful heavens. Now Doyle was draped face first on the floor, the rest of his clothing in complete disarray around him, and yes, that was indeed Bodie, confirmed now that he had his face to the camera. His own clothes were barely disturbed, except, of course, for his trousers, which were now undone, as he bent over Doyle's back and ... and ...
Oh, my. If they were acting, she had never seen such enthusiasm and verve in a live performance.
Doyle was screaming now. There was no sound from the cameras, but she could see the cords straining in his throat. It was Bodie's turn to arch, then collapse, and Doyle made a complicated move proving he was either incredibly flexible, or boneless, or both, and gathered Bodie up into his arms as they lay in the entryway.
Then Doyle kissed Bodie.
This time, she couldn't get enough moisture in her mouth to swallow.
Good god. Perhaps they wouldn't be as hostile to finding her brother's blackmailer as she had thought.
She wasn't really aware of leaving the room, too deep in thought, responding by instinct as a man appeared at her elbow and steered her toward Cowley's office. She vaguely recognized him as the man who'd first escorted her, but her mind was too busy with questions to care. Once he ushered her back into Cowley's inner sanctum, she sank into the chair and stared up at him.
He handed her a glass of scotch without asking if she wanted one. She drank it without protest. If nothing else, at least it moistened her throat again. She felt as if she'd been running a race, and breathing through her mouth the whole time.
"Thank you," she said absently. He winced, but she didn't take notice of it. There were pressing questions on her mind. "How can you justify having men in a homosexual relationship in CI5? Don't you consider them a security risk?"
He waved a dismissive hand and gathered her glass up, returning it to the sideboard. "They're in an acknowledged, committed, monogamous relationship, and CI5 regards such pairs as having marital status regardless of the gender of the spouses. If it's not hidden, it can't be used as a weapon."
"Publish and be damned," she murmured.
"Precisely," he affirmed. "Now do you see why they could not be bait?"
"Then what is your bait?" Determinedly putting the afterimages of the men's lovemaking out of her mind, she returned to the task at hand with her usual formidable will. "What is your plan?"
"You needn't be involved in the-"
"I already am involved, Mr. Cowley," she broke in firmly. "I became involved when my brother died. You wouldn't even know about this if I wasn't. So don't try to keep me out. What is your plan?"
He stared at her for a moment, then drank the last of his own scotch, placing the glass carefully on his desk. She caught the impression of controlled force, a tinge of frustration, but he held it in well.
"I won't interfere. But I can help." She added the last quietly, but with iron determination. He pursed his lips, then nodded, grudgingly.
"I must talk to Bodie before we go any further. Would you care to come along?"
She stared at him in utter disbelief. "But they're ..." There was absolutely no delicate way to put it. Wrapped around one another like snakes on heat? Making a shambles of the furniture? Making love like it was their last day on earth?
"Ach, aye," he interrupted, to her relief. Catching up the radio transmitter, he pressed a button.
"Alpha to 3.7. Respond, 3.7."
Through the open channel she could hear some electronic interference, a thump, several curses, and something that sounded suspiciously like hysterical laughter.
"3.7" came a low, snapped-off growl.
"We'll be over in twenty minutes." There was a howl in the background, and Cowley rapped out, "Alpha out" and cut the transmission before any actual protest could be lodged. She shook her head.
It was certainly turning out to be a day for surprises.
He was too fucking tired for this. Ray Doyle scraped whiskers off his face, ignored the whisker burn across his thighs and between his shoulder blades, and squinted into the mirror. He looked like hell. Twenty seven days undercover in a Provo cell would do that to a man. He'd been looking forward to the forty eight hours he normally would get free after an assignment like that, two days to soak his own life back into his skin, preferably via massive injections of Bodie. Now, edge barely taken off, and here they had the Old Man calling. It wasn't fair.
It was totally fucked, is what it was.
He hadn't been aware he'd been muttering out loud until a long finger curved along his newly shaved jaw, swept up behind his ear, and turned his spine to putty. "Life isn't fair, angelfish, and fucked is what we're not gonna get. So let's listen, nod a lot, lock the door and go back to bed, eh?"
A wicked grin and sparkling blue eyes met his in the mirror, and he nodded enthusiastically, or as enthusiastically as a near-corpse could manage. Which, given the impetus a randy Bodie provided, was pretty damned enthusiastically. The enthusiasm translated into a kiss that had his arse in the sink and his ankles locked around Bodie's waist when the doorbell rang.
Unceasingly.
They finally unwrapped themselves and Doyle staggered into the front room. Bodie trailed along behind him, and he could actually feel those laser eyes burning into his arse. He shivered. As soon as they got rid of Cowley they were going to have a very nice reunion. He wouldn't be able to walk straight for a month.
Peering through the peephole, he went still. Bodie came to attention behind him, and he could feel the air move as his partner snatched for the gun next to the armchair. "Don't bother," he croaked. "He'll just dock our pay to clean up the mess. She's not going to go away."
"She?" Bodie hissed as Doyle opened the door and ushered their uninvited guests into the room. Doyle shrugged one shoulder at him, set the locks, and turned to put his back to the wall. For some reason, Mather always gave him that instinctive reaction.
Oddly enough, the woman was blushing, even as she was meeting Doyle's gaze. And she seemed to have a hard time doing that, too. He surreptitiously checked his fly and his shirt front, but he was zipped and buttoned properly. Wasn't anything he could do about the hickey spreading over half his throat, but it shouldn't be too visible in the dim light of the flat. Unable to figure the woman out, he turned to his boss.
"Seat?" he asked, waving them into the room, wending around a stone-like Bodie who was glaring with equal dislike at Cowley and Mather. Bodie was obviously feeling deprived. He'd have to do something about that as soon as they were alone. He brushed his hand along the curve of Bodie's bum and glanced sideways up at him for an instant, a signal to calm down, bide his time. Bodie got the message, and the tension eased fractionally in the solid frame.
"We've not had much luck catching the blackmailer while you've been off west," Cowley started with his usual understatement. "I'm changing my approach."
"You've got a plan, then," Bodie asked absently, still staring at Mather. She seemed almost afraid to look at him. Doyle was puzzled.
"Why is she here, sir?" he nodded at Mather. She looked up at him, and the red washed back along her cheekbones. But she didn't blink.
"I have information that will assist in the investigation." He opened his mouth to ask why she didn't just hand it over, then, when Cowley spoke up.
"She's here because I want her here, 4.5. Now, we will be playing a game of tethered goats and tigers."
Reminded that this wasn't a social call by the use of his number, Doyle shrugged. "We won't make very effective goats."
"Too many people in the stable know what we are," Bodie finished for him.
"You won't be the goats."
They both looked askance at him, and he glared at them. Doyle pursed his lips. He had a feeling he wasn't going to like this.
"The target is higher."
He was right. He didn't like this. And from the look on Bodie's face as the truth of the Old Man's plan dawned on him, neither did Bodie. In the slightest. Before the explosion could occur in front of uninvolved observers, he stepped over to Mather.
"Let's go make some tea." It wasn't a suggestion.
She gave him a startled look, over her shoulder as it turned out because he was herding her into the kitchen. Behind them, Bodie's voice roared out, countered by Cowley's equally bellicose bellow. They were about an even match. Bodie'd gotten out one "No bloody god-damned way!" before Doyle had gotten Mather to safety in the kitchen. Then Cowley barked, "Control yourself, man!" and the voices dropped to indecipherable and extremely pissy rumbles. He sighed.
Walking on autopilot over to the sink, he filled the kettle. "You hungry?" he asked. She was standing by the bench, staring at him. She didn't look all there. He changed his approach. "You all right?" She didn't look all right. She looked spacey.
She jumped, a little, and focused on him. Then she blushed. Again. He cocked his head to the side and studied her. She was extremely uncomfortable.
"What's wrong? Look, I know you don't like me, think I'm some sort of jack-booted thug who beats people to death for the fun of it, but that's crap. You're perfectly safe with me. You're not a drug runner. While I don't agree with the way you're going about it, I understand where you're coming from. You don't like the way we do things. We do them because we have to, not 'cause we like it that way. In a perfect world, we wouldn't have to do the things we do, but it isn't a perfect world. Until it is, we're here, and we're doing what we have to do." He clicked the kettle off and handed her a cup. "Milk? Sugar?"
She shook her head, turning the cup in her hands. "You're in love with one another."
He just about dropped his own cup. "Eh?"
Her body seemed to firm up, as if she'd shaken the lethargy out of all her muscles and stood up straight without actually moving. "How long have you and Mr. Bodie been lovers?"
He squinted at her. "Why?" Not like it was any of her business.
"How committed are you to taking down a criminal who blackmails homosexuals? After all, it's not like you'll be targeted. You are known in your organization and still allowed to continue working."
He could feel his mouth pulling into a grimace, and forced himself to remain expressionless. "We'd find the bastard even if we were both married to birds with crops of kids. 'S what we do. But if it puts your mind at rest, Bodie and I have been together for three years. Partnered for eight."
Mather nodded. Silence stretched in the kitchen, as he stared at her, and she stared back. Abruptly, she took a deep breath. "Thank you for helping me."
His eyes softened. "'S what we do," he repeated gently. "Stop the ones who're hurting the innocents."
Before she could respond, Cowley's voice rose from the front room. "Doyle! Miss Mather!"
Doyle gathered up two cups, filled them, and headed out into the other room, trusting her to follow behind. He handed the steaming tea first to his partner, pale as a ghost with a look that could crumble cement on his face, then to his boss, a slightly more refined version of the same expression on the craggy features.
"What's the damage?" he asked calmly. Someone had to be calm. Bodie and Cowley looked like they were about to blow several gaskets between them.
"The plan is going forward," Cowley proclaimed. Bodie muttered something unintelligible and undoubtedly obscene at him. Cowley ignored him.
"All well and good," Mather chimed in. "What precisely is the plan?"
"Bullshit," muttered Bodie, clearly if very softly. Cowley continued to ignore him.
"The leak will not be the fact of Bodie and Doyle's relationship existing, but rather the family reaction to the relationship -"
Bodie snorted. Derisively. Loudly. Doyle peered anxiously at him and moved a step closer until their shoulders were brushing.
"-and the political consequences of the world at large discovering the relationship between Bodie and myself, as well as the undoubted construction the conservative press would put on Bodie's continued employment with CI5 being my own favoritism toward my son. To the point of allowing a homosexual relationship and security risk to go unchecked."
Mather had gasped somewhere in the middle of Cowley's little speech, but Doyle hadn't paid attention, too busy trying to calm Bodie down without actually pushing the man over and sitting on him. Not that that course of action didn't have its own charm, but not now, and not with an audience. Especially this audience.
"It'll work," he had to admit. Cowley nodded. Bodie growled. Mather didn't make a sound. She looked like she was in shock. Great. The canny little bastard hadn't even told her. Showed an unusual lack of certainty in his course -- he hadn't been as sure of Bodie's cooperation as he'd like everyone to believe. Tucking the thought back to be taken out and examined later, Doyle returned to the matter at hand. "Where do we start to drip?"
"That is up to Miss Mather." Cowley turned to her. She did that odd little straightening thing again, and focused on Cowley. Doyle wondered how many shocks she'd had today. She didn't seem her normal Rottweiler self.
"In what way?" she asked, and Cowley told her.
"David's diaries had yielded one clue. 'Nic'. There had to be more. Places he'd been, where he could be seen-"
"He was extremely discreet. Even I didn't know that he was gay." The words were forced out as if they hurt her throat.
"Someone saw something. Our task is two pronged. Bodie and Doyle will frequent the places David did, and make certain that the blackmailer knows about them, in much the same way he discovered about David. I will take care of the rest."
"How?" she asked, and Doyle shook his head.
"Not going to show you all his cards, did you think he would?" It was almost a teasing tone. She managed a shadow of a smile at him. Bodie, tensed beside him, growled.
"I'll drop a few whispers in a few ears and see what turns up." With that, he gathered up his coat and hat, and gestured Mather toward the door. "Tomorrow morning, my office, 9 a.m." he ordered, and Doyle groaned.
"He's been gone for five bloody weeks, Cowley," Bodie spat. "You just going to keep pushing him until he falls over?"
Doyle started to intervene, then shut his mouth as Cowley stopped and looked, hard, at his son. "I know you don't like this, Bodie. Neither do I. But the man has to be stopped. Soon. Nothing will happen to Doyle. You'll make sure of that. He's not the target here, nor are you. I am. Let me deal with it, lad."
The two men stared at one another for a very long moment, and Doyle felt some of the tension drain from his partner's body. Then Cowley nodded, once, and shut the door behind himself. Doyle took a deep, cleansing breath.
"Shit."
"Yeah."
In perfect agreement, they turned and walked back into the bedroom. They had one night, at least, before they put themselves under the microscope. They were damned well going to enjoy it.
"Eight bloody days."
"Seven different clubs."
Green eyes met blue in perfect comprehension. It wasn't tough duty. Nothing arduous about going out to dinner with one's lover. The clubs were nice, if a little lighter on women than their usual haunts.
Neither one of them was used to hanging about in gay bars.
It didn't feel like they were getting anywhere.
"Hold on," Doyle breathed. Bodie looked alertly at him.
"Love to, but even here we'd get nicked for that."
Doyle gave him a cursory glare. Bodie grinned at him. "I know that bloke."
"Which?" Bodie didn't twitch a muscle, didn't give a single sign that he'd just switched from teasing lover to agent on duty. Doyle saw it in his eyes.
"Medium height, bit on the tubby side, light hair, dark eyes, medium complexion. Wearing a dark blue suit with a brown tie."
Bodie frowned. "Ugly, that."
"He's watchin' us." Singsong, barely more than a whisper. "Seen him before. Last night. And again, couple of days ago."
"Our bird has come to roost."
"Let's give him a nice hot welcome, shall we?" Doyle grinned. Bodie grinned back.
"You're on, sunshine."
Seemingly oblivious to the world, Bodie leaned closer, staring into Doyle's eyes. For an instant, Ray was caught up in the act, and swayed toward his partner, before catching himself. Getting arrested for jumping his lover in a public place would be coming just a little too far out of the shadows. They wanted to be glimpsed, not dance naked under a spotlight. Spearing Bodie with a glance, shaking his head at the naughty grin he got in return, he snaked his hand across the top of the table and lightly clasped Bodie's hand.
Bodie, in turn, gave a good impression of a man looking around to make sure no one was watching, when in fact he was ensuring that a certain person most certainly was. Then he raised Doyle's hand to his mouth, kissed the back, and ran his tongue across Doyle's knuckles.
The shiver Ray couldn't suppress at the move wasn't faked. Neither was the sudden roundness of his eyes, or the bulge at his crotch. Forcing his mind back to work and ignoring the insistent demand of his body, he swept the room with a glance.
"Hook, line-" he murmured.
"And sinker," Bodie finished for him. "Let's get out of here."
"My pleasure."
"I certainly hope so."
They barely remembered to disengage hands before standing up and heading for the car.
Their audience followed.
Once on their way, Ray picked up his R/T. "4.5 to base. Fish is hooked. On our way back to the flat. Alert the eyes."
"Eyes alerted," crackled back. "Perimeter cameras engaged. Good luck, boys. Base out."
He grinned over at Bodie, driving with less manic energy than usual since he didn't want to lose their tail. "Oh, I dunno that luck's got anythin' to do with it," he drawled.
"Talent, my son, pure talent," Bodie shot back.
"Dunno about this performing for an audience bit, though," he went on, squirming a little in the seat. Bodie unwrapped one large paw from the steering wheel and rooted around Doyle's lap, tapping and rubbing along the way. Doyle's head fell back against the seat. "Watch the road," he managed to gasp.
"Don't think performance is gonna be a problem," Bodie cracked. Doyle nodded. It was all he could manage.
Bodie was good with his hands.
Performance anxiety had withered under the onslaught of pure arousal by the time they made it back to their flat. The tail was there, three blocks behind them, and Doyle saw the headlights on the car go out as he was setting the locks. "Showtime."
"Party time," Bodie corrected him. The curtains were slit open just enough for a camera lens, and they left the lights on in the front room as they stripped one another. Hands wandered, mouths followed, and by the time they were both naked the tiny light blinking on the alarm panel confirmed that the perimeter had been breached.
"Love you," Bodie muttered in his ear, for him alone, not for intruders, or voyeurs, or blackmailers, or Mather, or even Cowley. For him. Something cold and hard unknotted in his belly, and Doyle nuzzled back, answering without words, the way the two had always communicated best.
"Won't give him that," he whispered into the side of Bodie's neck. Bodie nodded.
"Just a bit of humping, then, give 'em a show. Let me touch you." A request, not a demand. Doyle melted a little more.
"Never 'just' anything when it's you touchin' me," he admitted, then they stopped talking. Bodie half dragged, half led him to the couch, and they landed in a heap, Bodie draped over the top of him, angled artfully to provide the best possible shot for the man at the window with the camera. Once the positioning was in place, the thinking stopped, and the instincts took over.
Doyle had to get closer to all that heat, and he spread his legs, hooking one knee around Bodie's hip, urging him closer. Strong hands moved restlessly along his back, up to cup his skull, down to squeeze his arse, melding them together. Bodie's mouth opened over his, and his eyes shut, the better to concentrate on the pure sensation of Bodie covering him, licking him, moving over him. His muscles began to shake from strain even as they matched their rhythm, hips grinding together, groins dancing against one another, never losing contact in their kiss. They were panting into one another's mouths, hands clenched tightly enough to leave marks, writhing together in perfect synchronization.
He wished it would last forever. He wished the cameraman was in hell. He wished he and Bodie were on an island somewhere, only one with a bed so they didn't have to do it in the sand. He wished for once his brain would shut up and let him get on with it, but it wouldn't stop reminding him that this was an op, and he was taking their lovemaking and turning it into a weapon.
Then climax caught Bodie, quickening his movement, grinding him against Doyle, and Doyle was lost. Too good, too hard, too hot, too much. Over too soon. Felt like someone boned him. Literally.
He had time to unlock his fingers from Bodie's arse, cup his lover's face and kiss him once more before he fell sound asleep.
Ignoring the photos that had arrived at his doorstep that morning, Cowley examined the envelope. It had been waiting for him when he awoke that morning, pushed through the slot in his door. Whomever the blackmailer was, he knew too much. Knew locations. His own. His son's.
The bait had been dangled. Now it was his turn.
An hour later, he stared with equal concentration at the spread of surveillance photos taken outside Doyle and Bodie's flat. The details were unclear, but the resolution was good enough to give him an outline of the man. He stared until he had it memorized, only breaking off when the telephone rang.
"Cowley." Speak, the implicit command.
"Hello, George." He smiled grimly at the sound of his Minister's voice.
"I take it you got a present this morning as well?"
"Oh, yes, George." He could hear the smile even over the line. "Quite an artistic eye, your blackmailer. So, my club or yours?"
"We'd better make it yours, sir. One?"
"I look forward to it. You're buying the scotch, George."
"Aye, I figured as much." There was a soft chuckle, then a click, and he cradled the handset.
On to phase two.
It took him several minutes to spot the suspect, and when he did, it was more instinct than recognition. Something about the way the man sat. It satisfied him, anyway, and he squelched the grim smile threatening to escape. The tiger was about to be lured. Then it would be merely a case of bagging him.
"Thank you for meeting me for lunch, Minister," he greeted his boss as he sat. They ordered, and Cowley nodded once over the wine selections before asking for the scotch. The nod was the signal, and he could see by the suddenly grave look on his Minister's face that the man had clearly understood him.
They carefully avoided the subject until the dishes had been cleared. Then the minister took a plain manila envelope from the briefcase at his side and slid it across the table. With his peripheral vision, Cowley saw the suspect straighten and lean forward. Amateurs. What havoc they could wreak.
Keeping their voices low, they pretended to fight about the contents of the envelope. The Minister made an abortive attempt to open the flap, and Cowley thumped it down on the table with his fist, stopping the action. Pitching his voice just high enough for the suspect to hear, he growled, "I don't give a bloody damn about those pictures. He's my son, and I'll not be throwing him to the wolves!"
"I don't see that you have any choice, George," the Minister replied, matching his tone to Cowley's. "It's true your son is usually discreet, but someone has obviously gotten past your security. Never mind what it could do to his career, what will it do to yours? If it becomes known that you're breaking with tradition, flouting security, just to keep your son in his job? Such a security risk, kept only because he's your son. Think, George! Think what the enemies of CI5 could do with such information!"
Cowley raised his hand, not wanting the Minister to overplay it. Putting on the most distressed face he could muster, he sighed. "I'll not give in to blackmail, sir." It was deliberately weak. The Minister didn't look convinced.
"Keep these, George. I can give you a few days. Then I must have your answer." With that, he patted the fist Cowley still had resting in the center of the envelope, gathered his things, and headed for the door. Cowley sat there for a few moments more, monitoring the situation with his audience without giving any indication of doing so, then downed the last of his scotch and returned to his office.
He wasn't followed.
The afternoon was long, and full, as his days tended to be. Nothing major blew up, no crises claimed his attention, and he was able to leave for home at the indecently early hour of seven. Security beeped him on his car phone ten minutes into his journey.
"Base to alpha. Perimeter alert tripped at your flat, sir. Surveillance cameras confirm it's the same suspect that was at 3.7's."
"Keep monitoring, base. Is the suspect alone?"
"Confirmed, sir. No obvious sign of weapons and no back up."
"Understood. Keep the cameras rolling, lads. Call in 4.5, 3.7, 2.6, 4.1 and second tier back up units to my flat. Take positions and await my signal."
"Confirmed, first tier partners and second tier back up at your location, awaiting your signal. On their way, sir."
"Alpha out."
Half an hour later, his teams were in place, the trap was due to be sprung, and he found a parking spot directly in front of his flat. Things were going well.
He caught sight of the suspect as he was setting his locks. Hanging his coat and hat neatly on the stand, he palmed his revolver and settled into the armchair, waiting for the knock. It didn't take long coming.
"Who is it?"
The voice coming over the intercom was unfamiliar to him. "My name is Nicolas Polson, Mr. Cowley. I need to speak with you on a private matter."
I'll say, Cowley thought, but he didn't. Unlocking the door, pistol at hand in case the man was armed after all, he opened his door and invited the tiger into the trap.
"Who are you and what do you want?" Pro forma indignation. "Who are you working for?" The meat of the matter.
"I've given you my name, Mr. Cowley. As to what I want, merely a little cooperation. The people for whom I work? Men such as yourself, with aims as high as your own -- to protect and serve their people to the best of their ability. Including encouraging assistance from such men as yourself."
Ah. KGB. He's heard enough. Lifting one hand to his chest, he depressed the signal button in his tie tack. Then he leveled his revolver at the intruder. "Don't move, Mr. Polson. You'll be coming back with me to answer a few questions."
"Is that really what you want, Mr. Cowley? Your secrets published to the world?"
Cowley smiled thinly. "I have no secrets, Mr. Polson. Your masters should have realized that a long time ago. As has been said to such good effect in the past, publish and be damned. You should be much more concerned about your own fate than mine. For you will talk, Mr. Polson. And your masters are not kind to those who talk." The man blanched, and Cowley felt his own smile grow feral. "Were I you, Mr. Polson, or whatever your name is, I'd be thinking of asking my help, not threatening me. You're going to need it."
The door flew open and Murphy, Doyle, Bodie and Anderson shouldered into the room. "Take him in, 2.6," he ordered, lowering his pistol as the big agent clamped handcuffs on the blackmailer. "4.5, 3.7, take your delayed leave now. Three days." They nodded, and Bodie turned without another word and left the flat. Doyle lingered a moment.
"Dinner? Eight? Tomorrow?" The green eyes were shrewd. Cowley found himself nodding agreement. Doyle left then, following his partner.
Replacing his weapon in the drawer, he locked up and followed his prisoner back to CI5 headquarters. He had enough on his plate right now. He'd deal with his son later.
Tomorrow.
Propped against his partner, lager balanced on his stomach, eyes staring blankly at Errol Flynn swashing his buckles on the afternoon movie, Bodie had to ask to make sure he'd heard what he thought he'd heard.
"You what?"
"I invited the Old Man over for dinner tonight."
Tension radiated from the deceptively relaxed Doyle-cushion he rested on. Ray wasn't nearly as sanguine about this as he'd have Bodie believe. "Why?" he asked mildly. Keep the little bugger off guard. Then thump him.
"You two need to talk."
"So you decided we were gonna talk, tonight? First night we've had off in two months?"
"Rather it fester until nobody in his right mind could live with either of you?" Doyle's essential rattiness was coming through. Usually Bodie found it exciting. This afternoon, it irritated him.
"Who died and made you god?"
"Get your head out of your arse and listen, Bodie. He's your Da. He's as thick headed as you are, only he hides it better. You don't talk now, you never will. Then were will you be?"
"With my head up your arse? Didn't notice any complainin' earlier."
"This isn't about us. It's about you and him. And maybe about us." Doyle sounded truculent, as he usually did when he was backing himself in a corner. All of a sudden, Bodie didn't have the energy to fight. Too shagged out.
And, if he could bring himself to admit it, in agreement with his golli. "Right."
"Don't fight me on this one, Bodie, you have to air it out and get past it." Hint of pushiness behind the truculence.
"Right," he nodded, rubbing the back of his head into Doyle's crotch. Might be time for a bit of distraction, and this was the best way he knew of distracting his partner.
"Damnit, Bodie, don't try to distrac-- Right?" Sheer disbelief. Ray was running through his entire repertoire of responses today. Bodie grinned.
"Right."
"You agree with me?"
"'S what I'm doing, isn't it? Or saying, anyway." He rolled over, careful of his balance on the narrow cushions, and wound up with his head in Doyle's lap. He peered up at surprised green eyes staring down at him, then dug into the denim starting to swell under his chin. "Doin' ... now that's a different matter."
Wrestling Doyle free of tight cotton, he swallowed his prize in one gulp. The tail end of the argument Doyle had been waging with himself degenerated into babbling groans, and he grinned around his mouthful. This, now, this was right. The rest he'd deal with when he had to.
Five hours and a great deal of sweat and semen later, he'd been banished from the kitchen while Doyle did something with rice, chicken and carrots. That gave him door duty, and he steeled himself to answer the bell shortly before eight.
It wasn't his father.
He nearly closed the door in her face before he realized, for once, Geraldine Mather wasn't looking at him as if he had just crawled out from under a rock. Point of fact, she looked ... embarrassed. He stepped back and waved her in.
"What can I do for you?" He made it as charming as he could, old instincts coming to the fore. She wasn't a bad looking bird, not counting the rod up her arse and the fact that Doyle owned his.
"I just wanted ... is Mr. Doyle here? I rather wanted to say this to both of you." She was standing stock still, but he got the impression that she was fidgeting.
"Sure. Hang about a minute. Ray?" He raised his voice, deliberately nonchalant, not wanting his partner to come tearing out from the kitchen ready to defend and protect, Browning in hand. "Company. Not Cowley."
Doyle came out slowly, eyes scanning, drying his hands on a towel. His eyes widened when he saw Mather standing by the door.
"Is everything all right?" The concern in his voice seemed to throw her. She shook her head, as if to clear it, not in answer to his question.
"Yes, fine. I just wanted ... needed to say something."
"Have a seat." Bodie pushed her gently toward the sofa. She settled on the edge, looking like a breeze would set her to flight.
"You know I have ideological differences with your organization, and in the past have been very critical of your operations, and you, personally." Bodie started to bristle, and Doyle sent him a warning glance.
"Yeah. We noticed." Doyle's voice was flat, but neutral. Interested in what she was trying to say, even though it was obvious she was having a hard time spitting it out.
Before she could say anything more, the doorbell rang again. Bodie leaned on the intercom. "Yeah."
"Is that any way to answer your door?" Cowley. Irritated. Status quo. Bodie didn't bother answering, just buzzed him in.
There was a flurry of locking and alarm setting, then Cowley turned to Mather. Bodie stayed in the background, holding his own irritation with his father in long enough for the woman to have her say and get out of their flat.
"I apologize for interrupting, Miss Mather."
She looked up at him, then shook her head. "No, you should hear it as well. My differences with CI5 haven't changed, although my opinion of you as individuals has improved considerably over the course of the last several weeks. While I can't throw the principles of a lifetime away, and I still think that the CI5 brief is an unacceptable infringement on the legal rights of the citizens of this country, I can also appreciate that you do work that no one else seems capable of doing."
She paused and took a deep breath. "I'm trying to thank you. We are at opposite ends of the spectrum in our beliefs on the means to our ends, but I have come to the conclusion that we are in agreement with what those ends are. I appreciate your help and assistance in making sure the man responsible for my brother's death will not hurt anyone else."
"He's back with the Soviets where he belongs," Cowley said gently. "They don't deal kindly with failures."
She nodded and rose. "I'll leave you to your dinner then. Thank you."
Mather turned to leave, and Bodie saw the stark loneliness in her face for a split second before her normal composure caught up with her. Moved by an instinct he didn't examine too closely, he impulsively offered, "Stay to dinner, why don't you? Ray always makes enough for an army." She started to shake her head no, and he soldiered on. "Besides. You shouldn't be alone tonight." He laid a gentle hand on her wrist. "We've been there. It's tough, end of an op, trying to get some closure. Burying your dead."
Her head snapped up and she glared at him. He held her stare until it crumbled, and he saw the pain behind her faade. He let his own mask slip, showed her the understanding in his own eyes, and she shut hers. "Ray makes a great chicken curry. You like chocolate cheesecake?"
Opening her eyes again, she managed a smile. "I don't wish to intrude."
"You're not," Doyle asserted. "In fact, why don't you come with me? I'll fetch you a cup of tea, set you up with some biscuits." Bodie was pinned to the wall by knowing green eyes. "Give Bodie and Mr. Cowley a chance to talk ..."
Mather looked from one to the other to the third, then smiled more naturally this time and followed Ray into the kitchen. Bodie knew from the look Doyle gave him that his partner'd be expecting an update later, and it had better be a positive one. He sighed.
"I am sorry, laddie. It had to be done." His father's voice was unexpectedly gentle. He felt his mouth twist into a pout and did his damnedest to straighten it out again.
"No other way to do it, eh? Had to let the whole world and all know the only reason I got into CI5 is because I'm your bastard."
"That's not the truth, and you know it. As to your parentage, no one found out who didn't already know. And anyone with a brain in his head knows the only reason you're on the squad is because you're the best. Ach, lad, I risk you as much if not more than any other agent I've got. D'you really think that could be termed favoritism?"
"KGB thinks so." He was sulking, knew it, and couldn't seem to stop himself.
"KGB thinks it's a sting. The Minister already knew it. It's no one else's business."
"Had to make love to Ray for one of your damned schemes. Use it." Sully it, he thought, and it came through clearly.
"As you may have to in the future." Bodie's head turned and he glared at his father. "It's a war, Bodie. We use whatever we can to win it. You knew that going in."
Bodie started to refute the obvious truth, explain that some things should never be used as weapons, when he realized it was fruitless. Nothing was too sacred to be used as a weapon in Cowley's war. And the Old Man was right. He had known it. He'd just fallen into the trap of thinking that in this instance his father would be a father, and not the controller of CI5. Sometimes, he could be very stupid.
"Love is what it is, son," Cowley continued, and Bodie forced himself to listen. "Doesna matter what anyone else would try to make of it. You know what it is. You make it what it is."
"Then what is it? A weapon? A convenience? Just another part of our lives that CI5 can pick over?"
"Sacrosanct. The only thing that will keep you from turning into me."
Bodie felt his glare soften with confusion. "In what way?"
"I have CI5. You have Doyle, and CI5. You've found the other half of your soul, lad, and nothing, no one, can make that anything other than what it is."
"Curry, anyone?" came a soft voice from the kitchen doorway. Bodie looked up to see Ray standing there, Mather in the background, and suddenly realized that he was starved.
"Da?"
"With pleasure."
The dinner passed unexpectedly quickly, with his father and his lover's Nemesis finding all sorts of common ground in a strange, adversarial sort of way. After awhile, he and Ray sat back and let them have at it, content to share lazy glances filled with promise over the remains of the supper table and speak their own silent language underneath the verbal sparring that filled the room.
From the sparkle on all their faces, each came away from the evening with something different, and each felt a little lighter for the time spent. Bodie stood at the door watching Cowley hand Geraldine Mather into her car, and wondered.
"Five will get you ten he asks her out to dinner some night soon," Doyle said conversationally, staring past Bodie at the cars pulling away.
"Ten will get you twenty she says yes. And buys the scotch."
They were both right.
-- THE END --
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