CHAPTER 13

Friday

"Ray."

The whispered summons dipped shallowly into the frenetic landscape of Doyle's dream; he was deeply, torpidly asleep.

"Ray!"

He knew that voice, even tense and raw as it was now.

"Ray, please wake up."

One ear filled with an irregular, too-rapid tattoo, Doyle was forced to shift his head in order to hear the speaker more clearly.

"Ray, mate, you've got to wake up."

Commanding leaden eyelids to stir, Doyle peered hazily through gummy lashes at the form crouching only inches away, but separated from him by metal bars.

"You are alive! Ray, we can't get at you until you move out of the way of the door. D'you understand me?" Simon clutched his arms around his slight chest. "Oh, Derry, look at him!"

The other man's ungoverned emotion slammed into Doyle like a cold, wet rag. All at once he remembered where he was and how he had come to be here.

Beside him, Sanjay lay with forepaws stretched out, awake and alert, regally contemplating Simon and Derek, who stood on the other side of the bars staring anxiously down at Doyle. Huddled close to the cat's warm flank, Doyle cautiously brought his head round a little further before lifting it out of the sawdust.

His memory of how he had come to lie so intimately beside the tiger was murky at best, beclouded by shock and pain. The early morning cold must have driven him here, no longer caring whether the tiger chastised him for his effrontery or accepted him, for by then he had craved warmth above all else--and Sanjay possessed that in plenty.

"Oh, yes, that's it," Simon breathed hopefully. "Slide to your left if you can, so Derek can open the door."

Moving as feebly as an arthritic old man, Doyle obeyed, keeping one eye on his immense companion. Sanjay, however, sat serenely removed--or, more likely, Doyle thought, too weak to express an opinion. The heart murmur had worsened; having been pressed up close against the animal's chest, Doyle was certain of that. He had no doubt but that Sanjay's condition had been aggravated as a result of this night's work.

"There, that's got it," Simon announced in a rush, his voice strained but steady.

The hinges wailed like tiny banshees as Derek slid the cage door inward. He stepped through the narrow opening gingerly, for Sanjay had not deigned to give ground. Facing the tiger at all times, Derek edged round him before he could crouch down behind Doyle. Positioning himself with care, Derek slipped one powerful arm under Doyle's back, the other under his knees, and lifted him up. Holding him firmly against his chest, the animal trainer skirted the cat once more, and sure-footedly but with haste made his way through the door.

Two yellow eyes thoughtfully observed Doyle's leave-taking; over Derek's shoulder, Doyle saw the tiger's head drop to his paws. An instant later, he appeared to be sleeping.

That image lingered in Doyle's mind as he was whisked through the canvas partition down the short corridor, and into the tackroom. Wielding Doyle's lanky form as though he weighed no more than a child, Derek lowered him into a chair. He squatted down in front of him, contemplating Doyle's battered face, gauging the severity of his wounds with a seasoned eye.

Behind him, Simon cut through the bonds at Doyle's wrists; released, Doyle's arms fell forward to hang uselessly at his sides. Derek took them up at once, and began a slow, exquisitely gentle massage from elbow to fingertip to restore the circulation to his hands. Melting back against the chair, Doyle grimaced at the agonizing relief that flowed through his shoulders and spine now his arms were no longer pinned back.

Seconds later, the gag was peeled away--along with several clumps of hair; Doyle clenched his teeth to keep from groaning aloud.

"Ray, what happened?" Simon blurted. "Who tied you up?" He raised a cup of strong, hot tea to Doyle's lips.

Sipping gratefully, Doyle let the heat and moisture soothe the parched mucous membranes of his mouth and throat before trying to answer. Forcing the words out, he said gratingly, "Doesn't--matter." Feeling suddenly very weak, he took another swallow of tea before pressing on, "I need--one of you--to drive me--to a call-box."

"Don't be silly; you can't even move!"

"It's--important."

"Ray--"

"Bodie--tied me up," Doyle said bluntly. "He's involved in something--he shouldn't be." Coughing dryly, Doyle jerked his head for Simon to give him the cup again.

"Drink all of this before you try to say anything more," Simon ordered, bracing Doyle's pounding skull with a hand. And then he exclaimed, "Oh, Ray! You can't be serious! Not Bodie!"

Doyle concentrated on finishing off the cup, tensing with the first cramps that heralded the arrival of the hot fluid in his stomach. "It was Bodie," he said hoarsely. "Oh, God, Derek, you're killing me!"

The animal trainer ignored him. Sensation, relentlessly reawakened, poured into Doyle's limbs far faster than he would have liked. His head swam, the pain smouldering at his temple suddenly rekindled, and with the gag removed, Doyle's efforts to speak had caused the split at the corner of his mouth to break open again. Blood leaked onto his beard, and seeped sickeningly into his mouth. No part of his body seemed unbruised, every inch of it throbbing with a hot, ungovernable pulse.

Helpless for the moment, he gave himself up to Simon and Derek's care, no longer holding in his whimpers and cries, beyond caring what the others thought. There was no question but that the pain was a good thing; the quicker he regained the use of his limbs, the quicker he could function. But it was difficult to appreciate this blessing when he felt so shatteringly wretched.

---

Some while later, washed and bandaged, Doyle sat bonelessly exhausted in the chair, elbows buttressed on the table, the mug of tea held between his own trembling, but newly responsive hands. "Thank you," he murmured. "The pair of you'll get a mention in my will."

"Stop that!" Simon's voice sparked with anger. He was instantly contrite. "I'm sorry, Ray."

"Don't apologize," Doyle said, reminded by Simon's rare burst of anger of how much he owed these two men.

"You said Bodie did this." Simon picked his words with care. "I don't believe that; I know how he feels about you."

"It's true," Doyle said hollowly.

"Then you've got to tell us what happened. Why were you in Sanjay's cage? Were you there all night?"

Doyle cautiously brought the mug to his mouth while he ordered his thoughts. Licking a trace of tea off his bottom lip, he began, "Happened not long after you left. Got caught having a look inside the lorry. There were--some things in there I wasn't supposed to know about. Bodie tied me up and threw me in with Sanjay." Gaze turning cold, he said broodingly, "Expect he'll be disappointed when he finds out Sanjay didn't fancy me for a midnight snack--nor breakfast."

"Don't even joke about that." Simon shuddered. "What was in the lorry that was so awful?"

"Can't tell you."

"Why not? What could've been in there that you weren't supposed to know about?"

"None of us were to know. And I meant it when I said I can't tell you, so don't waste your breath asking. The less you know the better."

Simon gave a huge sigh of frustration. "You're saying Bodie did all this to you?" A wave of the hand encompassed Doyle's various bruises and cuts. "He would no more hurt you than--"

Amused by Simon's sudden loss for words, Doyle essayed a smile--then grimaced ferociously when the tear at the corner of his mouth deepened. "You don't think it was my idea to go in with Sanjay?"

Derek shook his head. Sitting across from Doyle, a mug between his large, rough-hewn hands, he repeated the gesture with emphasis for Doyle's benefit.

"It was Bodie's idea," Doyle said flatly. "Believe what you like--"

One big hand, affecting the jaws of the cat, closed over the opposite wrist--only to spring open a second later. Derek's eyes burned into Doyle's face.

"Yeah," Doyle conceded with ill grace. "That crossed my mind, too. But I couldn't know that--and I dare say you wouldn't assume it either."

"Assume what?" Simon said, aggravated, having watched the by-play between the two men without understanding any of it.

"That Sanjay wouldn't hurt me. Derek thinks Bodie believed that."

"Oh-- But it's obvious."

Canting his head to one side, Doyle gave Simon a derisive look. "Would you have fancied staying in the tiger's cage all night?"

"Of course not--but, then, Sanjay doesn't like me; he never has."

Smiling affectionately, Derek pretended to growl at his lover, then raised his hands and cringed in his chair as though terrified.

"Well, I am afraid of him!" Simon sniffed. "He would've eaten me!"

"He's dying," Doyle said abruptly. He regretted the callous words instantly; Derek stiffened as though he had been struck. "His heart," he elaborated unwillingly. "I could feel it."

Picking up his mug, Derek nodded with resignation.

"That's why he didn't hurt me," Doyle explained stonily. "Only that."

But Derek disagreed. Forming the cat's head with his hand again, he touched the tips of his fingers to Doyle's mouth.

"He still says Sanjay likes you," Simon translated the obvious. "And, honestly, he should know."

Doyle managed a weak grin. "Romantics, that's what you are. Even Bodie said-- Well, it doesn't matter now what Bodie said, does it?"

Speaking briskly to cover Doyle's lapse, Simon demanded, "So where was Basil during all this? You never left her in your caravan?"

"No." Doyle studied the angry looking welts surrounding his wrists. "Bodie took her."

"He took Basil? But why--?" Pulling at his lower lip with sharp, white teeth, Simon glanced across at Derek. The other man's face offered answers Simon had failed to reason out on his own. "Oh."

"I still need you to drive me to town," Doyle said tiredly. "It's important I report this as soon as possible."

"There's a call-box just down the lane." Simon's voice was thick and a little unsteady. "We don't have to go all the way into town."

"Is there? I must have missed it." With that, Doyle set the cup slowly and with inordinate care on the edge of the table. With the same pronounced caution, he struggled to his feet, exhaling sharply as his legs took his weight.

"Ray!"

"I'm all right." He shot a rueful look at Derek, who had risen at the same time and stood now a few feet away, arms folded across his chest, expression knowing.

Glancing from one man to the other, Simon said, "You're being so secretive-- This isn't the local cop-shop you're ringing, is it?"

"They'll probably be involved eventually," Doyle hedged.

"And the circus? Is something going to happen to all of us because of this?"

His face grey, Doyle said, "I don't know, Si. I hope not."

---

Patched through to Cowley a few minutes later, Doyle leaned heavily against the inside wall of the call-box, holding the hand-piece in one whitely sculpted fist while clinging to the welded metal shelf with the other. He made his report as complete and concise as possible. Then, shivering in the grip of a cold sweat, he made himself focus on the Scot's words, only slowly, stupidly registering what the other man was saying.

"Did you hear me, Doyle?" Cowley queried, his sharp, disembodied voice stabbing like an ice-pick into Doyle's head.

"I-- Yes, but-- Did you say Willis will be sending a mop-up crew?"

"That is correct."

"But he's MI6!"

"It does occasionally happen that our interests overlap, as you well know. In this case it was fortunate that MI6 were investigating Circus Sergei, since they were better placed to move in quickly." The rebuke was made without elaboration or emphasis; for all that, it cut to the quick. "And you will undoubtedly be pleased to hear that Donal O'Shea and his associates were apprehended just on an hour ago. A comprehensive sweep will certainly follow; I imagine the circus can expect MI6 on its doorstep at any moment."

"O'Shea...." Shifting his weight from one aching leg to the other, Doyle looked out through the thick, mullioned glass; Simon sat in the Rover waiting for him. "And Bodie?"

"I believe his name was mentioned, yes."

Doyle's eyes rolled up toward the angled ceiling. "Then--I wasn't needed here at all."

"So it would seem. Doyle--you are all right?"

"Perfectly," Doyle replied softly.

"You did what you could, lad," Cowley said, the understanding tone Doyle so seldom heard inexplicably filling him with resentment. "And no more than I asked of you." There was a brief pause; when Cowley spoke again, his voice was as professionally detached as ever. "That's all. Is there anything you wish to add, Doyle?"

"No."

"Then you can set about putting your affairs in order at once. Any questions from MI6, refer them to me--is that understood?"

"Sir."

"Right. I'll expect you in the morning, then."

"In the--" Catching Simon's inquiring look, Doyle stitched together a smile. "Maybe, sir."

"What do you mean, 'maybe,' Doyle?" Cowley asked, instantly on the alert.

"As you well know," Doyle said, unintentionally echoing Cowley's own words, "there's nothing certain in life. Good bye, sir."

Ringing off despite Cowley's incipient protest, Doyle pushed the door open and stumbled out. Simon was beside him in a heartbeat, wrapping an arm round Doyle's waist, lending him his own strength.

"You are an idiot, d'you know that?" Simon informed him peevishly. "You haven't eaten yet, you can hardly stand, and it's bloody frigid out here."

"That's certainly true."

"Ray--" Simon fretted, "Oh, Ray, you look awful!"

In fact, he felt as though he had been gutted with a very blunt knife. But Doyle said, "I'm fine. Just take me home, Simon."

---

The day unfurled like an unhappy dream. Cowley had been absolutely correct: MI6 were crawling all over the compound by the time Simon and Doyle returned. Slow risers--of which there were few--were rousted out of their caravans by overly polite, besuited individuals, who herded them to join the rest of the troupe in the Big Tent. There, it was explained to everyone that MI6 were conducting an investigation. Certain individuals would undergo questioning; it was possible, however, that the circus would be able to keep one or both of its scheduled commitments later in the day.

Sergei was taken away first.

Moments later, a row flared up between Derek and an armed agent when the animal trainer attempted to leave the group to care for his charges. Doyle, not yet entirely steady on his feet, leapt to the other man's defense. Between him and Simon, it was explained that the horses could not be neglected. Willis' intervention was sought; arriving soon afterward, his first question addressed Doyle's arresting appearance. Doyle, backed by Simon and Derek, blamed his injuries on a bad fall. Willis listened to him without a flicker of expression. Then he assigned the three men a guard and sent them on their way, suggesting that Doyle might benefit from something to eat and a brief kip.

Chagrined at the man's perspicacity, Doyle spent the morning in the animal enclosure, helping with the feeding and grooming of the horses while adroitly disregarding Simon's disapproving glances. Afterward, he accompanied Derek--and the armed agent--into Sanjay's enclosure, more than a little concerned at what he would find there.

The cat roused sluggishly as they entered the cage, taking in the presence of their new companion--who remained on the safe side of the metal bars--with little interest. That alone was unusual, and said much about the tiger's decline. Doyle spoke to him quietly while Derek administered the medication; yellow eyes closed to half-slits and a soft puffing purr greeted Doyle's touch. In moments, the tiger slept, remaining undisturbed while Doyle and Derek raked out his cage and refilled the water bowl.

Soon thereafter, Doyle was summoned to an audience with Willis in Sergei's caravan. Sergei was not in evidence; when Doyle pointed this out, Willis explained that he was on his way to London, and would probably not be coming back.

"You're CI5," Willis said, pushing a cup of tea across the table to rest before Doyle's hands.

"Am I?"

"You needn't be coy; I've seen you before."

Doyle brought the mug up to his lips and sipped the warming brew with subdued relish.

"I wasn't told that CI5 had a man inside."

Doyle shrugged. "You'll want to talk with Cowley about that."

"Yes," Willis said with lilting amusement. "I shall. What happened to you?" A sweeping wave of the hand indicated Doyle's injuries. "I mean, truthfully."

"You'll want to talk with Cowley about that, too."

"I see." Willis studied him a moment. "You would agree, I imagine, that Sergei was the only individual in the circus we need concern ourselves with at this time?"

"I would," Doyle said without inflection. "According to Cowley, you took the others first thing this morning."

"Yes." A slight incline of the head gave added stress to the single word. "We will be clearing out in the next hour or so. After that, I think you can expect the local CID to put in an appearance."

"Is that really necessary? No one else was involved. And the circus has two performances tonight."

"Why should that concern you?" Willis asked. "I should think you'd be rather eager to be on your way back to Town."

The head of MI6 had never been a stupid man; nor had he ever been a very likable one. Biting back a retort, Doyle said mildly, "I prefer to see a job through to the end. You have a better handle on what was going on here than the local constabulary could ever hope to match."

"They wouldn't take kindly to being left out."

"They've been left out up till now. Besides, there's no point in advertising what's been going on."

"Sometimes a rousing success is good for public confidence."

"And it would look very impressive, wouldn't it, this coup?" Doyle commented with weary sarcasm. "All those women and children exposed to terrorist danger every time they stepped into the tent...?"

A slight smile played across Willis' thin but not unattractive mouth. "Does it matter so much to you?"

"Yes."

Steepled fingertips tapped together. "If you ever get bored working for Cowley," Willis remarked with studied discretion, "be sure to give me a ring, won't you?"

Not smiling back, Doyle said, "Probably not."

The chair scraped across the linoleum floor as Willis stood up. "Perhaps the day will come when you reconsider. In any case, I have no more questions for you, Doyle. You're free to go."

Bolstered by the heavily sugared tea, Doyle hauled himself to his feet.

"I highly recommend you have that rest, you know," Willis murmured, as Doyle made his way to the door. "Especially if you intend to perform on the trapeze tonight."

Hand on the doorknob, Doyle glanced back over his shoulder. He said politely, "I'll keep that in mind."

---

An hour later, Circus Sergei had been released, and the team from MI6 had gone. Gathered together in the Big Tent, the entire company turned out to discuss plans for their immediate future.

"It would seem, ladies and gentlemen," Riley articulated dolefully, "that we are in a bit of a pickle."

"Hear! Hear!" Falstaff agreed contemptuously.

"But we're only down two men--Sergei and Bodie." Riley smiled suddenly. "Sergei we can do without. Bodie, on the other hand--"

"I can't believe Bodie would--would--" Lily faltered.

"Of course you do," Hannah said wearily. "If you mean, that is, that he was chancing his arm on the side. But, then, we don't really know what he's supposed to have done, do we?" She turned and directed her bold stare at Doyle, who sat a few rows behind her.

"No," Simon said sharply. "We don't. Nor does it make any difference, does it! The question is, are we willing to continue as we are? We managed without Bodie before--and we've certainly managed without Sergei all along!"

"Hear! Hear!" Aidan laughed.

"Simon's right." Riley tapped his ring whip against his boot. "Doyle, you're the one most affected. Can you do the haute école alone?"

"Not the way it's set up," Doyle said. "But, Simon or Derek could work opposite me--"

"And what about your head?" Simon reminded him tartly.

"Doing much better since I finally had something to eat," Doyle said candidly. "If you'll ride Tuppence, I think I can handle Piper."

"It would be nice to have some rehearsal time, y'know!"

"We've got the rest of the afternoon. Which means, two shows are out of the question--at least for me. Riley?"

"I see your point, Doyle," Riley said thoughtfully. "It might be better to cancel the first performance altogether and charge half price for the second as a come-on for people staying through."

"I think we all could use the extra time," Hannah said frankly.

"Everyone! Your opinion, please?" Achieving an immediate and vociferous consensus, Riley said wistfully, "Wish you lot were always so agreeable. All right, one performance it is. What about the aerial routine, Ray?"

"I'll do the same one Bodie was doing," Doyle said flatly.

"Don't take this wrong, mate," Riley said gently, "but are you up to it?"

"Wouldn't offer otherwise," Doyle replied, unoffended. "Might be nice to have some ring time to prepare for that, too."

"Point taken." Riley gave him a look of complete understanding. Then, ever the showman, he turned round in a slow circle, arms outstretched. "That's it, ladies and gentlemen--let's get to work!"

---

The temperature dropped as the day wore on. By evening, there were predictions of freezing rain, possibly mixed with snow. The circus troupe, subdued but by no means cowed, worked hard to look beyond the calamity that had befallen them.

Following a run-through on the haute école horses, Doyle scurried up the ladder to the fixed trapeze, and there attempted to reconstruct Bodie's routine. He started off with a few easy swings to loosen up his muscles, then gradually intensified the intricacy of his moves. There was a moment of dizziness, which sent him into the net; but he did not lose consciousness. At Simon's terrified, white-faced stare, he explained that he was simply looking for a spectacular way to end the routine--and up he went once more.

Later, standing before the mirror in his caravan, Doyle adjusted the Regency jacket on his shoulders and took a deep breath. With sticking plaster on his forehead, which was covered for the most part by a heavy lock of hair, and trowelled on make-up to cover the scrapes and bruises on jaw and chin--although no amount of cosmetics could conceal the disfiguringly swollen lower lip--Doyle knew himself to be vastly substandard of what was expected of the elegant trapeze flyer--far less the sophisticated dandy.

Bodie, now--

Bodie.

After so many years of feeling nothing, this terrible pain that had taken up residence under his heart was a most unwelcome novelty. It had been important to him to make it through this day, to complete, in some small way the obligation he felt to Circus Sergei--no, to the people of Circus Sergei. But so much of his life here had been defined by his relationship with Bodie, that Doyle found it immensely difficult to do anything without thinking of him--and thinking of Bodie was the very last thing he wanted to do.

Doyle had put off returning to his caravan until the last minute--and had come back then only because his costume hung waiting in the cupboard. Every unthinking glance tightened the vise round his heart: the bed where he had known such unexpected pleasure--both as giver and taker; the table where he had sat opposite the man who had been his partner--looking into his eyes, sharing his laughter, listening to his voice; even the kitchen window, standing open, awaiting Basil's return.

For the most part, he had been able to shove aside the angry hurt of betrayal, but it never sank far below the surface, a cunning predator waiting with incalculable patience for its next opportunity to tear at his wounds.

Staying here--even one more day--had not been a good idea, and Doyle knew that now. Yet here, there had been a certain comfort--and in London, there would be none. But, he reminded himself, neither would there be anything in London to remind him of this remarkable time; there, he would be able to forget.

Insofar as he was able.

---

The night's house was restless and out of sorts. Several people had taken the altered schedule badly, even with the promise of a reduced ticket price as compensation. The first acts found the sulky public heavy going, but their undaunted cheerfulness and determination to entertain slowly melted the ice. By the time Doyle and Simon took the ring, the audience were quite willing to enjoy themselves.

Their act lacked the smooth precision that Doyle and Bodie had rehearsed into it; nevertheless Simon was an excellent horseman, and Piper and Tuppence did their best to overcome the flaws of their riders. At the finale, Doyle coaxed the Friesian into a magnificent capriole--and in that moment, he was able to think of nothing but the magic of riding a flying horse. Up and up Piper went, back hooves shooting straight out behind him while he hung seemingly suspended, removed from the constraints of gravity for a long, breathless second. Then he alighted, as collected as at the start of his leap, Doyle virtually motionless upon him.

After Tuppence had withdrawn behind the red curtain, and Piper had sounded his consternation, the hush that fell over the audience was remarkable--especially in contrast to the tumult that erupted when Doyle rode the Friesian after her.

"It worked!" Simon enthused, standing next to Derek, who held Tuppence's reins.

"Of course. No one rides better than you, Si."

"Except Bo--" He bit his lip. "Sorry."

"Don't be." Doyle stepped down out of the stirrup and turned his attention to Derek. "Everything going okay?"

Answered by a staunch nod, Doyle handed over the reins. "Right. I'm off to change costumes. See you lot later."

---

"Simon implied you know more than you're saying. Is that true?" Lily paced to the end of the costume rack, spun round and started back.

"Depends," Doyle replied. He slung his snug, still warm breeches over the side of the dressing screen.

"You do, don't you?" Lily persisted.

"If you're asking about Bodie, all I can tell you is that he's gone." Poised on the edge of the chair, Doyle carefully drew the thick tights up over his right knee.

"He didn't cause that cut on your lip--or the ones on your face, though, did he? He couldn't've." The soft voice pleaded with Doyle to confirm the woman's hopes.

"No," Doyle said quietly. "He didn't."

"There, you see?"

"He did tie me up, Lily," Doyle said damningly. He rose and smoothed the material up around his waist. "And he's the one who suggested feeding me to Sanjay."

"The one?" Lily chewed the words meaningfully, her brow furrowed. "If he didn't hit you, you mean there was someone else?"


Doyle scowled, grateful for the partition that shielded his features from the woman. "Didn't say anyone hit me, did I?" Doyle said peevishly. "Bashed myself trying to get away. And I only meant it was his idea about Sanjay, okay?" He sat down again to slip the all-white booties onto his feet.

Lily muttered stubbornly, "I just can't believe he'd do something so awful. Bodie was a good man; I know he was."

Doyle stepped round the dressing screen. At sight of him, Lily turned her head away.

"Ah, Lily--"

"It's all right. Don't mind me." The woman's voice splintered. "You--go on."

But Doyle padded across the floor and dropped down on one knee in front of her, taking both of her hands in his. "Lily, don't."

"Can't help it. Bodie was so--"

Squeezing her fingers, Doyle said carefully, "Yes, he was. And in a way, you are right, y'know?"

She sniffed lushly; tears fell onto Doyle's bandaged wrists.

"He was good--at least part-way, I reckon," Doyle equivocated. "Better than most. He treated you well--and me, for that matter. Lots of others. Everybody liked Bodie, didn't they?"

Lily's face glowed with reminiscent joy. "That, they did," she said, her voice hushed. She smiled gently. "And he was especially good for you, Ray. I saw how you changed from those first days; y'know, when you took over from Roger. Distant, you were--you smiled, but it wasn't in your eyes. Just lately-- Well, you were happy, weren't you!"

Doyle looked down at the pale, plump hands lying trustingly in his. "Yeah, love. I was happy."

---

Amidst the brilliance of the single great spotlight, Doyle performed Bodie's aerial routine. By then he was beyond pain, cloistering the remnants of it deep inside so it would not interfere with his performance. Over and around the bar he went, flinging himself high into the air, pirouetting round, then catching hold of the bar as he plunged downward.

Below him, the gasps and muffled squeaks of the audience told him that he had yet to bore them. For himself, this was the finale, the last time ever he would perform on a trapeze, with or without a partner. So he gave it his all, employing every trick he knew, milking every last start of awe and wringing of hands the audience had to give.

With chest rapidly rising and falling from his exertions, Doyle spun round a final time--and dropped straight down into the net, landing perfectly on his back. With a toss of the head and a wave of the hand, he acknowledged the audience's cheers--more, in Doyle's opinion, than he deserved, since the circus had promised them a delightful fairy tale, and had given them only him.

Behind the red curtain, Simon handed him a towel, holding Doyle's glittering cape over one arm, prudently drawn to one side as several energetic web climbers jostled past them into the darkened ring. "Wouldn't it be quicker to cut your wrists?"

"Don't be melodramatic." Doyle buried his face in wonderfully dry cotton, then began to rub down his chest and shoulders.

"Be honest, Ray," Simon said fiercely, "you almost missed a couple of times. I saw you."

"Okay, Simon, I admit it. But I wasn't trying to commit suicide." He waggled his brows for effect. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be here now, now would I?"

Simon snatched the towel out of Doyle's hand--and suddenly threw his arms round him, clasping him to his breast. Almost as quickly, Simon let go. Thrusting Doyle's cape at him, he said, "Thought you could use a hug; everyone needs one once in a while."

"You were right," Doyle said, despite himself. "Thank you." He applied a gentle fist to Simon's shoulder and started for the exit to the dressing tent before he was tempted to say something unforgivably maudlin.

Lily greeted him with an understanding smile and a fresh, steaming cup of tea. Summoning a jaunty grin in return, he gratefully accepted the cup then willingly spent a few moments drinking it down while sitting with the woman. As they chatted, it occurred to him how completely he had been taken into this tiny community. Perceiving him as one who had been grievously wronged, they had closed ranks about him, determined to protect him from further harm. Considering how completely he had divorced himself from the goodwill of his fellow kind such a short time before, Doyle found this nothing short of staggering.

Giving Lily a pat on the cheek, Doyle thanked her for the tea and retreated behind the dressing partition, aware that he must forge on before every muscle in his body seized up--and there was the parade yet to get through. Changing sluggishly out of his leotard, he felt himself beginning to wind down at last, like a clockwork toy that has exhausted its spring. Every niggling discomfort rose up to taunt him; every moment of sleeplessness weighed heavily on his eyelids. He was glad that he had not attempted the drive back to London; feeling as he did now, facing Cowley would have been unwarranted torture.

He reached down for one of the high-topped boots and poked his toe into it, moving as feebly as an old campaigner. Shoving his heel into place, he bent over to grab its mate.

Simon's voice came to him taut and high-pitched, "Lily, have you seen Ray?"

"He's behind the screen, Simon. What's--?"

There followed a brief flurry of heels impacting on the linoleum; Simon appeared round the edge of the partition, a hand pressed to his chest as he sought to catch his breath. "Ray, thank God I've found you."

Rising to his feet, the second boot clutched in his hand, Doyle knew by Simon's face that something had gone horribly wrong. "What's happened?"

"Taffy took a fall; Flash cut her open with one of his hooves."

Forcing his foot into the boot, Doyle prompted, "Go on."

"Derek and Des are taking her to the vet; she's bleeding badly."

"What does Derek want me to do?"

"Nothing you can do--about that. Ray-- Oh, Ray, it's Sanjay."

Green eyes stared hard into Simon's unhappy face. "Yes?"

"I don't think he can get up anymore."

---

The tiger's enclosure was rank with cat waste. Doyle only noticed the odor in passing; his attention was riveted on the tiger himself. Lying on his side, breath loud and guttural, Sanjay stirred only enough to mark Doyle's arrival: He tried to raise his head.

"That's all right, old son," Doyle said reassuringly, entering the cage as quickly but unalarmingly as possible. "You're tired. Just rest." Glancing about, Doyle saw that the cat's food and water containers were still both full. He stopped to collect the water bowl and carried it to the tiger's side.

"Try some of this, eh?"

He knelt down, positioning the bowl near the tiger's nose, where the water could be scented. Placing one hand against the deep ribcage, he searched out Sanjay's heart. It could not be missed, beating wildly against Doyle's fingers, like a creature trapped inside the broad chest, desperate to get out.

"Ah, Sanjay," Doyle sighed.

The cat's whiskers shivered; his eyes were half-open. Doyle rose up and stepped over the animal's shoulders. Crouching down at his head, Doyle eased the huge skull a few inches off the ground, feeling the slight flex of muscles that told him Sanjay would do this himself if he only could. The broad, no longer pink tongue ventured out, and lapped at the water--one swipe, no more. "Try again, mate," Doyle urged gently, "Might make you feel better."

But Sanjay's interest had fled; he weakly pulled his muzzle to one side, resisting Doyle's efforts. Defeated, Doyle slid down until he rested on the ground, then lowered the cat's head onto his lap. Sanjay's pallid tongue came out once more, this time to scrape across Doyle's knee. Carefully scratching behind the rounded ears, Doyle said, "That's okay, mate. You took care of me last night; I'll take care of you tonight. What d'you say?"

The cat's ears twitched, tracking Doyle's voice. He gave the leg under his jaw another lazy lick.

"Bloody awful getting old, isn't it, sunshine?"

As if in answer, the cat tried to lurch up off the floor, legs flailing in their struggle to lift the long, unresponsive body. Unequal to the effort, Sanjay collapsed back down, panting harshly, lips drawn back from his teeth in a rictus of dismay.

"Gently, Sanjay. Gently, eh?" Pressed up close against him, Doyle ran a hand down one of the tiger's no longer powerful legs, noting the flutter in the failing muscles.

With a low, throaty moan, Sanjay turned his head, rolling his muzzle back onto Doyle's lap as though it were an old, familiar pillow. The yellow eyes rested for an instant on Doyle's face, that enigmatic gaze seemingly cutting to the depths of Doyle's wounded soul.

Choking around the constriction in his throat, Doyle scraped a finger under the cat's chin, watching gold-lashed lids drift downward until the yellow eyes were hidden. He floated a hand over the tiger's heart; the frenzied leap and shudder of the failing organ had grown more pronounced even in the brief minutes since Doyle's arrival.

Stroking the cat's fur and murmuring softly, Doyle settled in to await the end. The harsh breaths came slower and with greater effort. Although he was very weak, and trembled unceasingly, Sanjay seemed to suffer no pain. Hunched over the great creature to share his own comparatively meager warmth, Doyle refused to admit even to himself that it was not the cold that caused the tiger to shiver.

From the other side of the animal enclosure, the muffled flourishes of trumpet and horn sounded the first notes of the parade. The drums beat in a jovial marching tempo, conjuring in Doyle's mind the image of Riley grandly announcing each act.

The web spinners would charge in first, their gaily painted faces and colorful costumes rousing a cheer; next would come the clowns, amidst an unruly display of dogs somersaulting, dancing, and balanced on shoulders and heads; following them the jugglers and the fire-eater would stroll in, all performing amazing feats as they kept pace to the music; on their heels would prance the horses, caparisoned in feathers and glittering baubles--lacking Taffy, of course, who had been injured; then Simon would appear, dressed now in jodhpurs and a white, blouson shirt, riding Pat, who would canter unfalteringly in the ages-old gait of the voltige horse--

Sanjay convulsed. His forepaws clawed violently at the earthen floor and his head reared back painfully into Doyle's chest. The tiger let out a quizzical snarl; a hissing grimace revealed long, stained canines.

"Sanjay!"

A deep, rasping breath dragged at the tiger's chest; it was followed by another a few seconds later, though this one was less labored, less pronounced. And then Sanjay went utterly quiet, his muzzle leaden on Doyle's thigh.

Under Doyle's fingers, the tiger's heart stilled.

"'S all right, Sanjay." Doyle swallowed hard.

The tiger's fur remained unchanged, still soft and warm despite death; unthinkingly, Doyle curled and uncurled his fingertips in the rough pelt, finding comfort in the animal's lingering heat--the heat that had offered him protection the night before. He shut his eyes, too late to forestall the two tears that spilled onto Sanjay's coat, turning a lemony patch of fur to burnished copper. Breathing perforce through his mouth, Doyle brought himself under control at cost, almost strangled by the presence of his heart in his throat.

"Ray."

By voice alone, he knew it was Simon. Doyle announced harshly, "Sanjay's dead."

"Oh, no--" Simon's tentative footsteps bespoke his arrival at the cage door. "Oh, Ray, I'm so sorry." He gave up a heavy sigh. "Ray, there's-- someone here to see you."

Only then did Doyle look up from the cat's motionless body; he took in the identity of the intruder with no real surprise.

"Fancy meeting you here," he remarked to George Cowley.

Unperturbed by Doyle's sarcasm, the controller of CI5 said, "Doyle." He gestured at Simon to undo the latch.

Simon did so with conspicuous reluctance. Pushing the door inward, he swept inside, leaving Cowley to follow.

"This is Sanjay?" Cowley asked, his eyes travelling from Doyle, still dressed in his Regency outfit, to the dead tiger, up to Simon, who radiated protectiveness, and back to Doyle.

"Yes."

"Magnificent beast." Cowley squatted down, one leg obstinately unbending. "Was he very old?"

"Very," Simon clipped the word off at both ends.

Cowley's hand respectfully came down on the tiger's coat. "I'm sorry, too." He examined his agent without expression. "It is time for you to come back, Doyle."

"What do you mean, 'come back'?" Simon interrupted angrily. "Ray, who is this?"

"George Cowley," Doyle said. "My boss."

"Your boss! But-- I don't understand."

"No reason why you should," Cowley stated without condescension. "Doyle is my operative; he works for CI5."

Simon's eyes saucered. "CI5! But--"

"It's true, Simon." Doyle only just managed to keep from apologizing.

Removing his hand, Cowley glanced curiously at his fingers; he began to rub the tips together. "Circus Sergei has been doubling as a way station for arms movements by a subversive organization. The group involved was seized at five this morning; there is, consequently, no longer any need for Doyle to remain here."

Face wrinkled with distaste, Simon said, "A spy? Ray!"

Scored by the disillusionment in Simon's voice, Doyle replied shortly, "It's my job, Si."

"Is that why Sergei was taken away? He was part of it?"

"Yes."

One corner of his mouth curving petulantly downward, Simon muttered, "Reckon that explains where the money was coming from. And Bodie was involved, too?"

Doyle briefly closed his eyes. "He was."

"But you're a great flyer! How could you do that and--?"

"So was Bodie."

"But Bodie was a flyer. You're a CI5 agent pretending to be a flyer!"

Doyle met Simon's stricken gaze unflinchingly. "You saw where I got my training. Donny Devereaux's circus, remember? Mr. Cowley never lets anything go to waste."

"No, he doesn't," concurred Cowley. "And that is really all we can tell you. Are you ready, Doyle?"

There was no anger in Cowley's craggy face, no disappointment, no doubt. It was as though he found his agents keeping vigil in a sour-smelling tiger cage every day of the week.

"I'd like to change out of this gear, if you can spare the time," Doyle said calmly.

"I can."

Very gently, Doyle raised the tiger's head in the cradle of his hands and shifted it from his lap to the sawdust floor. Then he deliberately brushed a palm across the long, sensitive whiskers--something he would never have been allowed, had the tiger still breathed.

Exhaling sharply, Doyle unfolded his legs and rose. Unasked, he stretched down a hand to Cowley, and unasked, pulled him to his feet. Once the older man stood on his own, Doyle cocked his head to one side and spoke to Simon: "Come with me?"

There was a mutinous pause. Then Simon grudgingly agreed, "Oh, I suppose."

"Where's the car, sir?"

"Behind the stables."

"What about my bike?"

"Arrangements have been made for its return to London."

"Right. I'll meet you behind the stables in a quarter of an hour."

---

The wind had come up; it snatched at Doyle's hair and plucked at the rich fabric of his jacket with icy fingers. At his side, Simon walked uncomplaining, huddled up to his ears in Derek's oilskin.

A rustle of movement came from the side of the path; Doyle's head jerked round to track it, eyes wide and searching--but it was only a field mouse taking fright at their passage.

Turning away, Doyle tried to ignore the ache gnawing at his insides. "Tell Derek and the others good bye for me, eh?" He glanced sidelong at Simon, who was bent forward against the fierce wind.

"Yes."

In silence, they left the path and strode across the gravel topping to Doyle's caravan. Poised on the top step, Doyle opened the door and went inside, leaving Simon to follow.

"Help yourself to anything that's edible." Doyle went to the tall cupboard behind the bed. There was little enough to pack; a very few personal items, his clothing. Doyle gathered the bits and pieces that had not been ruined in Sergei's rampage and stuffed them into the bag.

Stripping off in the cold caravan, Doyle made a quick sweep to ensure that he had got everything he needed, poking his head into the bathroom-- where he swiftly wiped off his make-up--bedroom, cupboards, and kitchen. His eyes skimmed over Basil's water and food bowls, the plywood platform covering the sink. Lips pressed into a thin line, he concentrated on climbing into his jeans.

Neatly folding Doyle's Regency breeches along the outer seams, Simon said quietly, "Will you come back to visit sometime?"

"Sure you want me to?" Doyle burrowed into the bulky sweater, putting off the moment when he would have to meet Simon's eyes.

Pausing in his self-appointed chore to give Doyle a reproachful glare, Simon chided, "Yes, we would. Even if you are a spy." He laughed without amusement. "A spy!" Shaking his head disbelievingly, he said, "Promise you will, Ray."

"Could be a while." Doyle pulled on his trainers, then hoisted one foot onto the lip of the sideboard so he could tie the laces.

"When you can. Just promise. Providing there is a circus, of course."

Doyle found a smile for him. "There will be. Yeah, okay." Switching feet, he said, "I'll try to get hold of Rose, let her know what's--"

"I already have. Earlier, while you were working out on the bar."

Doyle let his foot fall to the floor. "You knew where she was?"

"Since the day after she left, actually."

"But you said--"

"She made me swear not to tell anyone--except Derek, of course. She was worried, y'see, about all of us. Expect she'll be back in the morning; she's been staying with her sister in Leeds." Simon took up the patterned waistcoat.

"That's probably the best news I've had all day," Doyle said frankly.

Staring down at the elegant material in his hands, Simon whispered, "We'll miss you."


Doyle reached out for the other man and pulled him roughly into his arms. "And me. More than you know." He kissed Simon's forehead and backed away, picking up his bomber jacket. "And now I must go." He shrugged into the jacket, running the zip up to the base of his throat. Slinging the hold-all over his shoulder, Doyle jerked the door open, a gust of arctic air blasting full in his face. Pasting a smile on frozen lips, Doyle said briskly, "Good bye, Simon."

Simon only waved.

---

CHAPTER 14

Saturday

During the ride back to London, Doyle opted to sit with the driver so that Cowley could have the back seat to himself. Despite his state of exhaustion, Doyle got little rest. In his head, images frothed like seething water at the base of a cataract. He tried every trick he knew to relax himself; but previously workable methods failed miserably, as did a brief spell of conversation with the driver, who, bored and finding Doyle exceedingly unforthcoming, soon turned his attention back to the road. Resolutely closing his eyes, Doyle found his head awash with thoughts of Sanjay, Basil, and inevitably, Bodie. Unconnected memories fetched up against his mind's eye, shattering across the lens like a body hurled against a windscreen.

With his head rocking against the window, Doyle was held captive by the surrealistic images, and only as the hours went by did they become less fraught, less vivid, less gruesome. Eventually a certain quietude descended, which allowed him respite, if not sleep.

Once outside London, he was utterly at peace, accepting all that had gone before--including his part of it. In retrospect, he had to concede that he had learned much about himself. More than that, just as Lily had said, he had changed. No matter how much he may prefer to hold the world--and himself--at arm's length, he would never be able to subvert his feelings so thoroughly again. Two weeks in Circus Sergei had brought him unremittingly to life--and although it would be some time before the wounds healed and the searing pain faded away, there was no doubt within him that he would come to learn how to cope with this new existence.

---

The tape recorder clicked off with a note of finality.

"That's all, Doyle. You can make out your written report Monday, if you like." George Cowley pried open the plastic cover and took out the tape recording of Doyle's formal debriefing.

"That's all right." Doyle scrubbed a hand across his face. "I'll do it now, while everything's fresh."

"As you wish." Cowley dropped the cassette into a neatly labelled, manila envelope and folded his hands on top of it. "Monday morning, then; at eight."

"Eight; right."

"Get some sleep, man," Cowley recommended shortly. "You're practically out on your feet."

"Sir."

The man behind the desk sat patiently awaiting Doyle's departure, pale blue eyes tracking his every move, clinically assessing, considering, diagnosing. Excruciatingly aware of that unblinking stare, Doyle raised himself wearily out of the chair. The sleep stolen in the back of the Rover must have done Cowley good, for he displayed none of the fatigue currently plaguing Doyle--and suddenly it occurred to him that Cowley had made the hours-long trip to Newcastle simply to escort him back.

"What about you, sir?" Doyle asked boldly. "You can't have had much rest over the last couple of days."

"Enough," Cowley said.

"You didn't have to collect me, y'know." Doyle thought it important that the other man know this. "I would have been on my way this morning."

Cowley said, "I don't doubt it."

Unaccountably abashed, Doyle nodded his head and made for the door.

"I would like to have seen your routine with Bodie," Cowley announced without preamble, "if your act last night was anything to go by."

"Saw that, did you?"

"You were--reckless, suicidal, insane." Cowley folded his arms across his chest and sat back. "And absolutely spellbinding."

Feeling as though some small part of him had slipped unnoticed back onto track, Doyle raised a ghostly smile. "Thank you, sir."

"That's quite all right, lad."

Doyle fled.

---

Gritty-eyed from lack of sleep, Doyle purchased a cup reputedly of tea from the rest room vending machine and made his way to the cubicle he called his own. There he spent an hour jotting down notes, preparatory to formally typing his report. He thought it strange how committing his memories to paper in this fashion made them seem less real, and stranger still, somehow less his own.

Before winding paper into the typewriter, Doyle took a moment to ring up his hairdresser. It took some glib talk on Doyle's part, but Evans finally agreed to work him in after lunch.

There were no more excuses to be had. Regarding the blank sheet of paper inimically, Doyle lowered his fingers onto the keyboard, and slowly began to type.

---

"What on earth happened to you?"

Eyes at less than half mast, Doyle slumped into the chair Evans' hand had indicated. "Was done up, of course. You don't imagine I did this walking into a door?"

"You supposed to admit that to me?" Evans operated a lever, easing Doyle's head toward the sink.

"That's why you work for CI5," Doyle reminded him, yawning cavernously. "You're trustworthy."

"What a horrid thought."

The water blasted on; powerful jets of it soaked through Doyle's hair to his scalp. Skilled fingers began to massage a palmful of shampoo in, lulling Doyle with their gentle rhythm.

"Ray."

"Hm?"

"Don't fall asleep yet, old son. You were rather cryptic on the phone. What exactly do you want me to do?"

Eyes staring sightlessly up at the ornately plastered ceiling, Doyle said, "Put me back the way I was."

Evans squeezed foamy bubbles out of Doyle's hair. "Not so easily done, y'know--unless you want me to color the white out, and give you a perm to restore the curl."

"Whatever."

"You're sure? If I recall correctly, your boss was none too keen on the expenses for this last little transformation."

Doyle yawned again; Evans' hands were putting him to sleep. "That's his problem."

"But he'll pay?"

"Doesn't he always?"

Water sluiced over Doyle's scalp, rinsing away apple-scented shampoo.

"So far. What about the beard?"

"Hack it off--gently, mind."

Evans sighed his opinion. "And such a work of art."

"Get stuffed," Doyle suggested, unsympathetically. "Better yet, get started."

---

Doyle stood before the mirror, groggy with snatched sleep, and surveyed his altered appearance. His curls were back, though Evans had recommended a slightly looser coil than Doyle's own in order to effect a more natural transition. The grey had been replaced with a uniform color closely approaching the dark auburn-brown Doyle was accustomed to. And for the first time in over a month, his face was clean-shaven.

Having been intent upon effecting this change as quickly as possible, Doyle wondered now why he had bothered--no amount of perming or coloring could erase that wounded look from his eyes, nor the most dramatic change-over in the world undo the last two weeks.

"Thanks, Evans." He plucked at a fat, droopy curl. "It'll have to do."

"It looks great. Just get some rest, mate," the other man said kindly. "You'll feel better for it."

"Probably." Doyle clapped a hand on the hairdresser's arm. "Ta. Really appreciate your working me in."

"For you, anytime."

A fleeting smile twitched across Doyle's face. "Until I ring again, you mean. See you."

---

In a daze, Doyle returned to CI5 Headquarters to call at the Armory, where he collected his weapon. Once reclaimed, it seemed very odd to have the P-38 lodged under his arm again. Next he visited the pool to check out a car. The gold Capri was available; comfortable with it, he was content to sign it out.

After the rustic surroundings of Circus Sergei, Doyle deemed London traffic a trifle overwhelming. Overtired to the point of giddiness, he nevertheless made a stop at the shops near his flat to lay in a few supplies. He only just avoided an accident when turning back onto the main road; much more alert after that, he paid especial attention the rest of the way home.

The corridor outside his flat was cold and unwelcoming. Doyle keyed the locks and let himself in. Setting his jaw against the bitter temperature, he placed his purchases on the sideboard in the kitchen, where they remained until he had got the boiler lit and the timer overridden so he would not have to wait until evening for hot water and heat.

In the event, he stored his goods, munched on a carrot to tide him over until dinner, then took a can of Newcastle Brown into the lounge and settled with it on the sofa. Three swallows later, the can stood forgotten on the coffee table; for Doyle was out cold, lying on his side with hands tucked into his armpits, knees curled up close to his chest.

He dreamed of Circus Sergei.

---

CHAPTER 15

Sunday

The purple and maroon tulips had been removed; in their place someone had left pansies of an astonishing variety of colors and sizes. To these Doyle added fresh daffodils and a sprig of lilac. The latter would not last long, but its scent held the promise of spring, and the tiny purple blooms gave color to an otherwise drab day.

Doyle had slept through to morning. Rising with the dawn, he had donned track suit, gloves, and hood to run alone on the rain-washed pavement. There had been few people as venturous as he at that time of day and in such inclement weather; Doyle had claimed the solitude for his own, needing no human company when preoccupied with such morose thoughts.

Later, in his flat, while forcing down a breakfast of tea and toast, he had cast a jaundiced eye over the dust that had accumulated in his absence. Soon thereafter, he had knuckled under to give the place a thorough cleaning, a frosty breeze given welcome through the open windows so that it might clear out the fusty air that had lain dead for so long.

Forgoing lunch, for he had had no appetite, Doyle had annoyingly found himself at a loose end. Dressed in moleskin trousers, a bulky green sweater, and a down waistcoat as protection against the cold--which seemed far more cutting than the fresh air of Newcastle--he had taken a stroll to the nearest tube station. Having no clear destination in mind, nonetheless he had disembarked at West Brompton, and from there had walked the short distance to the cemetery.

And now here he was, crouched forward on the balls of his feet at Chandra Malik's grave, idly mixing his flowers with those that had been left in his absence.

"You deserved better, y'know?" he said with sudden conviction. Surveying the new arrangement critically, he trailed a finger over the brightly colored, pliantly curved petals, the rich green stems and leaves.

"Should've had a real partner." A snort of laughter slipped through his lips. "Crazy, isn't it? You should've had a partner like Bodie."

Doyle sat back, hands hanging loosely between his knees. The damp breeze, warning of renewed rain, lifted the curls off his forehead.

"Of course, a Bodie who wouldn't've betrayed--"

An animal darted out from behind a nearby headstone. Slightly built, long and slender, its smooth white coat was mottled with black markings. "Bas--?"

The cat froze, returning Doyle's startled gaze--then turned and leapt away.

Doyle closed his mouth abruptly. Tilting his head back, he looked up at the sky through desolate eyes, and let the hurt break free, knowing an instant of utter misery as it cut, like a thousand lancing talons, into the core of his being.

The sense of peace acquired on the ride back from Newcastle had proven cruelly ephemeral--or perhaps Doyle's defenses had simply given way altogether, and he no longer knew how to guard himself. It seemed that two short weeks had left him weaponless against his own emotions.

At the outset of this undercover operation, Doyle had entertained the idea of quitting CI5, of removing himself from Cowley's machinations once and for ever. Now, he was forced to acknowledge that there was nothing left for him elsewhere--no friends, no home, no family of any import.

As a member of Circus Sergei, he had been treated with respect and, more importantly, affection. Like a neglected flower opening to the sun, he had absorbed that freely offered succor and thrived; now, without it, he knew what it was he had given up after Keith's death--only now, the pain had grown ten-fold, and he did know how to deal with it.

Sanjay, Basil--Bodie, in his own way--were all dead.

Chandra was dead.

Keith was dead.

Bereft, Doyle bowed his head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the wet, grey headstone. There was nothing more he could say.

---

CHAPTER 16

Monday

"He said he wanted to see me at eight," Doyle said curtly.

"I'm sure he did," George Cowley's secretary, Betty, said evenly. "However, his appointments have been pushed back. He asked that you wait in the rest room. I'll summon you there."

"Right."

Left with a nagging headache following a restless night, Doyle pivoted on heel and strode out of the controller's antechamber. In the rest room, he thrust a hand into his jacket pocket seeking coins for the vending machine--only to come across the small box placed there the night before so he would not forget it. He took the container out between finger and thumb; removing the lid he studied the single, diamond-studded earring that had adorned his ear while in the service of Circus Sergei.

A moment later he was in the lift on his way to the "props" department-- as all who specialized in undercover operations referred to the small, nondescript offices which housed the myriad accessories necessary to establish a temporary identity.

There he signed over his last physical connection with Ray Doyle, circus performer, suffering a twinge of regret as the brilliant stone disappeared in the warder's hand. Mumbling a vague thanks, he rubbed at his scarred earlobe as he made his way back toward the lifts.

---

"Ray Doyle?" Betty's voice came tinnily across the intercom.

Doyle heaved himself out of the chair, tossing a half-empty beaker of cold tea into the bin. "Here."

"Mr. Cowley would like to see you right away."

Flashing his teeth in a mocking smile, Doyle said, "On my way."

Obligingly presenting himself to the woman very soon thereafter, Doyle glanced pointedly at his watch, curling his lip expressively when he saw that more than an hour had elapsed since last he had stood here.

Betty announced him, then went to the door and pushed it open herself. Raising a brow at this uncommon formality, Doyle gave her a cool nod and stepped through.

"There you are," Cowley said irritably.

"Here I am," Doyle agreed. "You said--" Out of the corner of his eye, Doyle took note of a second individual in the room. As recognition flared in his brain, he swung round, eyes huge with shock and disbelief.

Bodie!

"Hello, Ray," Bodie said.

He stood near the corner of Cowley's desk, dressed tidily in a dove grey suit made less somber by a cerulean blue tie. Above his left eye, from the upper edge of his eyebrow all the way to the hairline, Bodie sported a large white square of sticking plaster.

Doyle's mouth came open; words failed him.

"Come in, Doyle, and sit yourself down," Cowley directed.

But Doyle made no effort to obey. In his head, thoughts were grinding like the long-unused gears of a vast piece of machinery.

Continuing smoothly, Cowley said, "Introductions, of course, are not necessary. You know Bodie. He has decided to leave MI6 for CI5. Bodie will be your new partner."

His voice as rusty as an abandoned gate, Doyle echoed flatly, "MI6?"

"Big surprise, eh?" Bodie remarked. As Doyle had examined him, so Bodie studied Doyle in turn, lustrous blue eyes roving over Doyle's body from the top of his curly head to the familiar trainers enclosing his long feet.

Raw, Doyle countered, "Big enough." Turning toward Cowley, Doyle stated, "Willis couldn't've been overly pleased."

"No."

"Pulled a few strings, did you, sir?"

Cowley said mildly, "A few."

"I'll just bet." The gears in Doyle's mind grated to a halt. "You knew Bodie was working for MI6 from the first, didn't you?"

"C'mon, Ray," Bodie interposed, before Cowley could answer. "MI5, MI6, CI5--we're always looking over each other's shoulders."

Eyes fixed exclusively on his employer, Doyle said shrewdly, "That's certainly true. But that wasn't why you sent me there, was it, sir? Not to look over Bodie's shoulder."

Meeting Doyle's penetrating stare without hesitation, Cowley chose not to answer.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Doyle insisted. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides; he had never felt so betrayed in his life--up to and including the last two weeks.

"Bodie should make a welcome addition to the Squad," Cowley replied blandly.

"You--" Doyle clamped his lips together; it would serve no purpose to vent his temper now.

"Would someone please explain what you two are on about?" Bodie requested with labored politeness.

Allowing himself a single look at the man he had fallen in love with, Doyle said acidly, "You ought to know what you're letting yourself in for when you work for George Cowley."

Bodie spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Ray, I know you're narked about what happened in Newcastle, but I contacted Cow--Mr. Cowley, okay?"

"Did you," Doyle said softly.

Cowley was watching him closely, pale blue eyes challenging him to contradict Bodie's words.

Doyle drawled, "And you expect me to believe that you rang him up out of the blue--and he immediately agreed to take you on?"

"Well-- Not exactly out of the blue," Bodie admitted warily. "But it was over a year ago that he asked me to--" Eyes darkening with comprehension, Bodie turned toward the head of CI5. "You wily, conniving, old--" he broke off, his mouth forming an admiring grin.

"Do go on," Cowley invited, interested.

"You used Doyle as bait!"

Cowley did not flinch; Doyle, however, did.

"I had thought of pairing you some time ago," Cowley revealed phlegmatically, "right after my recruitment sources suggested you to me, in fact. Circus Sergei simply provided me the opportunity to see how the two of you would get on."

Stung by Bodie's amusement, Doyle said grimly, "Well, now you know; in fact, we got on better than even you may have anticipated." Shaking with fury--and the need to keep it at least partly hidden--Doyle jammed a hand into his back pocket and fished out his ID. He flung it onto Cowley's desk, then reached for the pistol in his holster.

"Don't bother, Doyle," Cowley advised. "Unless, of course, you have a notice of resignation--in writing--in your possession, as well."

"You know I haven't." Breathing hard through flaring nostrils, Doyle regarded the other man with unconcealed contempt.

"Then, sit down and listen to me."

Defying Cowley's command, Doyle said belligerently, "I'm listening."

"Good." Concentrating his basilisk stare on Doyle's rigid features, Cowley said quietly, "You have this week to familiarize Bodie with our set-up. Since he has joined us on rather short notice, his personal belongings have been delivered to your flat; he will stay with you until accommodations become available." He raised a forbidding hand as Doyle drew air to protest. "Security assure me that something should open up within two weeks."

"You can't be ser--!"

"You are the only unmarried agent with a two-bedroom flat," Cowley barked, his strident tones easily overriding Doyle's strangled croak.

"Which you moved me into just after Chan died!" Doyle snapped back.

"You were due a move," Cowley reminded him, unrepentant. "Monday next I'm shipping you and Bodie off to Jack Crane for a full evaluation. I recommend you both bear that in mind over the remainder of this week. Questions?"

Doyle snatched his ID off Cowley's desk. "I'll have that document for you before the end of day." He wheeled round and strode toward the door.

"I sincerely hope not," Cowley said.

Slamming out of Cowley's office, Doyle was down the corridor and in the lift seconds before Bodie could join him. Taking little comfort in the beleaguered frustration glimpsed in Bodie's face as the lift doors shut him out, Doyle seethed through seven flights before being deposited at the main lobby. From there he marched out into the cold, wet morning, then clattered down the concrete steps to the pavement, his destination the pool car park located under the neighboring building.

With keys in hand, Doyle worked the lock, paying no attention at all when a voice called from the edge of the car park, "Damn it, Doyle, wait up!"

Doyle yanked open the door just as Bodie pelted up to the passenger side of the gold Capri.

"Before you go chasing down a typewriter, can I show you something?"

Though Bodie was not breathing appreciably harder than usual, Doyle could see that the sprint from building to car park had taken a certain toll. "You don't care, do you?" he said savagely. "About what Cowley did to you? What he did to me?"

Clinging with bloodless fingers to the roof of the car, Bodie added rashly, "What we did to each other?"

Biting off an exclamation, Doyle started to climb into the vehicle.

Bodie took two steps forward, braced himself with a hand on the bonnet and vaulted over the nose of the car. Before Doyle could jam the key into the ignition, Bodie grabbed the door on the driver's side and forcibly held it open when Doyle would have shut it.

"Just let me show you this one thing, eh? Please, Ray."

Confused, hurt, angry beyond words, Doyle slowly looked up: Bodie's eyes were red-rimmed and puffy in a face devoid of color. Gritting his teeth, Doyle growled, "Get in."

"Thanks, mate," Bodie said breathlessly. He raced back round to the passenger side; by then, Doyle had unlocked the door. Bodie jumped inside.

"Where to?"

"Brompton Cemetery."

Doyle shot him a tense look. "Why there?"

"You'll see." Bodie strapped the belt across his lap and pulled the door closed. "It's important."

Without another word, Doyle turned the key, pressed down on the accelerator and threw the transmission into first. Wheels squealing, they tore out of the car park and onto the main road. Once amidst the congestion of traffic, Doyle wielded the vehicle more conservatively-- after all, Bodie would not be the only victim if they were in a collision.

Ten minutes out, Doyle informed his companion coldly, "Sanjay is dead."

"I know." Bodie met Doyle's hostile glance with some reluctance. "Saw Derek and Simon yesterday to see how they were getting on." The corner of his mouth formed a rueful smile. "You really won those two over, y'know? They were ready to nail my hide to the pole. Took a bit of explaining before they came round."

"But you're a quick talker, aren't you, Bodie? Talked 'em round in no time, I'll bet."

Bodie went on as though Doyle had not spoken. "Rose was back. She's determined to make a go of things."

"Claiming she knew nothing of what her husband was up to?"

"She didn't," Bodie said confidently. "Not specifics anyway, not that the IRA were involved."

"Right."

"Everyone's behind her. They all seemed pretty chipper; except for Derek, of course. He got Taffy to the vet in time, by the way. He thought you might want to know that. But Sanjay's death hit him pretty hard."

"You sound as if you actually care," Doyle said caustically.

"Could say the same about you."

Gripping the steering wheel more tightly than was necessary, Doyle kept his voice even through force of will. "And what about Basil?"

Bodie turned his head to stare out the window. "What about her?"

"She didn't suffer?"

"Of course not!" Bodie replied irritably.

"I suppose--" Doyle guided the car onto Fulham Road. "--I should thank you for that."

Bodie said nothing.

Five minutes later, Doyle backed the Capri into a space on the street, switched off the engine, and let himself out. Bodie met him on the pavement. Purposely lagging a few steps behind, Doyle then followed Bodie's lead, every muscle in his body tightening imperceptibly as they drew abreast of the row of graves where Chandra Malik was buried. But Bodie did not hesitate there; instead he continued several meters along the drive before heading down another row.

Slowing his pace, Doyle watched the other man come to a stop before a double grave-site. Bodie summoned him with a beckoning hand. As Doyle trod nearer, he turned his attention to the headstone with two arches: BODIE, JAMES; ELEANOR; WILLIAM.

"Your family?" Doyle asked remotely.

"Yes. My brother, his wife, Ellie, their little boy--"

"Your namesake."

"Yeah. And one in the oven, who never got a name."

Knowing with certainty that Bodie had not hauled him out here simply to introduce him to his dead relations, Doyle spent a moment studying the information chiseled in stone. While born on different days in different years, all, notably, had died on the same date.

"That's the date of the Selfridge's bombing," Doyle observed, hardly aware that he had spoken out loud.

"Yes."

"About a dozen people were killed."

"Yes," Bodie said again.

Understanding went some way toward banking down the smouldering embers of Doyle's fury. Burying his hands in his jacket pockets, Doyle asked abruptly, "Where were you?"

Bodie gave a humorless laugh. "Falls District."

"Christ."

Matter-of-factly, Bodie went on, "Made it into the Paras soon after; was attached to the SAS a year later."

"And used that as a springboard to MI6."

Acknowledging that with a nod of the head, Bodie said, "Jimmy was all the family I had left. Our parents died when we were lads; our aunt--me mum's sister--took us in. She was a kind old trout, but I resented her. So I ran off when I was fifteen; stowed away on a merchant ship--"

"--and ended up in South Africa with the Boswell-Wilkie Circus."

"Yeah. The first of many places--and jobs." Bodie rubbed his hands together; they were very pale and trembled a little. "Donal O'Shea was the head of the cell that arranged the bombing."

"You're telling me that MI6 took you on, and put you on this last assignment knowing all that?"

Bodie arched his brows. "They needed someone with unimpeachable credentials. Clowns and roustabouts are immediately suspect; but a flyer--"

"You and Cowley will get along well together," Doyle remarked obliquely. "Speaking of Cowley, he said O'Shea was taken into custody alive."

Shrugging, Bodie said, "Was never my intention to murder the bastard." He pressed his lips together. "Although when you showed up and he wanted to kill you--"

"You fed me to Sanjay, instead," Doyle finished bitterly.

Bodie threw his head back and gave a cough of harsh laughter. His breath pin-wheeled mistily; Doyle wondered how warm he could be in his handsome, but insubstantial suit. "Simon said Derek found you curled up fast asleep beside him Friday morning. I'd just looked in on him, Ray, before you showed up; he could hardly stand."

"Stood up well enough when O'Shea came in, though didn't he?"

"Because he was worried about you. Bloody tiger; I knew he wouldn't hurt you."

"Did you?" Doyle said sardonically.

"Was pretty sure," Bodie confessed, "though I had my hopes pinned on Basil staying in the clear till after we'd gone. She'd've had you out of there in no time. Anyway, the way O'Shea was waggling that fucking gun about, I had to play along. If I'd tried to jump him, he'd've shot me, then you. I thought about making a break for it when I sent him off into the tackroom--but he'd've had us both before we could've got very far."

Bodie concluded gruffly, "With Sanjay, you had a chance; with O'Shea, none."

Silence closed around them while Doyle digested Bodie's explanation. In his place and with his knowledge, he was not sure what he might have done. "Did you know who I was, Bodie?" he asked, unwittingly holding his breath.

"You mean, CI5? No, not until O'Shea identified you."

Staring down at the lime-streaked headstone, Doyle announced, "One of my objectives in joining Circus Sergei was to gain your confidence--you know what I mean--so you'd spill your guts about everything you knew. Did Cowley tell you that?"

"No," Bodie said wryly. "Said you were sent there to be his eyes and ears." He bent his head to one side. "Anyway, you never tried to--"

"No," Doyle cut him off. "I didn't."

Blue eyes widened fractionally at the magnitude of Doyle's unstated revelation. Bodie said softly, "Cowley contacted me just on a year ago. I told him I was interested, but the operation I was working on then-- O'Shea and his lot--would have to take precedence. First chance I had Friday morning--after the lads had moved in and O'Shea'd been shut down-- I rang Cowley. Told him, if he still wanted me, I'd be happy to give CI5 a go--but with a few provisos: He'd have to partner me with you, right now, and square things with Willis for me."

Despite himself, Doyle was impressed by this extraordinary disclosure. "He must have wanted you very badly to agree to that."

"Suppose so."

"You do understand that he set us up?"

Grinning reminiscently, Bodie muttered, "Yeah, I'm not that stupid. Crafty old sod."

Doyle shook his head. "You really don't mind?"

"How can I?" Bodie regarded Doyle with open affection. "If it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't have you now."

"Have me?" Doyle bristled.

"That's right," Bodie said obstinately. "If only as a partner."

Exasperated, Doyle burst out, "You don't even know me. You've spent the last two weeks with a bloody circus performer. What if I hadn't been CI5, Bodie? What if I'd really been a flyer?"

"Then I'd be back in that grotty little green caravan outside Newcastle, trying to explain why I had missed the Friday performances."

Stunned, Doyle could think of nothing to say.

"You don't understand, do you, Doyle?" Bodie said patiently. "If you don't want me around, I'll go; otherwise, it's you and me, in bed and on the street, for as long as you'll have me."

"Don't!" Doyle fell back a step, a hand raised to warn Bodie off--even though Bodie had not moved at all.

"Cowley showed me your file, y'know," Bodie said, undaunted by Doyle's outburst. "Told me about Keith, Chandra, you. I don't care what happened before, okay?"

"Big of you, mate," Doyle said cuttingly. "And what about you? D'you really think you can give up Murphy and Roger and whoever else happens to catch your fancy?"

To Doyle's astonishment, a soft shade of rose bloomed in Bodie's normally porcelain-pale cheeks. "You're going to have a look at my file, Ray; Cowley said that's how he handles it with partners. So you may as well know now--you're my first bloke, too."

Doyle's eyes narrowed to slits. "Pull the other one, Bodie. What about Roger?"

"MI6."

"You're joking!" Doyle exclaimed unkindly. "And your Murphy--I suppose you're going to tell me that he was MI6, too?"

Wincing slightly, Bodie said, "Yes--because it's true. Roger was supposed to provide backup. Couldn't fly to save his self-centered soul; he'd never have worked. Murph was my outside contact."

"You said you knew him from before," Doyle reminded him.

"Well, I did--the Flying Hussars, remember? Except it was the SAS, just as I said. He signed on with MI6 a year or so after me."

"So," Doyle said slowly, feeling as though he were picking his way through a field of thistles, "what you're really telling me is that you're straight."

"Late developer. Willis sent me to Circus Sergei to seduce info out of Alf. Lucky for me, I wasn't his type."

"And now all of a sudden you're ready to go off the straight and narrow? Give over, Bodie!"

"Okay, so it doesn't seem likely--but no more unlikely than you lasting all these years without a tumble!" Eyeing Doyle uncertainly, Bodie frowned moodily. "I thought you must have guessed about me Wednesday last, when we--" His teeth ground together. "Well, I didn't know what I was doing, and I hurt you. Thought it must be obvious I'd never done that before."

Remembering the pain--as well as the searing pleasure--of Bodie's lovemaking with indelible clarity, Doyle murmured, "It wasn't obvious to me."

Emboldened by that small concession, Bodie pressed on, "Look, Ray, it's all up to you. If you don't want to stay in CI5, I'll go with you--it's in my contract. Didn't think you'd be too pleased with Cowley when you found out he'd taken me on, and I thought I'd better have that option available. He wasn't keen, but I insisted. If you want to stay but leave out everything except us being partners, I won't like it--but I'll stay, too. If nothing else, it'll give me time to change your mind. But if you want to give us a real chance--CI5, partners, the lot--I think it'll work."

Bleakly, Doyle said, "And if it doesn't?"

"It has to."

Blinking at Bodie's uncompromising assertion, Doyle demanded, "Why?"

"Because, you bloody-minded, ill-mannered bugger, I don't think I can stop loving you--and I'd sooner not have to try."

Struck dumb once more, Doyle stared across at the dark-haired man, the last vestiges of hurt and anger melting away. In their place, a frighteningly intense hope kindled inside, its flickering heat warming the walls of Doyle's frozen heart. In a hushed voice, he said, "Swore, when Keith died that no one would ever be able to hurt me like that again. And no one--"

"You don't have to love me back, Ray," Bodie interrupted fiercely.

"And no one has--" Doyle overrode him gently, "--until you, Bodie. When you walked out Thursday night, leaving me alone with Sanjay, I--" Doyle's voice fell to a whisper. "I didn't think I could bear it. God help me, Bodie, but I love you too--and it scares me to death."

Bodie's eyes shone like sapphires. "Must be the only thing you are afraid of, then. Never met anyone like you, Doyle. Cowley's right, y'know? I think we'll make a great team."

"Cowley." The name was not so much spoken as spat out.

"Don't blame him too much, sunshine. He wanted to keep you, and he wanted to get hold of me--bit unconventional way to go about it, but you must admit, it worked."

"He only cares about the Squad," Doyle warned him, unamused. "He lives and breathes it."

"To the point where he got up the noses of several assorted ministers and the head of MI6 to keep his best agent happy. Face it, Ray, he knew you were taking things badly, and he was afraid of losing you."

"He said that?"

"Not in so many words," Bodie said dryly. "But it seemed obvious to me, yeah."

For the first time, Doyle comprehended just how many favors Cowley must have called in to winkle Bodie out of Willis' clutches. "Your Willis was not pleased?"

"Understatement," Bodie said with a make-believe shudder. "Never liked the swine anyway. Cowley should be a pleasant surprise."

"Tell me that again--after we've begun evaluations."

Bodie's face sobered; he regarded Doyle steadily. "Does that mean you'll give us a chance--you and me, the whole works?"

Rubbing the point of his shoe in the thick grass, Doyle looked up at Bodie through dark lashes. If he said "yes" now, he would be leaving himself open to incalculable hurt--especially considering their chosen profession. And if he said "no"--

He couldn't say "no"--not if it meant losing Bodie again.

"Don't see as how I've got a choice, what with you and Cowley both conspiring against me," Doyle said. "But I do have one condition."

"Yeah?" Bodie asked uneasily.

Eyes softening, Doyle said, "Promise you'll put on your leotard for me once in a while?"

A huge, relieved grin flowered on Bodie's face. "Think I can manage that."

Dropping his gaze to the grave marker, Doyle said heavily, "Sorry about your family, mate. Can see now why you were so keen on settling the score."

"Kinda crazy, though." Bodie shrugged deeper into his jacket. "Somehow it was more important at the outset. I mean, O'Shea had to be stopped-- him and all the others like him, but-- Well, somewhere along the way, it no longer mattered why; it was just something I had to do."

"Because it wasn't personal anymore; that's what this job does to you, mate."

Faintly troubled, Bodie asked, "Is that good or bad?"

Shaking his head, Doyle said, "Who knows?"

---

Gravel and stones crunched underfoot as the two men walked through the misting rain toward the gold Capri. "Cowley said I am to spend this week getting you settled in," Doyle said reflectively. "Expect we should start at the flat--do the unpacking and all that."

"Oh, yeah," Bodie said slowly, "the flat."

Absorbed in his own thoughts, Doyle failed to notice Bodie's lack of enthusiasm. "In fact, if things go well, we'll just keep it," he stated boldly--then hesitated. "Unless, of course, you'd rather have a place of your own?"

"You don't think Cowley would mind--you and me living together, I mean?" Bodie asked.

"He started this."

"True."

As they stepped through the great, metal gates, Doyle tapped his partner's arm. "You haven't answered the question. If you'd rather not--"

"Stop it, Ray," Bodie said, unbothered. "Haven't you figured out yet that I'll go along with anything you want?"

With complete honesty, Doyle said, "I don't understand why."

"Well," Bodie drawled, "it might take a few days to get it through your woolly head how I feel about you. We were both playing roles, y'know, and sometimes it's hard to tell where the pretending ends and reality begins."

"Were you pretending?" Doyle asked, not completely certain that he wanted to hear the answer.

"When I had to," Bodie said bluntly. "Mostly with Simon and the others. All the time with Sergei, since I had to convince him that I was on the take. But, believe it or not, I tried never to lie to you, Ray."

As they ambled onto the pavement, Doyle mulled this over. "You said, 'countless men and thousands of women'."

Bodie snorted. "'Thousands' is a bit of an exaggeration, that's true."

"And countless men?"

"You can't count none," Bodie pointed out reasonably.

"But you're really sure this is what you want--to be gay?"

"It's what I am, what I've been for a long time, even though I wouldn't let myself act on it while I was in the Army and SAS--even MI6, though I would've there, given the opportunity. Just common sense, really--not that it was ever easy." He shot Doyle a sidelong look. "Anyway, sex with you--it's the best ever. Couldn't give it up if I wanted to, mate."

Doyle looked his partner full in the face, need and yearning clearly revealed on his own. "Yeah," he breathed. "It was fantastic."

"And will be again," Bodie vowed.

---

"Okay, you've told me how you and O'Shea drove the lorry to the drop site; how your heroic lads moved in and saved the day--without anyone getting hurt," Doyle said, walking alongside Bodie up the steps to his block of flats. "But you haven't explained that bit of elastoplast on your forehead."

Bodie dismissively waved a hand. "O'Shea, of course. Soon as he saw that the game was up, he tried to cut down the odds. Never trusted me, y'see, and he was afraid I'd shop him come the push. So the miserable prick tried to shoot me."

"Appears to have succeeded, if that bandage is anything to go by."

"Grazed me, you idiot," Bodie corrected. "Otherwise, I'd be dead."

Having already determined this, Doyle remarked calmly, "Then, MI6 doctors must be as unreliable as our lot. You've probably got concussion, and here you are out and about when you should be in bed."

"A little lie-down would be nice."

"We'll soon see to that," Doyle assured him. He pulled the main door open, courteously waiting for his partner to pass through before him. "Lift's on your left."

"See it. By the way, what happened to you? Couple of days ago, you had straight hair and a beard, both distinctly grey. Simon was right: You look ten years younger without it."

"Don't laugh, but I-- Well, I needed to be myself again." Doyle rang for the elevator; from overhead came the promising sounds of gears meshing together. "Does it bother you?"

"Not in the least," Bodie replied. "Just wondering what it'll be like to kiss you without all that fuzz on your face."

Blanching, Doyle cast a quick glance all around. "Lunatic!"

But Bodie was unrepentant; his eyes rested familiarly on Doyle's mouth.

The lift doors slid open. "Get in there." Doyle gave his partner a shove and followed him inside. He poked a finger on the button for his floor. "I'll sort you out in a minute."

"Counting on it," Bodie said happily. He thrust a hand into his trousers pocket. "By the way, Cowley gave me a set of keys."

"Expect he did. And?"

"Probably ought to give them a try, that's all. Make sure they work."

In the enclosed space, Doyle balled his fists at his sides to keep from reaching out; he wanted very badly to have Bodie in his arms. "Yeah, okay."

The jingle of metal against metal issued from the depths of Bodie's pocket. He dangled the newly issued keys, still attached to an identifying tag by string, in front of Doyle's nose just as the lift came to a jarring stop.

"Come on, you," Doyle said impatiently. He tugged at Bodie's arm, then immediately released him as they stepped out onto the landing.

There was no one else to be seen. The door to Doyle's flat stood at the far end of the landing. Bodie placed a finger to his lips and crept toward it on tiptoe; Doyle rolled his eyes but remained obediently silent. When they stood outside the door, Bodie noiselessly guided the key into the lock; a second later he repeated the stealthy process in the electronic secondary.

Looking on with bemused affection, Doyle indulgently waited while Bodie eased the door open. The frequently oiled hinges made not a sound.

"Go on, then, mate," Bodie whispered, and gave Doyle a push forward.

From out of nowhere, something came hurtling at him. It sprang up onto Doyle's thighs, then bounced off his chest. He stumbled backward, one hand scrabbling for his gun, even as his stricken brain recognized the identity of his attacker.

"Basil!"

The dog threw herself at him again, and this time Doyle swooped her up, gathering the squirming animal into his arms. Clutching her close, Doyle rounded on Bodie. "You said--"

"That she didn't suffer," Bodie anticipated him. "And by God, she hasn't. Been driving me half-insane, she has."

"Oh, Christ, Bodie!" Doyle's eyes flooded with unexpected tears; he reached out blindly for his partner. "I thought--"

Bodie gathered him in his arms at once, careful not to crush the ecstatic animal, and received a widely flailing tongue across the jaw for his efforts. "O'Shea wasn't keen on having her along, but I told him if he laid a finger on the mutt, I'd fuck him up good and permanently."

"Oh, Bo--" Doyle's voice shattered; he clutched at the other man's arm with one hand, the other fully occupied with keeping the squirming terrier from pitching to the floor.

"I'm sorry, Ray." Bodie curved his fingers into heavy curls; he drew Doyle's head into the hollow of his shoulder. "About everything: Sanjay, Basil, me. Could see it in your face when you thought I was working with O'Shea." He kissed the top of Doyle's head. "Tried to tell you, y'know, but I guess you didn't understand. I probably wouldn't've either, under the circumstances."

Inhaling wetly, Doyle said, "Tell me--what?"

"Who I was. Remember, when O'Shea said you were CI5, I said--"

"That, 'if he's CI5, then I'm MI6'--or something like that." Chagrined, Doyle made a minor production of wiping at his cheeks. He sniffed unselfconsciously, "Yeah, 'course I did. Just thought you were rubbing my nose in it."

Brushing his chin idly over Doyle's thick hair, Bodie murmured, "Like I said, don't know that I would've caught on, either."

"It was a complete cock-up," Doyle pronounced with uncomfortable self- assessment, his voice low and husky, but once more under control. "Cowley should've had my balls on a platter."

"If I recall, he told you not to move on your own--more, I suspect, to keep you from stealing a march on Willis than out of any concern of your getting nicked."

"Little did he know." Easing himself out of Bodie's sheltering embrace, Doyle met his partner's tender gaze through spiked lashes. "You were quick to believe O'Shea about me."

"It explained a few things."

"Like?"

A smile twitched across Bodie's mouth. "You fly like a dream, sunshine-- but being the best flyer in the world would never have satisfied the Ray Doyle I met at Circus Sergei."

"You're saying you were suspicious of me all along--is that right?"

Bodie laughed. "Reckon so. 'Course, once Derek'd found you nosing round the delivery lorry, I did wonder."

"Yeah, okay. Point to you." Doyle pulled free. "Down you go, Basil." He cast Bodie a searching glance. "She's been fed, hasn't she?"

"First thing. I handed her over to the removals rep in Cowley's office so they could bring her here, out of harm's way."

Straightening up, Doyle held out a hand; he jerked his head toward the stairs. "Then it's time we started unpacking; get you settled in."

Curling his fingers round Doyle's, Bodie asked, "Then why are you leading me upstairs? My tea chests are in the lounge."

"You're not dressed for it, mate; messy business, y'know? Thought I'd just lend a hand to speed things up. Act as your valet, like."

"And then we'll start unpacking?" Bodie asked guilelessly.

"Well-- Maybe not right away."

"Oh, good, I'd much rather have that little lie-down you promised before we get stuck in it."

"Sorry, sunshine," Doyle informed his companion gravely, pausing at the head of the stairs. One hand worked deftly at Bodie's collar, loosening the blue tie. "But it isn't little, and it won't be lying down--but, with any luck, it may get stuck in something."

A complacent smile lay claim to Bodie's lips. "Oh, well. Who says you can't have everything?"

---

Opalescent light shimmered through the net curtains obscuring the bedroom window; a soft rain pitter-pattered down, streaking the glass and dripping steadily onto the sill.

"You've lost weight, Ray."

"Have I?"

Doyle lay on his back, propped up by several pillows. Bodie was sprawled across his chest, dark head cushioned by Doyle's bony shoulder.

"Think your hip bones left grooves." A blunt-tipped finger prodded experimentally at Doyle's sharply defined pelvis.

"Was I too rough?"

Bodie snorted. "You are kidding? Expected you to break out the incense and holy vestments at any moment--first time I've ever been bloody worshipped!"

Unfazed by Bodie's invention, Doyle murmured, "Must mean I like you."

Bodie's head came up; amused blue eyes examined Doyle's contented face. "When you saw me in Cowley's office, you looked like you wanted to kill me."

"I did." Lazy fingers left off their explorations of Bodie's smooth shoulder to caress his cheek. "Then I decided I'd rather kill Cowley."

"Don't like him much, do you?"

"I--admire him; respect him," Doyle said ruminatively. "Like him? Sometimes, I reckon I do. And sometimes, I just hate him."

Turning his head, Bodie kissed Doyle's forefinger. "Consistency is everything. By the way, it's nice without the beard, too--kissing you, I mean." He raised his brows hopefully.

"That's certainly reassuring," Doyle said drolly. Very gently, he dropped his mouth to Bodie's lips.

A moment later, Doyle asked, "What'd he say to you, Bodie? Y'know, Cowley, when you told him you wanted on the Squad?"

"Not a lot, really," Bodie said with a crooked grin. "I tried to come on the hard man over the phone, y'know, all bluff and bluster. Like I told you, I rang him as soon as I could, after the lads had moved in. Had the excuse of this--" he indicated the bandage on his forehead, "--to leave the mopping up to everyone else. Luckily Willis had gone to Circus Sergei to personally collar Alf, dangerous criminal that he is, poor, dumb sod. Cowley saw right through me, I think, but he arranged a meet for that evening, even though by rights I should've been swamped with debriefings and paperwork. Not a man you want to mess about, your Cowley. Very powerful. Could be dangerous if you got on his bad side."

"Doesn't have a good side," Doyle observed trenchantly.

"Anyway, I told him what I wanted; he told me what he expected in return--and that any personal involvement on our part--you and me--would not be allowed to affect the Squad--and we agreed that I would come in first thing Monday morning to make it official."

"This was on Friday?" Doyle's fingers were no longer moving.

"Yes; late in the afternoon."

"He could've told me!" The husky voice was shot through with renewed anger. "Who you were. Why you were working undercover. The miserable, manipulative old--"

"I--got the impression that it was important to him to see how you rolled with all this, Ray. He more than half expected you'd hand in your resignation today."

Doyle pushed Bodie off his chest, shifting onto his side so he could look into the face of his lover. "And here was me thinking I had nothing left but CI5--resigning was the last thing on my mind. I don't always like my job, Bodie, but it's necessary, and sometimes--not always--I'm good at it."

"You don't have to convince me--he showed me your file, remember?" Bodie ran a fingertip across the abraded skin on Doyle's left forearm, a lurid memento of Doyle's stay in Sanjay's cage. "You're better than good. You may not like to admit it, but losing your partner--especially like that-- gave you a bloody bad turn."

"And you think sending me to Circus Sergei was the appropriate cure?" Doyle said scornfully, no longer pretending that Chandra's death had not affected him.

"Worked, didn't it?"

Slowly rocking his cheek on the pillow, Doyle intoned, "Like I said, you'll get along well with Cowley."

"He did what he had to, to keep you, Ray." Bodie affectionately rubbed his nose against Doyle's. "So-- What do we do now?"

"What d'you mean?" Doyle's eyes darkened with query.

"You and me."

"Thought we'd worked all that out." Doyle lowered his head and gave Bodie's shoulder a lingering kiss.

"Could probably use a few ground rules, so there're no misunderstandings later on."

"For example?"

Bodie curled a forefinger under Doyle's chin and forced his head up; troubled green eyes could no longer evade him. "I'll stay until you don't want me anymore--when you get tired of me, I'll go, okay? And I'm a selfish prick who doesn't like to share. You have a bit on the side, I might do something stupid--so it'll be smarter if you tell me good bye first."

Searching Bodie's open features, Doyle questioned, "And if I never get tired of you or want a bit on the side?"

"I'd like to think that might happen," Bodie whispered, "but we're neither of us children. I'll fight for you, Ray, but only if you're honest with me."

"That's fair enough. Can I expect the same from you?"

"Absolutely."

Placing his hand flat on Bodie's chest, Doyle tipped the other man onto his back. Then he rose up on one elbow, so he could stare down into Bodie's handsome face, his fingers gliding upward to lie gossamer-light around Bodie's throat. "Then I don't think we have anything to worry about."

"No?"

Doyle bent down to kiss his partner's mouth, taking his time over the cool upper curve, the succulent lower pout. "No." He opened his eyes; Bodie's unguarded expression betrayed a longing that had nothing to do with sex.

"And you said I worship you," Doyle chided softly.

"Can't bloody help it, can I?" Bodie burrowed nearer.

Gathering the muscular body into his arms, Doyle settled the covers over them both before asking, "How's the head?"

"Okay."

"Think you're ready for that little kip now?"

"If you'll stay with me." Bodie's tranquil voice was muffled against Doyle's neck.

"Not going anywhere."

"Promise?" Bodie insisted sleepily.

"Promise."

A movement at the door brought Doyle's head up; Basil stood there, looking on inquiringly, a partially mangled shoe hanging from her jaws.

"What size shoe do you wear, Bodie?" Doyle asked softly.

"Shoe?" The sticking plaster wrinkled with Bodie's frown. "Eight. Why?"

"No reason," Doyle murmured. "Such dainty feet you have."

Choosing the plush rug beside the bed as the warmest spot on the floor, Basil lay down with her prize and set to with a will.

"Doyle--" Bodie's voice came out unexpectedly acute, "--if that dog of yours is eating my shoes, I'll vivisect her."

"Nah," Doyle assured him. "She's not. Put your head down, mate."

"Ray--"

"Don't worry. I'll break her of the habit later. Right now she can have anything she likes."

One eye rolled open and peered fixedly over the slope of Doyle's chest to the floor beyond. "That's your shoe, idiot!"

"She missed me," Doyle said, unconcerned.

"You're mad, Ray Doyle," Bodie decided, relaxing limply upon his partner's accommodating shoulder once more.

"Very likely," Doyle agreed. To himself he added, "Too bad I can't borrow yours, because I wear a nine."

There was no point in saying more, for Bodie was already dropping off. Drowsily content, Doyle allowed his mind to wander. In a thousand dreams and fantasies he would never have imagined that he might be happy again. Yet, Bodie had been restored to him, as had Basil--although he had not a clue how he would care for the dog. He only knew that he would.

Four days ago, his life had been in ashes. Now, like his mythical hero, he had risen to new heights--and the reason for his rebirth lay here in his arms. Bodie was wrong in believing that Doyle would eventually choose to move on; on the contrary, he needed Bodie as he had never needed anyone. And he would do anything to keep Bodie at his side.

"Love you, Ray," Bodie whispered, surprising Doyle, who had thought his partner well away.

Tightening his grasp, Doyle revelled in the silken feel of his lover, the heat he exuded, the heady scent of him. "Love you forever, mate."

Bodie's soft lips crept into a smile. "And you. Forever."

---

EPILOGUE

The Big Tent glowed like a Chinese lantern. From the foot of the drive, at the bottom of the parallel rows of sideshow exhibits and games, the nattering crowd could be heard, impatient for the beginning of the second performance.

"C'mon, Ray! We're already late."

"Probably too bloody late," Doyle groused, loping to catch his partner up. It had been left to him to lock the car and see to Basil.

"Nah, they'll still let us in--Rose can't've changed things that much."

For all that the end of May was only a few days away, the weather was chill and drizzly--not unlike March in Newcastle. Keenly reminded of that time now a scant two months past, Doyle made no effort to stopper his memories as his searching gaze took in the familiar layout, colors, aromas and noises. Only the landscape had changed; for this was Norwich.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Circus Sergei!" Riley's voice boomed over the Tannoy, his reverberant tones made more resonant still by amplification.

"Makes you want to run and fetch your tights, doesn't it?" Bodie teased.

"Not me," Doyle rejoined; he would not have admitted for the world that the inclination did, in fact, exist.

They braked to a stop outside the ticket booth. "Two, please," Bodie requested on a sharp exhalation.

Having observed their approach with perceptible interest, the lad behind the counter exclaimed, "Thought it was you! Hang about."

With that, Damien stuck his head round the curtained-off entry into the kiosk and shouted, "Rick! They finally made it! Take 'em up front, will you?"

Bodie and Doyle exchanged bemused looks. They were given little time to ponder Damien's remarks, for Rick, the young man who took tickets at the main entry, appeared within seconds.

"Well, and not before time," he proclaimed. "Come with me, please."

"What's not before time?" Doyle whispered, as they entered the Big Tent.

"Shh," Rick hushed him loudly.

"Don't you want us to pay you, then?"

"Shhh!" Rick repeated.

People packed the stands on either side of the aisle, stretching and shifting in their seats to get a better view of the ring. The music bellowing from the musicians' box was deafening. In the middle of the freshly sawdusted arena Riley held court, perched on Flash's back. As phlegmatic as ever, he let his voice do the work in place of extraneous facial effort--and as ever, was winning the audience over in the first moments.

Ignoring the grumbling complaints of onlookers, Rick led Bodie and Doyle to the seats held in reserve for visiting VIP's.

As he waved them in, Bodie murmured, "Cor, son! You sure you're supposed to sit us here?"

"Rose's instructions," Rick advised him tersely. Signalling them to stay put, he then strode back to the entry, giving the impression that he had left his post too long unattended.

Having the best view in the house, Bodie and Doyle settled in for an evening of painless entertainment--in two months their first night unfettered by the demands of CI5. Given the okay by Cowley earlier in the day, they had raced back to their shared flat, loaded up Doyle's gold Capri, and had struck north.

Unwittingly grinning from ear to ear as the jugglers were superseded by the clowns in their marvellously funny free-for-all, Doyle was scarcely aware that the tension accumulated over the last two months was evaporating from his body with every passing second. Beside him, Bodie dug an elbow into his ribs and pointed out Aidan's half-witted jig, which was new to his act. Doyle nodded, having noticed it himself, never once taking his eyes from the havoc being wreaked on the sawdust and tanbark stage.

Simon took the ring next--Bodie stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. The young man, dressed from bewigged head to slippered toes as a woman, rode with consummate--and still astonishing--skill, not in the least bit encumbered by his full-cut, pleated skirts, which vanished from his lean frame as layers were plucked away by the web spinners pretending to be tree branches. Within moments, his femininity stripped away, Simon stood smugly on Mickey's back, arms spread wide, his male physique clearly visible for all to see. As he passed their box, Simon lifted both hands to his mouth and blew kisses their way. Laughing, Bodie and Doyle waved back; once more Bodie whistled ear- splittingly, which earned him a sharp elbow in the ribs.

The order of routines had been altered since their sojourn with Circus Sergei. As soon as Simon and Mickey had exited through the red curtain, the web spinners launched into their act, choreographed to suit their costumes, and to highlight their youthful limberness. A delicate, tranquil performance, it gained the audience's approval and their hearts--and primed them for the dressage act, which followed in its wake. Much like the routine Bodie and Doyle had perfected, this new version boasted Piper and Tuppence in all their refined but glittering glory, ridden now by Derek and Simon--the latter of whom was unrecognizable in his Regency costume as the voltige damsel.

This house was no more unaffected by the equestrian drama than those Bodie and Doyle had performed for. As Piper disappeared behind the curtain, a single sigh went up, given voice by many throats.

"It is impressive," Doyle admitted, whispering in Bodie's ear.

"Told you. 'Course, we did it with a little more élan," Bodie replied incorrigibly.

The balancing act starring Aidan came next. He convincingly mixed broad slapstick with elegant acrobatic skills; Bodie and Doyle cheered him as wholeheartedly as the rest of the audience.

Riley's liberty horses erupted into the ring amidst a thundering of galloping hooves. Having admired the ringmaster's horsemanship from the start, Doyle leaned forward and, rapt, savored every flawless turn, leap, and dancing maneuver. At the end, as the animals careered off stage in order--the now-healed Taffy weaving ubiquitously in and out and under the larger ponies' legs--Doyle clapped until his palms stung.

And then the lights went down, a single, wide-focus spotlight fixed on the empty trapezes suspended overhead. This lasted only long enough for Riley to announce the oncoming act, and to give the workers time to erect the net for the aerial performance. "Arturo Falconi"--in reality, Clive Bruce--was first to appear, the huskily built young man perched upon the catch trap. The light moved away a second later, to seize his more lithesome counterpart, "Victor"--Clive's recently healed brother, Alex Bruce. At once, "Victor" grasped his trapeze and swung out, graceful and in control, leaping across open space to have his fall arrested with equal adroitness by his brother. To Doyle's critical eye, the two men were better than yeomanlike, but somehow fell just shy of spellbinding.

Theirs was a basic routine, employing none of the dramatics incorporated in Bodie and Doyle's short-lived act. Nevertheless, Doyle was not disappointed in their leaps and pirouettes and the double layout salto with which "Victor" ended their set.

"Not bad," Bodie commented.

"Not bad," Doyle agreed.

Next came Falstaff, Taffy, and Hannah's dogs playing errant pupils to Flash's teacher horse routine. Charmed by the silliness, Doyle was even more amused by Bodie's giggles--a little boy's laughter he all too rarely heard.

And then it was time for the final parade. Each act appeared at Riley's summons to take their bows. The house applauded and shouted their pleasure on this unseasonably cool, wet day outside Norwich.

Moments later, the house lights came on as the ring went black. The public rose to make their way outside.

"Should we go round and see if we can visit with Simon and Derek?" Doyle asked.

"Sit tight, sunshine. Simon said someone would fetch us."

"It's been over a month since you heard from him," Doyle argued uncertainly. "Maybe--"

"Rose is still in charge; don't worry, Ray."

"'M not worried."

"Then?"

"Be embarrassing to be booted out, that's all."

Bodie chuckled.

Within moments the Big Tent was an empty husk. Just as Doyle was beginning to fidget nervously, the house lights dimmed and the ring lights came on again--and there, in the center, stood Riley.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he started formally. "Ah-- Excuse me, gentlemen only: May I introduce my wife, Melanie, and my son, Neil."

Two figures stepped out of the shadows, a young woman with pleasant features, wearing an assistant's costume, and a stocky boy who resembled the woman beside him.

Bodie nudged his partner and heartily applauded. Entering into the spirit of things, Doyle joined in.

"Oh, come down here, you silly buggers!" That was Simon's voice, soon met by Simon's face and form as he strode into the ring from the red curtain, shadowed by Derek.

"Took you bloody long enough," he stated, aggrieved, coming up alongside Riley and his family.

The spotlight shifted, burning down now on Bodie and Doyle. "That's what Rick said," Doyle noted, grinning.

"Turn that thing off!" Bodie growled. He was already on the move, Doyle trailing behind him as they made their way off the stands.

As they drew nearer, Doyle was taken aback to see that most of the troupe were in evidence, filtering through the red curtain singly and in groups of two or three. "Good Lord," he exclaimed as he stepped over the curb onto the sawdust floor. "Haven't you lot got anything better to do?"

"Than to greet old friends? Don't be simple. My God, Ray--what have you done to your hair?" This, from Simon who walked up and threw his arms round Bodie first, then Doyle. "Oh, I like it!" A second later, Doyle was taken into Derek's rugged grasp, and lifted completely off his feet.

"You maniac," he gasped. "Put me down!"

Amidst a whirl of greetings, which Doyle was stunned to recognize as a full-fledged home-coming, Hannah uncannily echoed his thoughts. Taking his hand in her firm clasp, she said, "How's it feel to be the prodigal son?"

"Most strange," Doyle laughed. "Bodie, I could understand--he was here for a year; me--"

"Sometimes you can be a bit slow, Ray," Hannah said kindly. "Part of your charm, eh?"

"Sweet talker."

"You still have Basil, according to Bodie." Hannah picked up one of her terriers that had slipped through the forest of loitering legs before it could run afoul of a misplaced foot. "How's she getting on, then?"

"Better than I do, most of the time. You might see her; she's here somewhere. When Bodie and I have to be away for more than a day, there are a couple of wives we can rely on to look after her."

"Wives?"

Doyle hesitated. "Y'know, some of the blokes where we work are married."

"Oh. Spies have wives, do they?" She gave him a penetrating once-over. "Are you happy playing James Bond? Truly?"

"Yeah, believe it or not. And it's even better now, with Bodie."

Hannah smiled. "Wouldn't wish him on my worst enemy."

"He's not that bad," Doyle defended his partner. "Well, not all the time, anyway."

"Who's not that bad?" Bodie wanted to know, clapping a hand on Derek's shoulder as he looked Hannah's way.

"You. Eavesdropping again?" Hannah asked sweetly.

In answer to that, Bodie pushed Doyle aside and gave the dog trainer a crushing hug, raising a yelp from the terrier still held in her arms. "I've missed you too."

"So what did you think of the show?" Riley asked, forcing a gap between milling bodies into which he moved, accompanied by his son.

"Great," Doyle said truthfully. "You lot only get better."

Riley's son stared up at him with round, respectful eyes. "Dad's told me about you--and about your special act."

"Has he?"

"He's told us, too," another voice contributed, this one of a much lower register--and totally lacking the reverential tone.

"Hello, Clive," Bodie said. "Alex. Good to see you two back in commission."

The "Flying Falconis" were still clad in leotards and glittering capes. While manifestly different in body size and physical attributes, there was, overall, a distinct look of brothers about them.

Alex gave a nod acknowledging Bodie's remark. "Don't reckon the pair of you would like to give us a private showing? After all, you've seen how we perform. Would only be fair, don't you think?"

"Oh, would you!" Neil Riley chimed in excitedly.

"Come now, Neil," Riley said reprovingly. "They haven't practiced--"

"We'd love to." The words were out of Doyle's mouth before he had quite thought them through; however, despite Bodie's look of startlement, he had no desire to take them back. The prospect of going up on the trapeze one last time--with Bodie as his partner--appealed to him with unanticipated intensity.

"Are you sure, Ray? Bodie?"

Bodie shrugged. "Why not?"

"But you're hardly dressed," Lily pointed out; her familiar voice had teased at the edge of Doyle's hearing for some moments. She reached out and took Doyle's hand in hers. "Told you so, didn't I--about Bodie?" Her mouth curved into a Cupid's bow smile. "D'you want your old costumes, loves?"

"Hello, Lily. Go ahead and gloat: You certainly did tell me about Bodie." Doyle bent forward and kissed the woman's cheek. "I'm game, if Bodie is."

Blue eyes traversed from Doyle's composed expression to Neil Riley's bright eyes. "Costumes, eh?" Bodie reached down and tweaked the lad's nose. "What d'you say, Neil?"

"Oh, yes, please."

"Well, that settles it, then. That is, if the lads don't object to putting the net up again?"

Tom announced from behind Riley, "Happy to, mate."

"Donal, d'you want to work the lights?" Bodie asked.

"'Course."

"Des? You there?"

The stocky Irishman waved at Bodie from the edge of the ring. "If Ray'll trust me to."

"With my life," Doyle assured him. He gave Riley a crooked grin. "Do you remember the spiel, then?"

The long nose rose haughtily. "I have an excellent memory."

Bodie waved an arm at the now-empty musicians' box. "We seem to have lost our musical accompaniment."

"Surely you can do without it?" Clive Bruce insisted.

"Some of the effect will be lost," Doyle cautioned.

"No matter."

"Right, then. Let's get kitted up, shall we? After you, Lily."

---

Hands and forearms coated with a dusting of sticky resin, and wrist bands wetted down with alcohol to keep them from slipping, Doyle stood once more on the platform high above the circus floor. Across from him, Bodie sat on the catch trap, wearing the specially designed costume that transformed him from Good to Evil and back again in a tick. The snugly fitting tights and body suit emphasized Bodie's muscular frame; Doyle happily looked his fill, still subject at odd moments to questioning his incredible good fortune in having acquired Bodie's love and unwavering devotion.

In the last two months, they had undergone Cowley's most grueling indoctrination along with a physical assessment that would have seen lesser mortals cashiered from CI5's elite roster. They had supported each other without fail, experienced their first fire-fight together, suffered the fishy looks of unenlightened colleagues--and through it all their nascent love had continued to take root and bloom.

"You ready, Ray?"

Doyle gave him a wink. "Always."

Bodie shook his head. "Hold that thought for later, eh? D'you think we can pull this off?"

"Easily." Bravado--born of certainty--framed the single word.

Winking back, Bodie said, "Good enough. Riley! Cue everybody, will you? We're set."

Over the Tannoy, Riley's voice rumbled loud and clear, taking Doyle back to an instant he had thought lost forever in time. With an innate suppleness that could not be taught, he flew out over the ring that lay so many, many feet below, let go of the bar, and gave himself over to Bodie. Four hands clasped hold of four wrists simultaneously; Bodie's timing was as instinctive and impeccable as ever.

Away Doyle spun, catching his trapeze on the return swing. Incapable of explaining this rather singular talent, he chose instead to immerse himself in it, moving from one stunt to the next with fluid grace and total trust in Bodie's ability. There were a few rough spots, to be sure, but Riley's voice and Donal's lighting created the effect that only magic--or supreme skill and rare prowess--could achieve.

Afterward, diving down into the net, Doyle became aware of the applause honoring their untarnished showmanship. On the ground once more, he readily accepted the towel handed him by Derek, returning the other man's approving smile as he began to wipe himself down.

"Not bad," Clive said neutrally; his eyes, however, betrayed a certain admiration.

"You were wonderful!" Neil Riley exclaimed in his high, piping voice. "Fantastic!"

"Thanks, son," Bodie said, taking the towel from Doyle for his own use. "And thanks for asking. I think we both quite enjoyed that."

"You bloody wallowed in it," Simon said indictingly. "And now I think it's time you two came back to the tackroom and had a cuppa or two."

"Soon as we get changed." Bodie nodded at Clive and Alex Bruce in parting, clipped Neil on the chin, and cocked his head toward the red curtain for Doyle to join him.

---

Standing behind the dressing screen, Bodie remarked knowingly, "You certainly enjoyed that."

"Yes, I suppose I did." Doyle leaned dreamily against one of the corner poles, arms folded across his chest. They were alone in the dressing tent, having been left to their own devices for the moment.

The moment did not last long. "And you were magnificent!" Rose announced, stepping through the opening. "If you ever want your jobs back, just ring me!"

"Rose, how are you!" Bodie called out, fingertips waggling over the top of the screen.

"I'm fine, Bodie. Don't need to ask how you two are getting on, though, do I?"

"No," Doyle replied amiably. "You had a good crowd tonight; how's the circus getting on?"

Rose sighed dramatically, despite the smile on her face. "Pretty harrowing on occasion. But I've turned ownership over to the troupe; we'll sink or swim together."

"Great idea!" Bodie stated approvingly. He appeared around the edge of the screen, fully dressed. "Your turn, Ray."

As they switched places, Bodie walked up to Rose and greeted her with an affectionate hug. "You look great, love; are you all right?"

"Not bad," Rose assured him. "You know, I meant what I said just now, about your flying for Circus Sergei again. You and Ray--even without the music--you were enchanting."

"You're kind, love. We'll bear it in mind, though, okay? Just in case we decide on a change in careers."

Sobering, Rose murmured, "I do wish I'd known just what Alf was up to, y'know. Maybe I could've--"


Bodie shook his head implacably. "You couldn't've. By then, he'd already dug himself a hole a mile deep."

"It was for the circus." Her voice, plaintive and remorseful, carried to Doyle clearly. "He could never find enough money. The circus was his first love, always."

"And he was yours," Bodie said gently. "I am sorry."

Smiling faintly, Rose nodded her head. "That's all right, Bodie. Ray!"

"Yes, love?" Sliding the tongue of the leather belt through the loops on his jeans, Doyle left the protection of the dressing screen.

"Take care of this big lout for me, will you? I owe him."

"It's my job, Rose. But I would, even if I didn't get paid for it."

"Mercenary toad," Bodie said without heat.

"I think Doyle's perfect for you," Rose stated, patting Bodie's cheek with a smooth palm.

"So does he," Bodie said, as his partner came alongside him. He drove a fist without force against Doyle's shoulder. "And he's right."

---

The small creature swayed from side to side, its oversize ears flapping forward and back, feet planted firmly on the hay-strewn floor of its enclosure.

"Where on earth did you get that?" Doyle demanded. "Stay out of there, Bas; she'll step on you--that is, I think it's a she?"

Derek nodded. He stood next to the months-old pachyderm, a hand running down her scarred legs and back.

Providing Derek's voice, Simon said, "Some ignorant bastard had her smuggled into the country for a pet. Hadn't the faintest idea how to take care of her; and he had a cruel streak as well."

"Can see that." Doyle eyed the animal from the tip of her trunk to the bristly end of her straggly, ceaselessly flicking tail. "Will you be able to use her in the show?"

"Derry's already working her into one of the dog and clown routines. He says she's a natural."

Doyle nudged his partner. "What d'you think?"

"We don't have space for her," Bodie replied promptly. "And that miserable git of yours is bother enough."

"Such a negativist."

"Negativist," Bodie repeated sourly. "Got your pocket OED handy, Si?"

"Can I come in and see her?" Doyle asked Derek. Receiving a summoning curl of fingers in answer, Doyle stepped round to the cage door and let himself in. The elephant's ears flared; her eyes fixed on Doyle as he approached.

Behind him Basil whined; Bodie squatted down and placed a hand on her back. "'S okay, mutt. He isn't bringing her home."

Simon laughed. "He certainly isn't; Derry would put up an awful fight."

"She's a lovey," Doyle murmured, having got close enough by then to place a tentative hand on the animal's hide, just behind her head. "Just look at you," he cooed.

Rolling his eyes, Bodie muttered, "You'd never know this was the same lad who collared a couple of murderous villains the other day. Had 'em cowed and whinging for mercy even before I could provide back-up."

Drawing a face, Simon mused, "It's awfully dangerous working for CI5, isn't it? I mean, we hear about the sorts of things you get up to sometimes."

"Thanks to the press." Bodie scowled. "And only then when things get out of hand. Actually, it's probably safer than working here on a hairy day."

Simon gave his arm a pinch. "Listen to you!"

"'S true. We spend more time on stakeouts and obbo ops than chasing down raiders. You lot, on the other hand, risk being stomped by horses, falling off horses, slipping in horse shit--"

"In fact," Doyle interrupted before Bodie could continue, "if Cowley knew that we'd gone up on the trapeze, he'd give us a dressing-down that would leave our ears blistered for days to come."

"Cowley." Simon rolled the name delicately in his mouth. "He wasn't very nice the night I met him."

"No," Doyle said, remembering that night all too clearly. "But, then, it's not in his nature to be."

Basil let out a ululating whine. "C'mon, Doyle," Bodie said, "put the dog out of her misery, will you?"

Simon bent over and caressed the terrier's ears. "She's only jealous."

"In a minute, mate!" Doyle tugged at the elephant's tail; she twitched it out of his hand. "Derek--" Even though he had steeled himself for this moment for more than two months, Doyle found it difficult to put his feelings into words: "About Sanjay--"

But Derek stopped him with a look. He lifted one hand and laid it upon Doyle's chest, over his heart. Then he copied the gesture upon his own broad breast.

Understanding, Doyle admitted, "Yeah. I cared. Just wish I could've done something worthwhile for him."

Derek tapped a finger against Doyle's forehead, his expression speaking volumes.

A hint of color invading his cheeks, Doyle murmured, "I'll remember." He looked across at his partner; Bodie was watching him through the bars. "Is it time?"

"And then some. We've a long drive to London."

"Yeah." Doyle gave up a heavy sigh.

"It's okay, Ray," Simon said consolingly. "There'll be another show; maybe, some day, we'll come and visit you in London."

"We'll hold you to that," Bodie promised. Rising, he drew Simon up alongside him, and briefly immobilized him with a quick hug. "You lads take care. Thanks for the tea, eh?"

"Any time, Bodie."

---

The gold Capri stood alone in the makeshift car park. Lifting Basil off his shoulder, Doyle shifted her to one forearm so he could key open the lock.

"A penny for them," Bodie said, walking past the bumper to the passenger door.

"I'll have a kiss instead--later, you moron!" Doyle amended swiftly, as Bodie made as though he would come round to Doyle's side.

"In the back, Basil!" Bodie shooed the dog off the seat before slipping inside and pulling the door to behind him.

"Just thinking about the last time I left Circus Sergei," Doyle said pensively.

"With Cowley, you mean?"

"Yes."

Bodie buckled his belt, then reached for the dog. "Come here, mutt." He wound the window down so she could poke her nose out. "Idiot animal," he grumbled.

Laying a hand on Bodie's knee, Doyle said, "You put up with a lot because of me."

"That's certainly true."

"Like driving up here tonight, when we could've been catching up with our sleep."

"Better than that, we could've been catching up with another bedtime activity I'm very partial to."

Flashing his partner a grin, Doyle said, "We'll find a way to work it in."

"Wey hey, 'work it in.' Love it when you speak dirty to me, Ray."

Doyle started the engine. "Didn't expect all that, y'know? Was one hell of a welcome." He flipped on the lights, then released the handbrake and changed down to first.

"Hm."

"Everyone looked pretty much the same--although I think Lily's lost a bit of weight."

"Pining for me, isn't she?"

According this comment all the attention it deserved, Doyle went on, "Although, on the other hand, Tom seemed bigger than I remembered him."

"Wouldn't be so quick to try and knock him down now, you mean?"

"Emma wouldn't let me; nor those strapping lads of hers."

Laughing softly, Bodie said, "Tom never did completely figure you out. Just an overgrown pup, he is."

"If you say so." Braking sharply and swerving to avoid crushing a hedgehog darting across the road, Doyle managed to straighten out the car without any of the passengers coming to grief--all the while suffering his partner's voluble opinion of his driving skills.

"Sorry about that," Doyle said, his tone not at all apologetic. Flicking a finger under Basil's chin, he wondered aloud, "How much trouble d'you reckon Riley had arranging to get his family into the country?" Favoring Bodie with an ingenuous grin, he prompted, "Nice aren't they? Pretty wife, handsome lad."

Allowing himself to be cajoled out of his sulk, Bodie said, "Hm. The boy's clever, too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He set Clive and Alex up like a real professional."

"Set them up? What d'you mean?"

"Last time I heard from Lily, she complained about the Flying Falconis falling back into their old, uppity ways. Thought they should be brought down a peg or two."

"You're not saying--?" Doyle turned the car onto the road which led to the junction with the London motorway. "I don't believe this! All that about how great we were, and how much he wanted to see our 'special routine'--that was all rubbish?"

"'Fraid so. Still, it worked--and you got to fly again, didn't you?"

"You toe rag!"

"Now, now. You telling me you didn't enjoy showing those toffee noses up? Not the weest bit?"

"Didn't care about them at all," Doyle said grudgingly.

"Well, then--"

Shooting an exasperated glance his partner's way. "You're impossible, d'you know that?"

"You seem to handle me very well." Bodie smiled back at him, promise glinting in his eyes.

"Thank God for that," Doyle said fervently. "Tell you what, I'll sort you out first thing we get home." He pulled at his nose thoughtfully. "Well, after we feed the dog, of course. And there's laundry to do, as well--great, heaping stacks of it. And the flat hasn't been aired in over--"

"Forget it, Doyle," Bodie said serenely. "Tonight, your arse is mine."

"Just my arse?" Doyle snorted indignantly.

"And the rest, of course: your cheeks--both upstairs and downstairs, mind; and your furry chest; and your nipples--they pucker up so nice and tight when I--"

"Bodie--"

"And your thighs--I especially like the bits on the inside, where it's all silky-like; and your belly button--been a long time since I stuck my tongue in it and made you squirm. I like to make you squirm--"

"Bodie--"

"And your mouth--love your mouth, y'know, especially when you taste like me, right after you've--"

"Christ, Bodie, you're making me--"

"And your bony hips--don't know why they should be such a turn-on, but they are; and your smooth, flat belly--like to rub my hand over it, real slow. That makes you squirm, too, y'know. And then I like to reach down and wrap my fingers round your--"

"B-o-d-i-e!"

---

Over the hill the car sped, down toward the city of Norwich. Unnoticed in the field left behind, the lights in the Big Tent winked out, one after the other, until the canvas structure lay cloaked in darkness, a massive shadow crouched low against the night sky.

A reedy, plaintive trumpeting erupted from the animal enclosure at the back of the compound, carried eerily on the fresh, moist air. Seconds later, it was answered by an unsympathetic equine retort.

And then all fell quiet, save for the smooth rumble of the motor car fading in the distance, and the susurrant whisper of the rising breeze.

Circus Sergei slept.



-- THE END --

---

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

To Suzi: For suggesting the project to begin with, and for giving me more than enough rope to hang myself.

To Jason: Proof-reader par excellence, who with the assistance of The House of Bob, provided in-depth commentary.

To Jo Ann: For sharing her knowledge and expertise regarding matters equine. Any and all inaccurate horsy bits are my fault, unequivocally not hers.

To Michele: For ongoing (and never unappreciated) support, and a critical eye (or two) when requested.

To Ann: As always, for inspiring me in ways she cannot imagine; and here, specifically, for providing two excellent British books concerning the circus. They were immeasurably helpful.

To Gale & Kathy: Eleventh-hour corrigendum spotters, whose feedback proved both enlightening and useful.

GENERAL NOTE: For those circus aficionados among you, I know I've tested your credulity in more ways than is feasible to list here. If you're looking for the "real" thing, I can recommend "The Catch Trap" by Marion Zimmer Bradley and "Airs Above the Ground" by Mary Stewart. There are, of course, many other sources both fictional and non-, quite a few of which are to be found in the juvenile section of the library.

To give full credit where it is due, Bodie and Doyle's "dramatic" flying sequence is based on The Flying Cranes, a Russian aerial ballet troupe. A tv clip featuring their magnificent routine fired Suzi's interest in the first place. They are unqualifiedly fantastic.

HARLEQUIN AIRS is dedicated to Rowen.

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