For Tyger Tiger with love

Chapter One

He has to be alive...has to be alive.…

The litany had become so much a part of William Bodie's existence during the past six months that even now when the desperate prayer could at last be discarded, it ran unconsciously through his mind.

Only six months. George Cowley's fierce morality and C.I.5 itself seemed years behind him. As he slipped down the Genevan back alley, Bodie felt that he'd always lived like this: skulking in shadows, looking over his shoulder, his hand hovering over his weapon, always one breath away from death. Once again, hiding from the law was second nature to him.

Bodie grimaced as the falling snow caught in his eyelashes, their reflexive twitch a black sweep against the blue-veined, sleep-starved skin beneath them. He shifted the heavy attaché case. His grip was steady, despite the night's cold. Fat snowflakes drifted lazily downward through the hushed stillness around him, as if in no hurry to meet the ground. Even with the accumulation on his shoulders and the persistent cling of flakes to the rough wool of his black coat, he stood out against the unnatural brightness of the night, each breath a misty cloud spotlighting his location. That irked him for he had dressed for concealment. The snow was, however, keeping the local constabulary and criminal element indoors, for which he was grateful.

A last turn brought him to the warehouse. The ex-C.I.5 agent paused and automatically scanned the area. Aside from the blackened slush path leading from the direction of the larger thoroughfare which Bodie had taken pains to avoid, there was nothing to distinguish this particular building from the blocks of squalid look-a-likes he'd circumnavigated to get here. This warehouse was equally dilapidated. Its white paint had long gone greyish black; over half of the windows were shattered; and the outer wooden staircase was so rickety it looked like a prop from an old horror movie. There were clusters of similar abandoned structures in every city the well-travelled man had visited. It would take a very astute observer, indeed, to isolate this building from its brethren.

But his former boss trained nothing other than astute observers. Like Sherlock Holmes' Watson, a man of Cowley's might fail to properly interpret his data, but never would he fail to notice it.

The footprints were a dead giveaway of something being amiss about this out of the way derelict. The green and white paint of the snow glazed sign above the stairway proclaiming OBERSTEIN'S IMPORTS was far brighter than the faded remnants sported by its neighbours and even the door itself was peculiar. Its wood might be as ancient as the surrounding building, but the shiny, well-oiled hinges were visible even in the half-light from Bodie’s snowy vantage point. Up closer he knew he would see the camera lens concealed in the sign’s "O", but from here it was invisible.

His eyes caught the orange glow of lantern light that peeked through the grime of half a pane of remaining glass. Like fairy light, it danced eerily through the flakes fluttering between his vantage point and destination, lending the alleyway a hushed, haunted feel. Definitely not the run of the mill rat and wino haven. No, something far more sinister was transpiring within. If the appearance of the warehouse didn't testify to that, its aura certainly did.

Shaking off the apprehension creeping up his spine, Bodie stepped from his observation point. Untrodden snow crunched softly underfoot until his shoe sank into the more travelled mush carpeting the approach to the stairs. He slushed his way up the uncertain structure, shivering on the landing until the door clicked open and swung soundlessly inward before him.

So, Bodie thought, this is what a modern-day slave market looked like.

The man waiting in the corridor on the other side of the door was twice as broad as Bodie, all of it muscle, from what he could judge in the dim light.

"You're late," the man said, his faded blue eyes regarding Bodie suspiciously.

Bodie shrugged, as if undisturbed by the threatening tone. For this particular auction, they'd wait for him.

"Brought the money?"

"Of course." Bodie lifted the case fractionally, trying to feign indifference. He’d sold his soul and his future for its contents. But it would get Ray back, and that was all that mattered to him

With a noncommittal nod, the muscle man led the way down a gloomy passage.

Bodie’s attitude toward the contents of his case was nowhere near as nonchalant as he let on. It was hard to be blasé about one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. And that was only the half he was carrying. There was another hundred and fifty sitting in the trunk of the Volvo he’d parked a few blocks away. He hadn’t wanted to walk in with everything, just in case this was a set-up. But his instincts were telling him this was the real thing. The auction was as genuine as the cash he carried.

Never in his life had he possessed so much, or been so disinterested in spending it. Ill-gotten gains, his former boss would have called it. Bodie, too, for that matter.

But...Cowley had failed him, where gunrunning had not. Ray was still alive and Bodie was about to prove it. After that – once his partner was shipped safely home, there would be more than enough time for the outlawed Englishman to make his choices. For the last six months, all plans had terminated at this hour. The haze of unreality that clouded his mind when he tried to imagine any point beyond the next few minutes was unnerving, almost as though his quest would not end here, as if he were forever destined to search and fail, as if Ray were really dead like Cowley claimed.

Bodie cut that thought off cold. There could be no doubting, no second thoughts. He’d given up far too much to turn back now. He was more committed than he’d ever been in his life.

His contact had said that a C.I.5 agent was going up for sale tonight. Bodie had to believe that was true.

Yet, the fears still lingered. So much was at stake here, his sanity if nothing else. He knew that even if Hans were right, there was always the chance that the captive C.I.5 agent mightn’t be Ray Doyle. Wallace had been missing for eighteen months now and Lindstrom had disappeared in the North Country nine months ago; it could be either of them. But Hans' description of a young buck who'd given the distributors their share of trouble didn't seem to fit either of the other missing agents, whereas Ray...

Bodie’s ruminations were abruptly cut off as his environment started to change from the dreary hall to more promising entryways. This was certainly not the right time to be second-guessing himself. He’d been told a C.I.5 agent was here. Until proven otherwise, he had to believe it was Ray. If it turned out to be Lindstrom or Wallace, he was equally obliged to secure their freedom. They’d been mates as well; though, nowhere near as close to him as Doyle. He’d get them out of here, ship them back to Cowley, and then…and then he’d begin his search again.

The narrow corridor coughed them out into the cavernous hollow of the warehouse's main room. His eyes automatically searched the area for escape routes. Bodie temporarily ignored the island of light at the far end of the building, concentrating instead on the obscure perimeters to his left and right as his guide led him across the dust-filled space.

Vague half-light filtered through the remains of the tiny windows, a gift of the snow-bright night. Rotted and easy to break through as the window frames doubtless were, they'd still be little help to him as far escape went. Positioned a good fifteen feet above the floor, they were beyond reach. There was no other indication of a break in the wall, no fire door or freight entrance. Only way out, then, was the way in, and whatever lay up ahead.

Closer now, Bodie allowed his attention to fix on the sole source of light in the place, mystified by what appeared to be the set of a school play or one of those dreadful, avant-garde amateur productions which Doyle occasionally hauled him to see. The front wall was dominated by a hastily constructed platform. The pungent scent of fresh cedar from the naked blond wood overpowered even the stirred dust in this section of the warehouse. The stage had a curtain, like any good production hall, but this one would never compete with the red velvet draping the Royal Albert. The tattered grey material looked more like a blanket draped over a banister or a rug hung out for a good beating than a theatre curtain.

As with every amateur acting company Bodie had seen, audience accommodation was given minor attention. A group of thirty or so metal folding chairs had been lined up before the primitive platform. The only thing missing was some pimply kid ushering them to their seats and trying to sell them crisps.

Bodie was relieved to see that most of the other buyers had disdained the near-comic set-up. He silently joined the group of hard-faced men waiting in the shadows furthest from the lanterns.

Curious, he scanned their features, wondering what a procurer of human flesh looked like. Not all of them were here to buy kidnapped scientists and political VIPs, Bodie knew. Some were just here for the information this group also peddled and were relatively harmless. But which were which?

His suspicions as to who was here for the human auction tended toward the blunt, wide-faced Slavs. That physicist Ray had been guarding the night both Doyle and his charge disappeared had, after all, resurfaced behind the Iron Curtain. Bodie tried not to dwell on what Ray's fate would have been were Dr. Russell not rescued; the Cow had refused to lift the 'missing, presumed dead' label from Doyle's file, but Russell's story had given Bodie the will to keep searching.

Cowley's reasons for not reopening the case made perfect sense. No one would go to the trouble of keeping a bodyguard alive that long, much less try to auction him off. But old George's men were far more than mere muscle. There were a dozen well-funded terrorist groups that would pay a mint to get their hands on the inside security information a C.I.5 or MI6 agent could provide. The two British representatives conversing in hushed whispers across from him reaffirmed Bodie's belief that a C.I.5 operative might be worth something to England's criminal element.

The subdued conversations halted as a thin man stepped from between the grey drapes. Beneath a cap of unimpressive, mousy hair, the man's facial features were as bland and commonplace as the dark suit he wore. Were it not for the eyes, one might lose him in a second in the noonday lunch crowds at Whitechapel. The ferocity in that gaze would, however, never be lost in the sea of tranquil blue or overstressed brown which flooded the pubs and restaurants of home at midday. The small black eyes lent the tall, enigmatic figure a dangerous air as they glistened like a cornered rat's in the lamplight.

"Welcome, gentleman. Now that we are all assembled, we will begin tonight's proceedings. The first item will be the plans to a certain missile base in.…"

Bodie tuned out the carefully modulated voice, suppressing a shiver. Odd, under different circumstances that deep voice might be pleasant, but something in its tonal quality touched off an unreasoning fear deep within him. This could be the voice of Death – candy-coated, its sweetness covering the devouring greed beneath.

His gaze restlessly roamed the warehouse while Bodie waited out the auction for the one item of interest to him. The missile base plans were finally sold to a short, bespectacled man with a thick German accent. Part of the tension seeped from Bodie's frame as the little man nervously claimed his merchandise at the far side of the platform, where a short flight of stairs no doubt led from the stage to the ground. After paying for his purchase, the German quickly left the auction.

At least they wouldn't have to hang around and wait for the proceedings to be completed, Bodie thought, trying to ignore the nagging of his conscience. Old habits died hard. He’d spent seven years collecting this kind of trash for Cowley. Bodie was all too aware that with every moment he delayed, another villain walked free.

Interpol, and every government in Western Europe, were hunting these bastards. Upon his escape from England, Bodie had sworn that all he would do was get Ray back. He owed nothing to Cowley anymore and as for the other agencies...the ex-C.I.5 agent had never had much love for bureaucrats. His efforts to get help finding Doyle had done nothing to change that attitude. To a one, they’d all found it easier to file Ray as missing, presumed dead, than to continue the search. They’d all left Doyle for dead and actively interfered with Bodie’s efforts to find his missing partner. He owed them nothing. What did it matter if ten or a thousand villains went free here tonight? It was the authorities’ problem, let them handle it. His only concern was his partner.

Only . . . .

There was a fundamental malevolence to the auctioneer that raised the hackles on Bodie's spine. Without being able to say how he knew, Bodie sensed that the dark clad man was the centre of more than just the operation's stage show. The flair with which he conducted the proceedings was akin to that of a man who'd worked extremely hard and was relishing the final stages of his task to the fullest. The air of sadism which clung to the piercing-eyed figure mid-stage made Bodie want to ensure that the kidnapper was brought to justice. But that would mean involving one form of police or another, which he was still loath to do.

Weighing his dilemma, Bodie waited out the information sale. Over a third of the audience was gone by the time the last document was sold. Bodie checked out those who lingered – one of the Englishmen, a pair of subdued Orientals standing almost unnoticed beside a wooden post, three coffee-skinned men with mid-Eastern characteristics, a fellow with a wide-brimmed fedora covering a shock of ridiculously pure blonde hair, whom Bodie took to be an American from the few words the man had uttered, some obvious criminals like the Brit Black Willie – a few Bodie recognized from C.I.5 files – one or two other nationalities he couldn't place, and the rest . . . Eastern block sorts with a definite Moscovian flavour. A grim and dangerous assembly. Bodie could almost smell the gun oil in the concealed hardware around him.

Ill at ease at being spotlighted in such company with nothing more stable at his back than a roomful of shadows, Bodie silently urged the completion of the auction.

He wondered how they'd work the actual sale. Earlier, he'd thought that such a thing would be handled in a more civilized fashion, perhaps by passing photos and bio-sheet to the interested buyers, but the melodrama colouring the previous portion of the auction had dispelled any such illusions. The auctioneer would probably parade the poor sods in front of this bunch of vampires the way old Vlad had dangled the missile plans before them earlier, Bodie thought during the tense intermission which followed the completion of the information auction. This entire set-up disgusted him.

His attention snapped instantly to full alertness as the master of ceremonies stepped from behind the curtains once again. Bodie’s body tensed, ready for anything.

The auctioneer’s feral, glittering eyes raked over the audience.

Bodie couldn’t help but note that a visible shudder passed through each man whom that gaze settled upon. Even Black Willie seemed to shift under the unrefined malevolence of that spooky observation, Bodie noted, and it was said that Old Willie had faced down a hit team of eight armed assassins once, killed every last one of them without batting an eye or breaking a sweat.

Bodie steeled his own body to remain still when his turn to be under that baleful gaze came. He met the unnerving stare with his own particular brand of stubbornness. No one could be that evil, he told himself; it was all the gimmickry – the flickering lamplight, the bizarre setting, highlighted in the utter blackness of their cathedral-like surroundings. Put the auctioneer in a pair of khakis and he'd be just another killer.

Yet, there was something more to this man's wickedness. Attempting to outstare the near-hypnotic gaze, Bodie realized what the underlying terror was. Some men possessed an inherent ability to command the obedience of others. George Cowley had it, so did the auctioneer. But where one looked into the Scotsman's eyes and saw the good at the core of Cowley’s hardness, so one found the evil lurking in these inky depths.

Bodie withstood the glare, just barely. When it finally released him, his entire body seemed to sag with relief, as if a tremendous weight had just been lifted from overstrained muscles.

On a mental level, he knew that his physical reaction was completely out of proportion to the stimulus. He’d weathered gunfights without getting the shakes like this. But he’d been living on nerves and hope for so long that his normal, professional cool was shot to hell. He was a raw, open nerve, reacting on an animal level.

As the sweat evaporated from his brow, Bodie wondered if it were possible that he were no longer entirely sane. But, it was a vague, distant concern, nowhere near as overpowering as his instinctive reaction to the loathsome individual commanding this performance.

Abruptly aware that the auctioneer had once again begun to speak, Bodie's attention riveted on the man's latest spiel.

" . . . member of a little publicized British crime stopping organization. Not of our usual calibre, it was nevertheless thought that this item would be of interest to certain members of our audience. We will begin bids at 5,000 pounds.." A long-fingered hand gestured at the dingy curtain as a reluctant figure was thrust forward from behind.

Bodie stared at the unkempt creature, experiencing a sinking sense of anti-climax. Not Ray, then, or any of C.I.5's other missing operatives. The poor sod was probably an MI6 agent or maybe ISS. Hans had said there would only be one Brit up for sale tonight, Bodie remembered with a sinking heart. He'd have to wait until the next auction or . . . or finally accept that his partner was truly dead.

Maybe it was time. How often had he known Cowley to be wrong about a thing like that and why . . . ?

On stage, the item's lowered head raised.

Bodie's heart contracted as the flickering lamplight shimmered across gaunt features, seeming to highlight the unmistakable lump on the man’s right cheekbone. It was the hair that had thrown him off. In the flickering lamplight, the prisoner’s hair had looked almost black. It was far too long to have been readily recognized as Doyle’s. Unwashed it hung heavily without curls, falling almost to the man's shoulders, but the face it framed . . . .

"Ray . . . . " the gasp was torn from him in a sibilant exhalation that went unnoticed. The cold sweat was back, dripping down his spine in large, chilly drops. Stunned, Bodie gaped at the man whom he'd failed to recognize as his partner.

Everything about Ray seemed changed. Superficially, there was the longer, lank hair and slighter build. Ugly purple and green bruises mottled Doyle’s familiar facial features. The man on stage looked as if he'd been used as a punching bag by someone the size of the behemoth who'd escorted Bodie in. But, beyond the visible changes, there was a fundamental difference in the way Doyle presented himself that had caused his partner's failure of recognition.

It was Ray’s stance that was so different, Bodie realized. Despite his penchant for analysis, Doyle was pre-eminently a physical entity. Ray’s moods and attitudes were always unconsciously revealed by his body. In motion, the only thing Bodie had ever seen to rival Ray's grace and innate sensuality was a hunting leopard – careful of step, its fluid, effortless motion seemed to bring it to its fleeing prey as if by sheer willpower alone.

Much of that same feline superiority had characterized his partner's attitude. Even when still, Ray possessed a certain cat-like intensity that made an observer instantly and physically aware of his presence. Proud and conscious of his attractiveness, Doyle broadcast his confidence and desirability with his every movement. Ray was so self-aware that he was capable of destroying another's equanimity with a seductive flash of his eyes. Instinctive and unalterable, that seductiveness was as much a part of Doyle's character as his unpredictable mood shifts.

Or so Bodie had fancied. The slouched figure on stage revealed no trace of that engaging, infuriating arrogance. Standing motionless under the audience's eye with his baggy jeans and too-big plaid shirt hanging from his wasted frame, Doyle looked as if his entire sense of self had been forcibly ripped from him or . . . .

Ray appeared drugged. The dull-eyed, near-unblinking stare might be so explained.

His blood igniting to liquid fire at what had been done to his partner, Bodie turned his gaze to the auctioneer, merciless murder brewing within. Something slow and excruciating; something Krivas would approve of.

Bodie ruthlessly clamped down on those thoughts and the satisfyingly gruesome pictures accompanying them. His instincts already had him twitching to draw his gun. Tempting as it was to just blow the auctioneer away, Bodie knew that he couldn’t risk it. Ray was unarmed and drugged out of his mind. A move like that could get them both killed. Besides, Bodie doubted if the worst revenge he could imagine could possibly recompense his partner.

"Ten thousand," the bid from Black Willie beside him brought Bodie out of his shock.

"Fifteen," this bid came from one of the Arabs.

With a tenuous rein on his patience, Bodie listened to the two bid their way up to fifty thousand. There, the Arab hesitated, leaving Black Willie dangling with the last bid.

Eyes fixed on his partner; Bodie spoke clearly into the pause that followed, "One- hundred and fifty."

"Would you repeat that, please?" the request from the stage shattered the hushed silence.

Bodie spoke again, disappointment tingeing his reply, "I said, one-hundred and fifty-thousand."

He'd hoped Ray would show some reaction to the sound of his voice, but his friend seemed utterly oblivious to all.

"Sod it, Iron George himself ain’t worth half that," Black Willie declared, regarding Bodie from beneath shaggy, coal black brows as though Bodie were completely unhinged. "What ya want him for?"

Bodie ignored the question, stiff with apprehension. If he'd gambled wrong and anyone were to outbid him, he hadn't the cash on him to contest it. A quick trip to the car would remedy that, but now that he’d found Ray, he was unwilling to let his partner out of his sight.

His heart was pounding an anxious tattoo in the silence that followed his insane bid, but Bodie’s strategy proved sound. No one seemed inclined to challenge a man who bid in hundred-thousand pound increments.

"One-hundred and fifty-thousand is the final bid. Will the buyer please come to the concierge?" the auctioneer requested.

Numbly, Bodie stood and walked to the side of the platform where he'd seen the other buyers go. A pudgy, nervous man with washed out, whisky reddened blue eyes sat behind a card table at the platform's steps, the huge doorman positioned at his side.

Bodie handed over his attaché case, standing silently while its contents were counted.

Running a hand through wispy grey hair, the cashier nodded.

"It's all there, boss," the guard called to the platform.

For fear of what his face might reveal, Bodie tried to keep his attention focused on the perspiring money-counter, but at Ray’s first uncertain shuffle, he found his gaze inexorably drawn upwards. As the auctioneer led his partner slowly toward him, Bodie watched Doyle's face, searching for any sign of recognition.

The usually expressive features were unnaturally still, the black-ringed eyes clouded in an unfocused daze.

"Down the steps," the auctioneer ordered, as if Doyle might walk straight off the platform if not so instructed.

Ray's foot dangled over the top step for a full minute, as if over a drop that was perhaps too high for safety's sake, then descended the eight inches or so with agonizing slowness.

"Wait," the auctioneer's voice barked out.

Doyle froze mid-step, turning with uncharacteristic meekness to stare up at the auctioneer.

The crazed-eyed stranger stepped down the stairs. The curtains put them out of sight of most of the audience.

"I’ll miss you, my pretty one," the auctioneer practically crooned.

Stunned, Bodie watched the man in black grab hold of Doyle's hair with his left hand, yanking his partner's head toward him with a painful pull. The right shot up to Doyle's jaw, forcing Ray’s mouth open. Then, before Bodie’s unbelieving eyes, the auctioneer's head lowered to take Doyle in a plundering, open-mouthed kiss.

Paralysed with shock, Bodie was certain at that moment that he was insane or dreaming. This simply could not be happening.

When the image didn't waver and he didn’t wake up screaming, a berserker fury blasted away the numbness.

Bodie was on the stairs before his sluggish mind registered motion. The black-clad auctioneer's body flipped through the air like an empty grain sack as Bodie ripped the sadist off his partner. For a second, Bodie gazed into the unfazed, unfocused green of Doyle’s eyes. Nobody at home. There was nothing there in the red rimmed, bloodshot eyes. No reaction to that fiendish, obscene kiss, no reaction to the sight of his partner, no moves to protect himself from the violence erupting around him, nothing.

Horrified by the absence of intelligence, Bodie turned back to the auctioneer, moving in for the kill.

The slick black barrel of a Magnum stared up at him from the floor.

Conscious of Doyle's proximity, Bodie froze, standing absolutely motionless in his crouch as the giant bodyguard climbed the creaking staircase.

"He's mine," Bodie hissed, ready to dare the gun once the man-mountain stepped between Ray and the bullet's path. Few would have recognized Cowley's suave, cultured agent in the wild, gleaming-eyed predator kneeling on that dusty wood floor. Bodie’s panther-coiled muscles were set to strike; irrational, the killer instinct had claimed him entirely.

That there was an answering madness in the auctioneer’s burning black gaze behind the trigger disturbed Bodie not at all.

"He's right, you know, boss. Money's been accepted. The item's his." This unexpected burst of reason came, surprisingly enough, from the oversized bodyguard. The huge man lumbered between the blood-crazed combatants with a nonchalance that approached imbecility.

As the meaning of the muscle man’s words penetrated the red haze blazing through Bodie’s senses, a chill, like cold, mountain melt-water iced through in their wake. His own proprietary statement rose up to haunt him. He's mine, like Ray was just so much meat to be argued over. Doyle didn't seem aware of his surroundings, but Bodie feared his partner’s reaction when memory called forth Bodie’s savage response at some future date.

"Give the money back," the auctioneer snapped.

The curt order snapped Bodie out of his guilt.

Menacing madness still flamed black heat in the auctioneer’s too-wild gaze.

"You want’ta hand back one-hundred and fifty-thousand pounds?" the incredulous question burst from the mountain of muscle still separating Bodie from his opponent. There was something in the bodyguard's face, though – a touch of cunning – that told the ex-C.I.5 agent of the man’s expertise in handling his irrational employer. "For that little one? Boss, this entire lot will barely bring that in."

Bodie glanced in the direction at which the powerful hand gestured. Four other oversized guards, none as big as the one before him, created a living barrier between the platform steps and a huddle of prisoners. Ten, maybe twelve, peaked faces stared out of the shadowed stage wings at Bodie. Their wide-eyed gazes were all as beseeching as frightened children, each seeming to silently beg him for help. But, although all appeared drugged, none seemed to have been physically abused to the degree his partner had.

Hardening himself to the hostages' plight, Bodie turned back to the madman running the show.

Bodie recognized that he’d allowed his emotions to jeopardize everything. The first private conversation he’d ever had with Ray Doyle came back to haunt him, reminding him of how he’d bragged to his new partner about his ability to stay cool at all times. He’d put Doyle down that night for being a hothead, but even at his most irrational, his emotional partner had never jeopardized a mission the way Bodie had just done.

Brutally thrusting aside both his feelings for Doyle and his hatred for this degenerate who had destroyed his friend, Bodie reclaimed the veneer of the cold professional. The change was instantaneous. His facial muscles tightened into the challenging sneer, for which the larger member of Cowley's top team was infamous. The wildness temporarily left Bodie. He could feel it being replaced by an icy resolve that was possibly more dangerous in the cruelty of its cold promise.

"Yeah, give the money back, why don't you?" Bodie mouthed off, playing his role as though it were a stranger standing there instead of Ray Doyle. "My boss must be mad. It’d be easier and cheaper to find our own informant than to muck around with your leavings."

The auctioneer climbed to his feet and carefully dusted off his suit. Bodie unconsciously held his breath, watching the war of avarice and insanity turn the auctioneer’s commonplace features as horrid as the hellish gaze. The man looked once in the direction of the audience, as if to reassure himself that what had transpired was completely out of sight before turning back to Bodie.

Most times Bodie would have been unworried about an opponent's response. He knew how the condescending tone he used at such instances tended to make the villains play right into his hands. But this nutter was unpredictable, crazy enough to hand over the fortune from spite – or kill him and keep both Doyle and the money.

That had always been a possibility; he'd known that coming in. Bodie tensed all over, his mind playing out that morbid scenario, until he recalled the buyers who lingered on the other side of that moth-eaten curtain. Realizing how close the other auction participants were, Bodie’s new worry faded. There was no silencer on the Magnum that had been pointed at him moments before. Bodie didn't think even this nutter would be stupid enough to jeopardize a dozen sales for temper's sake.

"Deal's been made," the auctioneer finally spat. "Get them the hell out of here, Miller."

Miller took hold of Bodie’s arm and led him quickly to the steps. Snagging an oblivious Doyle with the other, Miller marched them to the table.

Once the auctioneer had returned to the stage, Bodie shook free of the hold.

"Your boss is one mad bugger," he remarked with affected casualness. Even now he was still fighting the urge to blow the bastard away, his eyes straying to Doyle to try to determine just how much damage had been done.

That foul kiss…although there were rocket scientists for sale here tonight, it didn’t take someone of their IQ to determine that there had been a lot more to Ray’s abuse than a single kiss.

"It's not the boss' fault, really. The stubborn sod here drove him to it. I'll be glad to see the back of this one. Though, in all honesty, he's not even worth the minimum bid anymore," Miller said in a conspiratorial aside.

"What's wrong with him?" Bodie asked, trying to sound simply curious and not concerned. The darkness of the vault-like warehouse helped. With the lights of the auction block falling further behind with every step, the sombre spectre walking silently on the other side of their guard could be anybody in the dusty murkiness.

"Boss likes to know what grade of information he's sellin’, so he'll know how to price the merchandise. This one sort of became an . . . obsession with him."

"Why?"

"Wouldn't talk, didn't scare. Was the damnedest thing. Usually, you can beat the information out of most of our items real quick. But this one was different than the rest. Wouldn't give up a single word of info. He got up the boss' nose somethin' awful with that tongue of his. So, the boss . . . tried other means, you know?"

Bodie knew. He was fully aware of how hunger, sleep deprivation and other methods that he couldn't think about in context to Doyle and remain sane could loosen a man's tongue.

"Why are you telling me this?" Bodie asked, tensed for treachery.

Up ahead, he could see the lessening of the dark that marked the exit of the slightly brighter passage leading to the door through which Bodie had entered the warehouse.

Bodie felt the big man shrug. "Just figured you should know what you're getting. Boss might've broken this one, but he didn't crack him. Doubt if you will either."

"Not my problem. I'm just a delivery boy," Bodie lied, relieved to enter the claustrophobically close passage that led to the front door.

In the small space, his nostrils twitched at the reek that rose from his unwashed partner. Ray smelt like he hadn't bathed since his capture, which was hardly surprising. Bodie remembered going for two months himself without a bath in that Congo prison.

Finally, the door came into sight.

Miller threw the bolt and stepped aside to let Bodie and his new acquisition pass. The grim-faced guard nodded once to Bodie in parting, then quickly closed the door behind them.

The relieved release of his captured breath dissipated in the falling snow in a misty white cloud. Hardly daring to believe that he'd actually pulled it off, Bodie turned to his partner.

"Ray?" he asked with uncharacteristic gentleness.

Doyle remained silent, staring off over Bodie's right shoulder as if he hadn't heard.

Bodie stepped closer until his face completely blocked his partner's line of vision, "Ray? It's Bodie. Don't you recognize me?"

He tried to keep his face calm, tried to offer only the reassuring presence of a friend, but the catch in his voice probably revealed the desperation raging within. The loneliness and isolation of his six-month search made Bodie crave some sign of recognition.

No longer totally rational, Bodie was, himself, in need of comfort.

Doyle’s huge eyes stared blankly through Bodie as though he were invisible, a wall or one of Ray's captors.

Bodie's hand settled lightly on the left side of Doyle's face, which was less bruised than the other. Someone had shaved him recently, and done a bad job of it. The razor nicks distributed among the green and purple discolourations mottling the soft, hot skin brought a thick, choking lump to Bodie’s throat.

Silently, Bodie took stock of his ravaged mate. His quaking fingers touched the lank, filthy hair, running its oily length to land lightly on a bony shoulder. Half-hoping for a flinch or any other sign of awareness, Bodie let his hand linger there. At first he thought there was nothing, that Doyle was totally, completely oblivious to the outside world, but then Bodie felt the muscles in Doyle's neck tense, as an unnatural rigidity claimed the gaunt figure.

The emptiness in Ray's eyes gave way to an expression of resigned horror, as if Doyle had been using the oblivion to numb himself to the situation, only to find its haven too fragile to cushion him from the hideous reality.

At first, Bodie couldn’t fathom what was so terrible about what he was doing

Abruptly, the obscene spectacle of the auctioneer's kiss flashed in Bodie's mind. With his hand's gripping Doyle's shoulder and his face looming so close, physically, he presented a similar threat, but surely Doyle would know that Bodie would never use him like that? Unless . . . .

"Ray, it's me, Bodie. Don't you . . . ."

The growing panic in the pinched features at the sound of his raised voice answered his question.

No, Doyle didn't know him. Not right now. With all the drugs that had no doubt been pumped into him to keep him this docile, it was entirely possible that Ray didn’t know his own name at the moment.

Before he could release Doyle or dispel his fears, Ray gasped as if in terror. As the deeper breath of the gasp flooded his lungs, Doyle erupted into a fit of deep, wracking coughing.

Bodie could hear how filled his partner’s lungs were with congestion. Now that they were outside in the night’s quiet and he was actively listening for it, Bodie could also hear his partner’s laboured breathing.

Shocked by the raucous explosion, Bodie held his friend erect as the cough threatened to topple his unstable partner into the snow at their feet.

"It's all right," Bodie soothed. "I'm not going to hurt you. Please, Ray, calm down."

Gradually, the coughing stilled to a noisy wheeze, and then finally to the shallow, careful breathing that had hidden the infirmity.

"Better now?" Bodie checked.

He didn’t receive a response, but at least the tearing eyes regarding him suspiciously were no longer blank. Bodie released Doyle's shoulders and took a step back from him.

Only then did he notice the snow that was collecting in the long hair and soaking through the worn fabric of Doyle’s filthy plaid cotton shirt. The wind had picked up since Bodie had entered the warehouse. Earlier the snowflakes had fallen so gently, but now the wind was hurling them against bare skin in stinging pricks. The unbruised portions of Doyle's face were turning a bright pink and a shiny stream of moisture dripped from a nostril caked with dried blood. As Bodie became conscious of their exposed position at the top of the old wooden staircase, a shudder convulsed his under-dressed partner.

The car was six blocks away, Doyle looked frozen after only a few moments exposure. Bodie realized that his partner would never make it to the car dressed as he was.

"Catch your death this way," Bodie commented, shrugging out of his coat. He held it out for Ray to slip into, but Ray remained rooted in the pile of snow collecting around him, once again treating Bodie to that blank stare.

Cursing whatever drugs were responsible, the taller man mumbled, "'s not a bloody matador's cape. In you go, mate."

With a light grip, he guided one drastically thin arm and then the other into the coat sleeves. He was almost relieved to feel Doyle flinch at his touch, glad that the silent man was at least that much aware of his surroundings.

Always, Bodie's full length coats were big on his partner, the extra few inches in width that separated them making the garment that much longer. Tonight, Doyle was all but lost in the voluminous folds of the warm material.

Bodie swallowed hard, trying to block out the bruised face and emaciated figure that belonged more to some refugee from an internment camp than to his partner. His Doyle was still in there, hidden somewhere behind the dead eyes and wounded flesh. As he bent to button the coat that was flapping wildly about with each gust of wind, Bodie realized it was going to take some effort to locate that lost man.

A shiver gripped him as the latest wind pelted his bare face with ice-like pellets of snow. His black polo was totally inadequate for this kind of weather. Knowing that they both had to get indoors as soon as possible, he took hold of Doyle's arm, part of him hoping for some show of resistance.

It was the drugs, Bodie told himself, trying not to be disheartened by the meek acquiescence as Doyle allowed himself to be guided like a blind man through the confusing maze of deserted alleys to the car.

The wind ripped through the narrow spaces between darkened warehouses with a ferocious might, ripping savagely at their faces and stinging unprotected eyes until they stumbled almost blindly through the hostile night.

At last, Bodie spotted his Volvo, its battered black frame almost invisible under the white mounds. The snow coating the lock on the door felt almost warm to his frozen senses as he brushed it away. Hastily, Bodie installed his damaged charge in the passenger seat. He leaned over Doyle to clumsily turn on the motor, affecting not to notice how Ray flinched far back into the unyeilding leather seat at Bodie’s nearness. Hauling back out, he switched on the heater and defroster, then slammed the door securely behind him.

Walking quickly to the boot, Bodie brushed off the deep mound of snow that had accumulated on top of it, then opened the boot to extract the small snow shovel stowed within. Working rapidly, he shovelled out the car.

Bodie’s face was tight and numb by the time he was through, his shirt and trousers soaked straight through with ice water. Never so grateful for warmth, Bodie climbed into the driver’s side.

Doyle paid no attention to him as he claimed his seat behind the steering wheel.

Brisk rubbing returned some sensation to his frozen fingers, all of it agonizing. Once Bodie could bend them around the cold leather of the wheel, he cautiously inched the car forward.

Apparently, his efforts had been sufficient to free the car. A small bump and they were crunching their way out of the desolate neighbourhood.

Leaving the warehouse district was akin to surfacing from a nightmare. The gloom of the narrow back alleys gradually lessened, the streets widening and brightening with each block they put behind them. Though equally deserted on such a bitterly cold night, the picturesque shops and quaint buildings lining the empty avenues cheered him, marking as they did a return to normality.

Glancing at his chillingly silent mate, Bodie amended that thought to returning to civilization. That dull-eyed stare would never be normal for Doyle, or so he prayed.

Paused for a red light, his gaze fell upon a call box on the corner. This intersection was as deserted as the last dozen, with nothing but snow blowing across it. The freezing white downpour was accumulating in dune-like mounds by buildings and parked cars like sand in the Sahara.

Unable to ignore his smarting conscience a moment longer, Bodie shifted into park and stepped back out into the frigid wind. Doyle's complete lack of interest at their unannounced delay fuelled his resolve as he dug some change out of his pocket and made his way to the telephone.

The question of whom to call temporarily defeated him. The police were his first thought. But even if his German – picked up in Amsterdam and nurtured to the point where he could order from a menu or bid on an arms shipment – were sufficient to the task, he sincerely doubted his ability to convince a bored desk sergeant of the truth of his outlandish tale.

No, it had to be someone already familiar with the situation. They were few in number, for the security blackout surrounding the disappearances was unbreached.

About to give up, the faces of the other captives flashed through his mind. Bodie was under no illusions as to their fate, should he not follow through. Doyle could well have been one of them. They’d all be sold to a hostile bidder for whatever information they were unlucky enough to carry locked in their heads, and once the information was extracted, they’d be expendable. That was if they were lucky. It was possible that some wouldn’t sell and they’d be bound to that sadistic madman indefinitely. Bodie couldn’t allow that to happen, yet he didn’t know whom he could contact to prevent it.

Who knew about the auction that was in a position to help? Cowley was out, as was the British Consulate. That left only locals and . . . .

Schueller. The name flashed out of nowhere, leaving Bodie to uneasily consider it as he shuffled from foot to foot in six inches of very wet snow.

The more he thought of the efficient Interpol agent, the less Bodie liked the idea. Wanted fugitives did not usually go around ringing up international police forces, not those interested in retaining their freedom at least. He considered his situation. His liberation from Cowley's ‘protective custody’, i.e., house arrest, was perforce of circumstances unsanctioned. Doubtless, he was still a very wanted man in his homeland.

But as for the rest of the world? Were it to come to light, his involvement in the gun running operation that had financed Doyle's rescue would elevate him to the level of international criminal, but Bodie thought that an unlikely happenstance. Marty knew how to keep his mouth shut. Only those directly involved in the deal were aware of Bodie’s complicity and they couldn’t speak about it without incriminating themselves.

For now, he was probably safe. Cowley was a great believer in cleaning his own doorstep. All of C.I.5 and the other law enforcement agencies at his former boss' disposal were undoubtedly still on the lookout for the errant C.I.5 agent, but that would be as far as it went. Aside from exiting the country without a passport and losing his temper with the infuriating Scotsman, he'd committed no crimes within the U.K., nothing of which Interpol would be aware.

Bodie raised the telephone receiver to his ear, the chill of the cold black plastic smarting through his bright red hand.

Memory was a funny thing, he thought, dialling the little-used number. If his life depended upon it, Bodie doubted if he'd be able to cull up the number and address of his last flat – Doyle's, maybe, but never his own. Yet here he was, able to recall on an instant's notice a number used a maximum of six times a year. Probably because it was learned for the Cow. If you learned something for Cowley, you learned it for keeps.

The phone was answered on the second ring. "Schueller, bon soir, avec vous?" a familiar gruff voice demanded.

"Bodie, C.I.5." Trying to sound official, Bodie did his best to keep the shiver and nervousness out of his voice.

"Ah, monsieur Bodie, we do not hear from you in a long time," Schueller greeted, switching to English. His tone lightened to as cheerful a sound as possible for such a deep-voiced man to attain, "Your monsieurs Murphy and Jax are . . . how do you say . . . efficient men, but not so charming as my good friend Mr. Bodie."

Bodie's mouth twitched toward a grin. The last time Scheuller had spoken to 'his good friend Mr. Bodie,’ the conversation had degenerated into a long distance shouting match. Ignoring the sarcasm, Bodie proceeded as though the last six months had never happened, "I've got a gift for you, Schueller. You might even wrangle a promotion out of it if you get your boys moving fast enough. Our information has it that that kidnapping ring that bagged Rogers and Perot are holding another garage sale."

"When?" all humour had left the heavily accented voice.

"Right now." Bodie supplied what details he could, hoping not to sound over-informed. The hatred in his heart made him long to be in on the bust, but explanations would be too awkward. He'd have to content himself with reading the details in the morning news.

His approach must have been just right, for Schueller rang off after an abrupt thanks, without asking any embarrassing questions.

Bodie slowly replaced the receiver and returned to the car. Doyle did not look at him as he reclaimed his seat, but Bodie smiled at him as if he had, leaning forward to warm his hands by the heater.

The journey to Jacque's hotel was conducted in a silence as impenetrable as that of the icy night. Bodie wondered as the car passed through the empty streets if the quiet were as laden with thought as it felt to him or if it were his own imagination. Tension seemed to crackle through the Volvo's close quarters, priming his overstretched nerves with its sense of expectancy.

His partner had always had a way of silently projecting his emotions so that the very environment seemed to crackle with them. The phenomenon was different from simple mood shifts. Bodie had dealt with many a moody bastard in his time, some of them blood-crazed mercenaries who'd knife a fellow for looking at them the wrong way, but none had Doyle's dubious talent for emoting hostility. There were times when Ray's emotions were almost a tangible presence, times when Doyle would walk into a room and everyone present therein, from Bodie, who was most familiar with him and therefore possibly more easily influenced, right on up to Cowley would shift uneasily at Ray’s entrance, all hit with the deluge of raw emotion. Usually, it was anger Doyle communicated most fiercely. Tonight it was apprehension, a fear so powerful that Bodie thought he could reach out and touch its cold presence.

Yet, no sign of it showed outwardly. Each furtive glance Doyle's way revealed the same stony profile. Lit by the green glow from the dashboard, the pallor in the sparse unbruised areas of Doyle's left cheek seemed downright ghostly. The unseeing stare, focused on the windshield with its noisy sweep of wipers, unnerved Bodie totally, so discordant was it from the vehement emotional bombardment.

He sighed with relief as Jacque's street came into sight. His old friend's hotel stood out amongst the rows of neat, old homes. Not because Gypsy's Rest was any newer than its neighbours, but because its bright green paint insisted upon recognition amongst the dignified, white-washed dwellings surrounding it. A character and warmth imbued the inn that was greatly reflective of its peculiar owner.

The relationship that existed between Bodie and Jacques Dupres had been a curious one from the start. By rights, Bodie should have detested the older man on first meeting in Angola. With the appearance and enthusiasms of a befuddled English lit professor, Dupres should have been out of his depth when dealing with the crude mercenaries with which his supply operation brought him into contact.

But that geeky weakness was only appearance, as Bodie had learned quite early. Dupres’ easy charm and ridiculously out of place, genteel mannerisms masked a core of steel and a lust for adventure that possibly eclipsed his own. Even Krivas dealt straight with Dupres. That, Bodie had never understood; respect simply wasn't in that cutthroat’s makeup. Yet the mercenary leader had always treated the somewhat dotty pilot – whose most offensive act in Bodie's opinion had been the loan of a particularly bad book of poetry – as though Dupres were an object to be feared.

The solution to the mystery hadn't surfaced until six months after Bodie had quit Krivas' mob. The group Bodie had been running with then, headed by a less-than-brilliant tactician named Banner, had come across the downed pilot and his plane's wreckage in the war-ravaged desert wastelands of North Africa. Banner's squad had held a grudge against Dupres since his untimely shipment of ammo had allowed the remnants of General Uttaba's army to break through Banner's siege of their stronghold. Bodie could still recall the fierce courage exhibited on that blazing afternoon when, surrounded by Banner's pack of bloodthirsty strong men, Dupres, already weakened from his injuries, attempted to make a stand against the lot of them with nothing more than a small knife for defence. To this day, Bodie could till hear Jacque's outraged warning for Bodie to mind his own business when he'd attempted to even the odds a little. His intervention had gotten them both stranded in the middle of a very arid nowhere, but at least they'd both been alive.

The gruelling trek back to civilization had been the turning point of Bodie's life. During that three-week ordeal, Dupres had convinced Bodie that mercenary life wasn't really for him. No easy task, Bodie knew, when dealing with someone as stubborn and arrogant as the youth he'd been then. His mistake had been recognized that first night in camp when the savage realities of the career he'd chosen had ripped all romantic illusions and most of his dignity from him, but correcting the error required a courage Bodie had thought beyond him. At less than twenty-one, Bodie had believed his life over, his bridges all burned behind him. What, after all, was there to go back to? At least in Angola he had a place, something he was good at doing.

Dupres had opened his mind to the possibilities he'd been ignoring. Not with emotional appeals and the "if I were you, sonny, I'd get out of this shit," lectures the few veterans who'd taken an interest in him doled out, but through a remarkably devious form of manipulation that made each change seem Bodie’s own idea. Even the paras had been Dupres’ suggestion. Bodie knew that alone, he never would have thought of bringing his dubious expertise to the special branches.

Yes, he owed a lot to Jacques Dupres, but the older man had never seen it that way. Jacques regarded himself as beholden to Bodie for saving his life.

That Bodie’s attempted rescue had resulted from disgust with his comrades as much as from any unlikely Good Samaritan impulses had never shadowed Dupres' affections, try as Bodie would to discourage him at first. In time, their unlikely friendship became one of the few stable points in Bodie’s life.

Distance hadn't diminished their bond. Whether it be Amsterdam, Angola, London or Switzerland, Bodie knew he would always find a home wherever Jacques Dupres was laying his hat at the time. An occasional letter or post card had been enough to keep them in touch through the years, and on the rare instances Bodie did manage to lose track of his vagabond mentor, there was always the fail-safe contact point of Dupres' sister, who lived in an eagle's nest on some godforsaken peak in the Swiss Alps.

Fortunately, such drastic measures hadn't been needed to contact Jacques this time. For better or worse, the former pilot had finally settled down to collect books, antiques, curios, knickknacks, and straying tourists in a rapidly shrinking hotel in Geneva. It had been sheer luck that the auction which had turned Bodie rogue was taking place in the same town in which Dupres lived. It was actually the only bit of good fortune Bodie'd had since the start of this nightmare.

The Volvo coasted to a stop before the hotel, settling into the unbroken snow with a subdued crunch.

"Here we are, Ray," Bodie announced to his catatonic passenger. "Never told you about Old Jacques, but I think you'll like'm."

He helped his partner out of the car, guiding him up the stairs and out of the cold as quickly as possible.

Bright light and warmth embraced them as they crossed Jacques' threshold. Sweet smelling smoke from the spruce log flaming on the grill in the lobby's hearth mingled with the lingering aroma of the Bavarian pastries baked fresh in the kitchen each morning. The combination was pleasant, a distinctive fragrance Bodie fondly associated with this place, the same way he did certain perfumes with the special ladies in his life.

Beside him, Ray stumbled. Bodie grabbed hold of his arm, steadying the wide-eyed man against the sensory overload. The Gypsy's Rest was the utter antithesis of that horrid warehouse in which Ray had been held prisoner. Bodie figured that after the unrelieved gloom and prison-like cold of that huge, empty building, the cramped brightness and cheerful disorder of the hotel reception area would probably be hard for Doyle to get used to. Though large, the lobby had very little free space.

A huge mahogany reception desk took up the wall directly to their left. Gaudy souvenirs from all corners of the earth crowded its counter, barely allowing space for the huge registration book.

An enormous fireplace claimed the wall directly in front of them for its own. A large fire blazed its welcome in the oversized hearth, flicking orange light erratically across the row of pictures on the mantle and adding a certain threatening aspect to the thunderbird depicted in the red, burnt orange, black and white threads of the Navajo blanket hanging above it.

Oil paintings, wall hangings, and other patches of mysterious objects d'art dotted the white walls with bright blazes of colour. The effect wasn't bad now – firelight lent a gentle glow to the haphazard collection, muting its intensity – but when the curtains veiling the huge dormer windows in the south wall were drawn apart and sunlight flooded the area, the conglomeration could be quite overpowering to the unprepared.

Not to be outdone by the decorations, Jacque's furniture also appeared to strive to overpower. The behemoth Victorian pieces all matched each other, amazingly enough. Plush, royal blue velvet covered sinfully soft down cushions. The wood of the furniture was dark with a rich lacquer that was only beginning to show the effects of their daily dose of sunlight.

The only stand organization had made in the chaos of the lobby was the bookcase built into the right wall. From ceiling to floor, row upon row of neat leather-bound tomes turned their spines to the reigning disorder. But even here, mayhem had penetrated. Those books might look orderly, but Bodie had learned that there was no system to their arrangement, Jacques seemed to just dump a book where he could easily get at it or where the colour of its binding best blended with its neighbours. The most frustrating part of the insane system, even more so than having to search every shelf for a desired book, was the fact that their owner could invariably put his hands upon a desired book the instant Bodie was forced to seek assistance.

The chaotic cheer of Gypsy's Rest seemed to embrace him, its familiarity lulling away nervous tension the same way the hearth's warmth diminished the chill in his overexposed body. Two nights' anticipation had robbed him of sleep. Whether it was the effects of insomnia, the trauma of the past few hours, or the return of normal body temperature, Bodie suddenly felt utterly exhausted. One look at his companion revealed an even more advanced state of exhaustion. The poor sod looked like he could barely manage to place one foot in front of the other.

"Bodie, lad, it went all right, then?" a relieved voice sounded from the entrance to Jacques’ office at the end of the reception desk.

He and Doyle both jumped like thieves at the abrupt interruption. Bodie turned to greet their host, somehow not very surprised that the notorious early riser had waited up almost to his usual waking hour for their return.

"We got him back."

Doyle tensed beside him at Jacque's approach.

Though normally an incessant talker, given to generous, sweeping welcomes, Dupres stepped slowly toward them, advancing with the care one would use with a frightened puppy. Concern overcame curiosity in the friendly grey eyes as they took in Doyle's condition. Bodie shot his old friend a grateful look.

"Ray," Bodie gently explained to his mute partner, "this is an old mate of mine, Jacques Dupres. Jacques, my partner, Ray Doyle."

Doyle turned toward Bodie at the mention of his surname, his attention pricking up as though the name Ray did not refer to him.

Wondering about the reaction, Bodie continued, "Ray's not feeling quite himself this evening."

Dupres’ silver head nodded understandingly. "You're most welcome here, Ray. Bodie, take your friend upstairs and make him comfortable. You both look as if you could use something hot inside you."

"Thanks, Jacques," Bodie said, taking hold of Doyle's elbow to guide him toward the wooden staircase near the kitchen. "Oh, nothing alcoholic, all right? Don't know what he's pumped full of."

"Right."

In his room, Bodie sat his charge at the small breakfast table in front of the lace-curtained window.

One look at the crisp white sheets on the double bed sent him in to draw a tub full of hot water. Perhaps Doyle's primary need was rest, but Bodie suspected his habitually fastidious partner would feel better once he was clean again, so Bodie moved to the bathroom to fill the old claw foot tub.

Jacque's soft rap was answered before a second could sound. Mindful of the nervous tension that seemed to cloak his partner like his oversized coat, Bodie took the small tray from Jacque’s hands with subdued thanks; although Doyle paid no more attention to it than he had to Bodie's busy bustling to prepare the bath.

The ticklish scent of warm cinnamon wafted from the steaming mugs placed before Doyle. Bodie tentatively took the seat opposite and sipped at his cider, silently willing his partner to take the initiative and lift up his cup.

"Cider's getting cold, mate," he remarked. "Come on, Ray, have a sip. You'll feel better."

His words fell into the quiet that was interrupted only by the soft wheeze of Doyle's breathing. With all his imaginings of what it would be like once Ray was rescued, nothing like this had ever occurred to Bodie.

Unable to stand waiting any longer, Bodie raised the drastically cooled cup to Doyle's mouth, doing his best to avoid the healing scabs that marred Ray’s full lips. One sip only was taken, a small instinctive gulp before the lips clamped wilfully shut.

"Damn," Bodie swore as the rest of the mouthful sloshed down Ray's bruised chin and jaw. "Now you really need that wash-up. Come on, then," he said, pretending that Doyle's compliance came more from the gentle instruction than the guiding hand.

Doyle’s face twisted as Bodie eased the coat off him.

"I'll be glad when this stuff works its way out of your system," Bodie commented on the way to the loo, thinking that normal conversation might help lull Doyle out of the grip of the drugs.

Inside the steamy bathroom, Doyle's attitude was no different. The frighteningly blank gaze continued to stare straight through Bodie as the taller man stooped over the streaming froth of the tub to turn off the taps. Slumped against the doorjamb, Ray looked as if he didn't have the energy left to cross the few feet to the ancient tub.

Bodie preferred his exhaustion excuse to the inner voice, which kept suggesting that there was more than tiredness and drugs behind Doyle's condition. The more he was subjected to the sometimes vague, sometimes wary, green gaze, the more he grew to believe that his closest mate had no true concept of whom Bodie was.

"All right, then," he said when it became apparent that Doyle was not about to move of his own accord. "We'd best get those things off. Lord knows, they could do with a cleaning too, but right now you need it more."

Part of him prayed that Doyle would bolt at his touch, knock his hand away to do the job himself, or give any indication that the drugs were beginning to wear off. But aside from an unnatural stillness and rock-hard muscle rigidity, his partner remained as much an automaton during the disrobement as under the auctioneer's kiss.

Bodie's jaw clenched tight as he peeled open the ragged, filthy shirt. He tried to harden himself to what he'd find, but the violent colours of the contusions spotting Doyle's torso all but eclipsed the horrible scars left from the assassin, Mai Li's bullets. Carefully, he probed a particularly wicked-looking bruise over the right ribs.

That earned Bodie his first true reaction.

Doyle whimpered, pulling back from his tormentor with a suddenness that spurred his cough into action. Once again, Bodie braced his friend against the seizure, trying to soothe the panic from wide, terrified eyes with soft, apologetic words.

"It's all right, Ray. Didn't mean to hurt you. Didn't know the ribs were cracked, mate." Guiltily, he recalled how Doyle had flinched when he'd put the coat on him in the alley. Not just fear then.

Determined to be more careful, he cautiously eased the shirt off. It was only as the threadbare garment touched the floor that Bodie was able to see his partner’s wrists. His stomach lurched at the ugly bands of skinless flesh that ringed Ray’s wrists like bracelets. The flesh above and below the shiny raw wounds, the parts that still had an intact epidermis, were bruised with vivid purple and black marks. Bodie cringed at the thought of how those injuries had occurred. It was clear Ray had pulled at his restraints until he’d mangled his wrists, like a fox in a trap that would gnaw through its own foot to regain freedom.

Steeling himself, Bodie continued with the task at hand and unbuttoned Doyle’s too-baggy jeans. They slipped down the wasted frame without incident, halting only at the obstacle of wet trainers. Bodie slid them off and tossed the entire foul wardrobe behind the door.

Turning back, a gasp was torn from him as he caught sight of Ray's back and lower body. Ray still carried the scars from the time that Asian bird had shot him. Light pink scar tissue from the bullet's exit wounds and what had once been smooth, white flesh were now criss-crossed with angry red welts. Whip lashes, Bodie sickly recognized. Not an inch of the broad shoulders and back were unmarred.

"Sadistic bastards," Bodie spat. As his gaze dropped lower, his entire frame shook with contained fury. Save for some black and blue marks, none of the damage looked recent. Most had already hardened into scar tissue. The sheer extent of it appalled Bodie. The pain must have been phenomenal. Even the contusions that remained had to hurt like hell, and Ray had never been particularly insensitive to pain.

Catching a glimpse of Doyle's eyes, Bodie realized what his own face must be revealing. His murderous rage was apparently being misinterpreted. His partner obviously believed himself to be its focus. In view of what had been done to Doyle in the past, it would probably come as no surprise to the drugged-up Ray to be misused now.

Calming his fury, Bodie collected himself, resolving to give Doyle no further cause for panic. With a shaky smile, he guided his friend into the water.

Bodie waited for some sign of independent action, but Doyle just sat there in the water, staring blankly into the middle distance as if purposefully tuning out the bath and room around him.

"Come on, Ray. Wash up. It’s late and we’re both done in," Bodie urged.

Doyle continued to sit there in the darkening water, oblivious as a potato.

Realizing that there was nothing for it, but to wash his friend himself, Bodie grabbed the soap and a clean flannel from the nearby towel rack. He’d never given anyone a bath in his life. He hadn’t a clue as to the proper etiquette. Not that Ray seemed especially attuned to such niceties at the moment.

"Make you feel better, this will," Bodie promised, covering his own awkwardness as he rolled up his sleeves to begin the intimate service of washing his partner.

It took courage to even touch Ray. After all that Doyle had been through, it looked to Bodie as though even the gentle brush of the flannel would hurt.

Deciding to start at the head and work his way down, Bodie retreated to the bedroom to snag the white plastic ice bucket to use to wet down the filthy mat of hair.

Kneeling beside the tub, Bodie gave his partner an encouraging smile. After six months of frantic worry, he could hardly believe Ray was safe again.

"Okay, Ray. We’re going to get you washed up and then you can sleep. I’m just going to wet your hair down and shampoo it," Bodie explained, wary of making any sudden moves in the slippery bath.

Doyle didn’t even blink when Bodie tilted his chin up prior to dumping the bucket of water over his head. Bodie did his best to ignore the eerie blankness of the familiar eyes as he went about the strange task of bathing a fully-grown man.

The hair was a nest of tangles that retained water and shampoo with the tenacity of a dry sponge. Bodie tackled it gently, attempting to coax the snarls out as painlessly as possible with pretty words and judicious combing. He ached to cut the overgrown locks to a more manageable length, but the liberties taken with Doyle's body over the last few months restrained him. If Ray wanted the damn thing trimmed, he'd say so in time.

Finally achieving a decent lather, he massaged vigorously, working the accumulated oil and dirt out with thorough care. Difficult as it was to manage, the long, wet strands had a sleek softness to them that was incredibly sensual as they ran through his carding fingers. When satisfied that the soap-filled hair was returned to its usual squeaky cleanliness, Bodie dumped another bucket of water over Ray’s head. It had next to no effect.

Recognizing that they were going to be here all night if he didn’t speed the rinse cycle up, Bodie placed a supportive hand around the back of Doyle's neck and gently guided the suddenly stiff body backwards with the other. "Come on, let’s get that soap out."

Confused by the alarm flashing through watchful sea-green eyes, he was even more befuddled when something like resignation replaced it. It wasn't until he started to rinse the suds free and surprise took Doyle’s eyes that Bodie understood his partner's interpretation of his intent. That first expression had looked like Ray expected him to drown him, but far more disturbing was Ray’s obvious decision to allow him to do it.

Shaken to the core, Bodie hastily rubbed the shampoo free and eased his friend back into a sitting position.

Doyle's attitude seemed to change after that incident. All traces of haziness vanished. A suspicious, near-unblinking stare followed Bodie’s every move with feline intensity thereafter.

It was unnerving. As far as Bodie could tell, he’d made no threatening moves, but the fear radiating from the tub was now a tangible presence.

Bodie gathered the soap and flannel and began to work on the rest of Doyle, doing his best to ignore the unnerving gaze. He tried to keep Doyle's skinless wrists out of the water as he worked to prevent infection.

Before long the bath water turned a murky grey, bespeckled by oily slicks and soap scum. Half of Doyle's epidermis seemed to melt under the warm soapy caresses, the stark, pale flesh revealed standing out between bruises in vivid contrast. Despite extreme caution, a few telltale flinches revealed the hurt that Bodie was unavoidably inflicting. But aside from these, Doyle bore his ministrations stoically, with only some twitching and tautening of muscles when Bodie awkwardly cleansed Ray's most intimate regions.

Finally finished, Bodie sat back on his haunches, tired from the day's rigors and the strain of prolonged bending over the tub. He wiped sweat and steam from his brow and tried for a reassuring smile. "All done. What d’ya say to some ham-fisted doctoring."

Not surprisingly, Doyle said nothing. Bodie was almost getting used to that silence now.

Bodie helped his partner from the tub, keeping a firm grasp on a slippery, wiry arm to guard against falling. Doyle stood motionless as Bodie dried him, moving only in response to a directing nudge. The fluffy softness of the towel Bodie used absorbed the beaded moisture with a minimum of pressure.

Turning back from depositing the saturated towel on the door rack, Bodie was perplexed to find Ray frozen in a strange position, half bent over the high side of the antique tub with his legs spread far apart.

"Okay, we're through, Ray. What're you . . . ?"

His voice died as the significance of what Doyle's position would facilitate penetrated. A tight knot of revulsion clutched at his guts, followed fast by a bone-melting wave of sympathy for what his friend must have suffered.

In his heart, Bodie had known back in the auction. That foul kiss had left very little to the imagination. Yet, there was a part of Bodie that had futilely prayed the kiss was a final gesture of insult, as opposed to an on-going perk. But Doyle’s silent offer of himself left very little room for doubt. Ray had been raped, often enough to condition the abused man to offer himself, rather than wait to be forcibly taken.

Swallowing the bile that rose to his choked throat, Bodie studiously wiped all emotion clear of his face. Acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, he took hold of Doyle’s bony elbows and wordlessly stood his partner straight on his feet. Then, Bodie turned hastily toward the medicine cabinet to hide the moisture that veiled his eyes at the shocked expression on Ray's face.

Every sense he owned focused on the mute man behind him, Bodie hunted for the gauze and adhesive tape last used on his gunrunning stint. Seeing a tube of antiseptic cream lying beside them, Bodie took that, too, figuring that the skin breakages could do with some disinfecting.

Carefully not thinking about what had been done to his partner, Bodie set to work easing the hurts he could heal.

First, he coated and bound up Doyle’s mangled wrists. The wounds there were so deep that Bodie was afraid his friend might have suffered permanent nerve damage.

Half a tube of cream was used on Ray’s back alone. It seemed that no matter how much he spread the ointment with a feather-light touch, there was still another welt or scratch requiring treatment. When his partner's back, buttocks and thighs were as dotted with gobs of goop as one the white-out speckled reports handed to Cowley when they both failed to charm some poor lass from the typing pool into doing their work for them, Bodie shifted his attention to the front.

Stoicism was his refuge as he eased the pain of nasty lacerations. Only when he reached Doyle's chest did it fail him utterly. There were long, thread-like scratches everywhere. Undoubtedly, they were the legacy of untrimmed nails. Someone had scratched at Ray like an animal sharpening its claws. Aghast, Bodie took in the condition of the flat breasts. The area around both nipples was darkly discoloured. At first, Bodie took this to be the result of the blows which had fallen on toes, testicles and head with equal disregard, but closer examination proved him wrong. Each nipple was ringed with a mouth-sized black and purple oval which encircled a smaller, flattened one that was speckled with wicked-looking tiny oblongs of darker bruising – teeth marks, the outraged ex-C.I.5 agent recognized. A mouth had savaged the tender flesh, brutally sucking the skin until uniformly black and blue, then biting to leave behind those bruises.

Doyle’s nipples were in a disgraceful state, the scabs of healing rips showing on each. As the meaning of the damage slowly penetrated, Bodie’s heart pounded thunderously loud in his ears.

Christ, it was bad enough that they’d raped Doyle. This was something he hadn’t even encountered in Angolan merc camps, where Bodie had thought he’d seen every depravity one man could inflict upon another.

It was all Bodie could do to keep his hand steady as he dabbed the soothing cream on. No longer was he bewildered by Doyle's invitation to rape. Ravaged as Doyle was, acquiescence was probably the only way to ensure survival.

Done at last, he closed the tube and wound gauze around Ray's chest. After tightly binding the mummy-wrapped chest with adhesive, Bodie slipped Doyle into his own blue towelling-cloth robe that hung on back the door. He gently tied the belt about the narrow waist, feeling Doyle's watchful stare burning into his face all the while.

Snagging a dry towel from the rack he led Ray back to his chair in the bedroom and set to work drying the still-wet hair.

"Come in," Bodie said, when a soft tap sounded several minutes later. Seeing Jacques, Bodie immediately ducked his head to hide the telltale warming of his cheeks. Not that there was a trace of mockery to the wide smile Jacques bestowed upon him. The uncharacteristic activity in which he was engaged just made Bodie feel somewhat self-conscious.

"How is he?" Jacques asked, taking the chair in front of Bodie's empty mug.

Bodie shrugged. "Cleaner. There're a couple of hurt ribs – cracked, I think. He’s got more cuts and bruises than I can count. Whatever poison they pumped him full of is still working, and . . . " he finished, the raspy wheeze Doyle was obviously too tired to conceal reminding him of the last and possibly most serious affliction, " . . . he's got a whopper of a chest cold."

Jacques lent forward and peered into Doyle's eyes. Worry clouding his usually happy-go-lucky features, Dupres settled back into his chair and then said, "I think you should take him to a doctor. Pneumonia is nothing to fiddle with. In his condition, he wouldn't have the strength to fight it off."

Bodie nodded, in no way surprised to have his fears confirmed.

"First thing in the morning. Any recommendation?" Bodie asked, none too hopefully. To his knowledge, aside from a single visit to receive the spectrum of inoculations mandatory before visiting the section of the globe they met in, Dupres had never even had cause to check in with the camp medic.

"Not personal, but Eva was raving about some youngster in the new clinic near the bank. I'll get his name off her in the morning, if you like."

"Thanks," Bodie acknowledged.

A comfortable silence fell between them. Bodie's attention was absorbed by the lulling routine of his steadily massaging hands as he worked the water out of Ray’s hair with a thick white towel.

Dupres appeared equally intent upon the picture the partners presented.

"He's very important to you, isn't he, lad?" Jacques asked at last.

The question might have seemed ridiculous, considering the lengths to which he'd gone to rescue Doyle. But Bodie recognized it for what it was. Dupres, like most fighting men, understood the special bond that was forged between two men in the heat of battle. The loyalty from that attachment, short-lived as the relationship might be, was of a stronger ilk and lasted years longer than most friendships formed in the ‘real world.’ What Bodie had done in the King Billy case to hunt down the biker that murdered his old mate, Keith Williams, years after they'd last seen each other might have seemed bizarre in civilized society, but passed as expected behaviour in the jungle. In that wilderness, a man's only protection was often the loyalty of his companions. Jacques, who also lived by this strange code, had thought nothing unusual in the ex-mercenary's quest to free his partner.

Bodie knew that what Jacques was asking now was if their relationship were more than the usual camp camaraderie. A man could feel compelled to avenge or liberate a companion he felt nothing for, simply on the basis of their peculiar code. That his attachment to Doyle had always fallen outside of that code, into places and emotions Bodie couldn't comprehend himself, made explanation near impossible.

Bodie looked down at the bent head he was still rubbing the towel over. Now that the accumulation of natural oils and dirt that had been weighing the hair down in that unattractive rat's nest had been removed, a spring had returned to the drying locks, gentle, loose ringlets curling the long ends. Bodie concentrated on his task, absently patting a baby-soft strand back into place as he answered, "Doyle's been my partner for the last eight years. I wouldn't want another."

Thankfully, Dupres didn't press that point any further, asking instead the question that Bodie's overburdened mind had been scrupulously avoiding. "What are you going to do now?"

"Take him to the doctor first thing in the morning and see what our options are," Bodie evaded the issue; although deep down he admitted Doyle's condition changed everything. His original plan – free his partner and ship him back to England on the first available plane – had never had much chance of success. For starters, Ray was too stubborn by half in his usual state. Like this . . . shipping Ray back alone would be the utmost form of abandonment.

Ross and her sadistic cronies would have a field day with the poor sod, poking and probing, never letting wounds heal. Bodie didn't know exactly what was going to cure his partner, but his instincts told him that clinical psychological vivisection wasn't the answer.

The alternatives were daunting, though. Providing Doyle didn't need hospitalisation for his injuries, which Bodie doubted in view of Ray’s mobility, Doyle would require more care and attention than Bodie's military background had prepared him to offer. He’d spent his entire life killing. What did he know of healing?

Yet the idea of leaving Doyle with strangers when his partner was defenceless like this was unthinkable.

Just thinking about it made Bodie’s brain ache.

But all this couldn't be settled tonight. What they needed now was rest. Tomorrow would be time enough to regroup their forces.

Jacques didn't seem disturbed by his evasion. A warm smile lit the grey eyes, its cheer spilling over to encompass the oblivious Doyle as Dupres’ gaze moved that way. "Just so you know, you're both welcome here as long as you need the place."

"Thanks, mate. Don't know how we could ever repay . . . ."

"None needed," Dupres cut him off, looking intensely uncomfortable. "Just get this lad of yours well enough to sample some of the fine brew I stock this place with. I’ve got a story or two to tell him about his partner that can only be best appreciated after a few steins of good German beer."

Bodie grinned in anticipation. Unlike most of his other acquaintances from his mercenary days, Jacques was someone he wouldn't mind Ray getting to know.

"Well, I'd best be letting you youngsters get some rest. I’ll get that doctor's address off Eva when she starts the pastries. Will you be needing another room?" Jacques asked, glancing toward the double bed as he bent to reclaim the cider mugs.

"No, I'll stick close. The easy chair will do fine," Bodie answered. Even if Ray hadn’t been so incapacitated, he wouldn’t have been able to let Ray out of his sight after their prolonged separation.

Dupres nodded, then left with a soft, "Good night."

Alone with his silent companion once again, Bodie crossed to the bed and turned the covers back. When he came to escort his charge over, Doyle reluctantly followed, the only protest the by-now familiar tension. Wondering how long it would be before nerves brought his friend to a state of complete collapse, Bodie decided to forego removing Doyle's robe, unwilling to escalate the already overstrained panic threshold.

Doyle sat stiffly in the bed's edge, immobile as the ancient stone gargoyles squatting atop the downtown courthouse.

Bodie waited a moment and then gently assisted when no motion seemed imminent. The response to his hands gripping Doyle's shoulders to urge him downwards was immediate. Like a small child about to take that first terrifying plunge in a roller coaster, the translucent eyelids snapped shut with dread, Ray’s strained features blanching to an even more sickly pallor.

The shockwaves of repulsion emanating from Ray’s rigid figure were astounding. Bodie snatched his hands clear as though Doyle's body had just burned him, feeling a trembling start deep within him.

Ray was so hurt. Bodie didn’t know if his partner would ever be whole again and, selfish as it was, he needed Ray to be whole. All that they’d been through would be worth nothing if he couldn’t bring Ray back to himself.

Doyle's eyes shot open again as Bodie tugged the covers up to his neck and tucked them in under his chin.

"Laid out like a proper corpse, you are. Do us a favour and get some rest. Maybe things will be clearer to you in the morning. I'll be right here if you need me," Bodie assured, before turning to prepare his own sleeping arrangements. Sharing a bed was now forever outside his rights.

Knowing that it would be the last thing required of him for the day made moving the leaden weight of the cushioned wing-back chair from its customary spot beside the window over to Ray’s bedside somewhat easier.

Doyle didn't quite jump as Bodie's feet settled next to his at the bottom of the bed.

Sighing deeply, Bodie settled back into the velvety blueness of the down cushions. Every muscle he owned ached as though he'd been worked over as thoroughly as Doyle.

Exhausted and numb from his emotional reaction to Doyle's condition, Bodie desperately sought sleep. Several things prevented the achievement of his goal.

First, his mind was running on overdrive, ceaselessly churning over Jacques' disturbing question about what he’d do next. What was in their future, he wondered morosely. Ray frightened him like this. He felt helpless and useless against this speechless acquiescence to defeat. What he could do to bring Doyle around, if anything, was beyond his ken at the moment.

It was weird, but Bodie found himself desperately longing for Cowley. Not that he'd ever be willing to turn his partner over to anyone else's care while Ray was in this defenceless state, even if so ordered, but right now Bodie could use a dose of the Scot's dauntless certainty to bolster his own battered morale.

Finding no answer to his worries, years of training instilled their control and ever so slowly the kinetic jumble of thoughts stilled.

He was on the verge of sleep when a new uneasiness penetrated. Jungle-honed instincts were not easily dulled, especially after six months of intensive cultivation. The heightened perceptions, which could make him uncomfortably aware of being scrutinized by unseen eyes while standing atop a watchtower in a supposedly secure section of British countryside, made it damn near impossible to achieve any kind of relaxation while being subjected to a nearby glare.

Bodie forced his tired eyes open, fixing them immediately upon his examiner.

Doyle’s strange stare was unnerving. The confused, probing gaze gave him the disturbing feeling that Ray was lying there trying to figure him out.

"I'm Bodie, your partner," he reiterated, suspecting any reassurance useless, but nevertheless feeling compelled to offer it. "No one's going to hurt you again, Ray, not while I'm around. Please try to get some rest."

There was no reaction, not even so much as a blink. Bodie might as well have been speaking Afrikaans for all the attention Doyle paid him. He endured the scrutiny a few minutes longer, experiencing equal measures of unease and hope from the lucidity in the emerald-clear irises. Recognizing that he had as much chance of out-staring the sphinx as his partner, Bodie at last reached out to switch off the bedside lamp. He'd thought to leave it on for whatever reassurance it might offer his friend, but altered his plans in the hope that the surrounding darkness would court healing rest.

A demure grey twilight filtered through the lace curtains, casting weird, web-like designs across Doyle's bruise-mottled face. Closing his eyes against the burgeoning dawn and persistent stare, he contemplated the ironies of the situation.

Months of anxious prayer to a God he only half-believed in had miraculously been granted. Ray had been returned to him, alive as requested. Never once had it occurred to Bodie to amend his prayer to ‘alive and all right.’ Now, he had his partner back, but with Doyle a mere hand’s reach away, he couldn't touch Ray or offer comfort for fear of terrifying.

Feeling betrayed and terribly isolated, he lay there numbing his perceptions to the gaze still boring into him from the darkness. Slowly, sleep stole over him. His cramped muscles gradually relaxed to the accompaniment of the steady, wheezy, breathing from the bed, and Bodie finally slept.

---

Chapter Two

There was a chip of paint missing from the closed door's finish. The small tan spot of bare wood stood out sharply against the luxurious lacquer, looking as raw and blatant as one of the puckered red welts on Doyle's back.

The wooden chair was hard and confining against Bodie's tensed muscles. Bodie willed himself to remain seated, to keep out of the examination room. The battle to give Ray his privacy was straining what little nerves he'd had left after last night's ordeal. As far as he could tell, his partner hadn't closed his eyes all night.

Now Bodie's gaze was equally intense. Oblivious to the diplomas, shelves of medical books and other accoutrements that all sought to convince a patient's worried family members of their doctor's expertise, Bodie's stare remained stubbornly fixed on the door to the examination room.

For his own part, Bodie didn't need any further convincing. There was an air of competence surrounding the crisp, young doctor that transcended the man's meagre collection of years. Quick brown eyes had surveyed Doyle wordlessly and then turned suspiciously Bodie's way. Bodie's tale of robbery and beating had been grudgingly accepted as the fable it was. The physician had whisked Doyle into the examination room with a speed that impressed the ex-mercenary. It was refreshing to encounter a doctor whose foremost concern was his patient's welfare and not the form filling ritual that generally preceded all encounters with the medical profession.

Although Bodie did not particularly relish the confrontation inevitable after the examination, he wished an end to the wait. Common sense had kept him from following Ray inside. He hadn't wanted to give his bewildered mate the impression he was being ganged up on, but now Bodie wished he had gone in. All he had to do out here was sit and breathe in that medicinal air that brought back far too many memories of the endless days he'd waited outside Ray's intensive care unit after Mai Li had shot him, waiting to see if his partner would live.

The antiseptic smell of the clinic permeated everything. Being jumpy from the start, the foul fumes from each breath strung his nerves further out like the caffeine boost from a cup of coffee.

At least if he were inside, he'd know what was happening. Out here he was in the dark once again, and he couldn't shake the disturbing impression that Ray had wanted him in there.

Nothing had been said, of course. Doyle had just paused by his chair on the way in, the hesitation so slight that the doctor hadn't noticed it, but the beseeching look in Ray's eyes had haunted Bodie since the blasted door had closed behind doctor and patient. Doyle had looked at him as though he were handing Ray over to some other sadistic bastard, Bodie thought, savagely cursing the impulse that had kept him outside.

Finally, the door swung open. The first sight of Doyle's gaunt face vanquished the paranoia that had been gnawing at him since Ray left his side. Bodie had experienced this horrible fear that if he let Doyle out of his sight for much longer than the few moments needed for a quick stop in the loo, fate would once again snatch his partner away, perhaps forever beyond reach. Or that he'd wake up and find that the rescue was a dream and that Ray was still dead.

That single glance at Ray's face reassured him that nothing untoward had happened behind the closed door. Doyle was perhaps a bit paler, the lines of stress and bags beneath his eyes slightly more pronounced, but that could be credited to a sleepless night as easily as to the examination.

There was, however, no mistaking the change in Dr. Warner. The white-frocked man of medicine guided Doyle into his chair, every movement the essence of protectiveness and compassionate consideration. Once Doyle was safely seated, the handsome, brown-haired doctor reclaimed his own chair behind the big desk, swinging toward Bodie like a matinee lawman about to make his final stand against a silver screen heavy.

Bodie withstood the white-lipped glare with apparent equanimity. A firm believer in the American sportsmen's philosophy concerning the best form of defence, he met the doctor's fury with the expression Doyle had always claimed to be the quintessence of condescension and blandly asked, "How is he, doctor?"

"Brutally sinned against, in my opinion. Your companion shows every indication of having undergone long term physical and sexual abuse," Dr. Warner's tone left little doubt as to whom he considered responsible.

"Is the damage permanent?" Bodie asked, tiring of provoking the man. It wasn't the doctor's fault Doyle's condition outraged him. Any normal man would be appalled by such barbarism.

"The patient exhibits a remarkable resiliency. Contusions which would have killed another man are well on their way to healing. His cracked ribs are still tender and will give him some pain for the next few weeks, but if he receives the rest he requires, they, too, should heal," Dr. Warner reported.

"And the cough? Is it pneumonia?"

His naked concern seemed to startle the doctor, changing Warner's reply from his previous antagonistic recital to a more muted answer.

"No, it's influenza."

"Not lethal then," Bodie whispered, his body sagging with relief.

"Make no mistake, sir, influenza is nothing to trifle with. The epidemic of 1917 claimed over eight million lives before it ran its course. For a man in his weakened condition, influenza could be just as deadly as pneumonia," the doctor warned.

"I see," Bodie nodded.

"What really concerns me is your companion's mental condition. He appears almost totally unresponsive to outside stimuli," Warner said.

"Not totally," Bodie protested.

"No, you're correct. He does exhibit symptoms of extreme terror."

Bodie bristled at the blatant accusation, just managing to keep a tenuous grasp on his anger.

"What would you advise, doctor?" he asked in a deadly calm tone.

"Treatment. There are skilled professionals trained to guide a patient through such traumas. There is an excellent sanatorium outside of..."

"You mean put him away?" Bodie broke in, his overstressed anger quotient snapping at the casual suggestion. Part of him suspected that the young doctor's delivery was not quite as casual as it appeared. The physician probably hoped that if the suggestion were given in a matter-of-fact manner, there was every possibility of it being accepted in kind.

"I mean get him the help he needs. Your . . . companion is one step away from complete catatonia. In my opinion, he has suffered an hysterical reaction to the considerable trauma he's undergone. This cannot be cured overnight or through one visit to a general practitioner. This man needs almost constant attention," Dr. Warner explained.

"He'll get it. Don't concern yourself with it any further. Now about this influenza . . . ."

Bodie's attitude had the same effect it usually had on the job. The doctor's patience snapped, his brown eyes blazing with fury as he demanded, "Do you really believe that a man with a gun can supply the quality of care he requires?"

"Sharp, very sharp," Bodie admitted, surprised by the perception. His coat totally covered his holster. Detection was usually beyond most observers. Most people were blind to the nearly imperceptible difference in the way the coat or jacket of a man wearing a shoulder holster hung.

Warner nearly begged, "You must have some concern for his welfare or you never would have brought him here. I'm not asking you the particulars of what happened to him. I'm not even sure I want to know. All that I'm asking is that you consider what is best for him. He won't recover if you take him away. Please, leave him here with me now. I'm affiliated with an institution that can see to his needs. It is a good place, sir. Clean, well staffed. My own mother recuperated from a stroke there last summer. I'll see that he gets into that sanatorium. No one will question where he came from if I sign him in. You'll be safe from the authorities. Leave now . . . ."

The impassioned plea, made as though the doctor believed Bodie the man responsible for these atrocities, shattered his controls. With no conscious thought, Bodie found himself springing to his feet, ready to fend off any and all attacks.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a motion from Doyle that stopped him cold. At the doctor's request that he go, Doyle had reached hesitantly out for Bodie, as if to stop Bodie from leaving. Then, as if Doyle realized the scope of what he was asking by the gesture, his hand fell lifelessly to his side, that dead, hopeless look returning once again to Ray's eyes.

"Damn it," Bodie swore, cursing his own impatience. "Come on, mate, we're getting out of here." But it was already too late. Bodie knew it, even as he strove to assure his partner that he wasn't about to abandon him. Whatever attempt Ray had been making to reach out, Bodie had been too slow to intercept.

"You can't," Dr. Warner objected, also rising.

"Don't," Bodie advised. He made no overt threat, but the man he was dealing with was perceptive enough to respond to the seemingly accidental exposure of his holstered weapon the way a more obdurate man would to his drawing it. Without removing his eyes from the increasingly frustrated brown gaze, Bodie peeled an overly generous number of bills from his billfold and placed them on the desk. "Thank you for your concern, Dr. Warner, but it is unnecessary. He will be cared for."

Doyle rose at his prodding.

Before Bodie could get them safely through the door to the waiting room, a determined voice stopped them, "Wait, please."

Half expecting to meet the bore of a revolver or other desk drawer security, Bodie turned slowly back.

"Yes?" he asked guardedly upon finding both of the doctor's capable looking hands planted firmly on the desktop.

"I had a feeling this would be your answer. Please take these with you."

"What are they?" Bodie asked, suspiciously regarding the three plastic vials Warner fished from the pocket of his white smock.

"This is a potent antibiotic. It won't do much for the influenza itself, but it will prevent secondary infections from setting in and keep those wounds uninfected. Give him one every four hours. Do not allow him any dairy products while he's taking this. The blue pill should help clear up the congestion. He should have one of the blue pills three times daily, after meals."

"And the last?" Bodie quizzed, pointing to the smallest vial.

"A pain killer. Three times a day, with meals, or as needed. Don't give it to him less than four hours apart and don't exceed five a day."

"Thanks. I rather expected you'd wait for the authorities to return him to you before you began treatment," Bodie wryly admitted.

The doctor started, the calm of a man brave man prepared to die stilling his features.

"There is always the possibility you will evade them," Dr. Warner said levelly, betraying no hint of fear.

Bodie hated having a man he respected as much as he did this brave doctor holding him in contempt. He wished circumstances were different, that he could take Warner into his confidence and explain that he wasn't the one who'd inflicted these hideous hurts upon Doyle, but that wasn't a possibility here. Bodie knew he was still a wanted felon. Explaining anything to Warner would make the man an accomplice after the fact. For Warner's safety, it was better he remain ignorant.

"A distinct one," the ex-C.I.5 operative agreed with more confidence than he actually felt. "I'd appreciate it if you would promise to stay off that phone for twenty minutes or so."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Warner quietly denied, his slender body going very still.

This was one consequence of getting Ray to a doctor that Bodie had not foreseen. Had his mind been clearer, he might have been able to predict that any decent physician would want to see Doyle safely ensconced in hospital. He knew that the moment he stepped out of this office with Ray at his side, that Warner would be on the phone with the police. But even if he'd had the foresight, Bodie could see no way he could have prevented Warner from turning them in, short of the homicide the young doctor was so obviously anticipating.

He could see it in the doctor's strained face that the man was just waiting to be shot.

Tiring of terrorizing a good man, who'd done nothing but help them, Bodie softly said, "You're a good man, Warner."

Standing up, Bodie turned to gently help Ray to his feet.

"I haven't made you any promises, sir," Warner stated as Bodie steered his partner toward the door.

Bodie nodded.

"I know. Thanks for your help, doctor. I give you my word, he'll be well cared for," Bodie promised before ducking through the door to guide his bewildered partner as quickly as possible past the receptionist in the crowded waiting room and out into the coldness of a suddenly hot Geneva. He was glad he'd had the sense to park the Volvo around the corner. Even as he hustled Ray down the street, he could feel eyes peering out at him from the window in the doctor's office.

The car was just where he'd left it, between two banks of shovelled, lumpy snow. After just one night, guiding Doyle shouldn't have felt like an old habit, but he had his partner safely buckled in the passenger seat and the car on the road before Warner could have even reached a desk sergeant at the local constabulary.

Wishing for the incontestable sanctuary of a safe house, he sped the Volvo off the block at a dangerous speed, disappearing around the corner before anyone could have followed them from the doctor's office to take note of his plates.

---

"Sanctuary, more like bloody banishment," Bodie muttered under his breath as he circumnavigated yet another sharp turn that had more in common with a perilously shortened paper clip than the proverbial hairpin. He would have revised his estimation of the eagle's nest he'd supposed Jacque's sister to inhabit, were he able to think of something that could live higher up.

The view was pretty, he had to admit. Before the light had faded, the snow-blanketed alpine meadows with their high reaching spruce trees had repeatedly pulled his eyes from the road with their breathtaking lure. Even now, with the crescent moon and endless stretch of stars casting down their light, it was appealing. But lonely. They hadn't passed the lights of a hamlet or even a solitary dwelling for well over an hour now. The highway was unlit out here. A mixture of spruce and skeletal aspen lined the road and cut out all celestial illumination. The shadows on these uninhabited stretches were thick and impenetrable as creosote.

Abruptly conscious of a bleak sense of isolation, Bodie glanced over at his partner, not very hopeful of respite from that quarter. So far, Ray had been only a little less responsive than a three-day dead trout, staring past the stunning scenery with a blank disregard of the view and popping ears.

This time Bodie was met with something other than the back of Doyle's head.

At least Ray hadn't forgotten how to sleep, Bodie observed, overcome by a fierce surge of protectiveness. He'd had Ray back for almost twenty-four hours now. This was the first time Doyle had given in to necessity and slept. Not that Ray looked all that comfortable. With his legs pulled up on the seat, knees clasped tight to his chest, body crammed into the corner formed by the safely locked door and passenger seat, and his head resting on the inadequate pillow of the bunched up brown parka Bodie had dressed him in, Doyle looked positively cramped. The position alone must have been hell on his cracked ribs. But Ray was relaxed enough to sleep . . . as far away from Bodie as possible, the disheartened driver noted.

Ray looked like a kid in hand-me-downs, Bodie decided. Even in his present contorted position, the navy blue tracksuit trousers were too large on him. They were the only thing Bodie possessed that even came close to fitting, though. The rest of the outfit, save socks and undergarments, which were Bodie's own, had been culled from Jacques' wardrobe. Without exception, all of the shirts that Bodie had acquired since he'd fled Britain with nothing but the clothes on his back were of the convenient, pullover, roll-neck style he favoured. The tight fitting garments were fine for a healthy man, but excruciating to don or remove for a man with cracked ribs. So Jacques had supplied a soft, cotton, button-down shirt and warm black cardigan jumper. These were also too big on Doyle, but at least they were comfortable. About the only thing that was a perfect fit was Jacques' size nine trainers. They were inadequate protection in this weather, but when Bodie had borrowed the shoes for the trip to Warner's office, he hadn't anticipated immediate long-distance travel.

As it turned out, his oversight had given them barely enough time to pick up their possessions from the Gypsy's Rest and clear out of Geneva before the police started their search. Bodie had heard the squeal of sirens as the Volvo had left Dupres' neighbourhood

Bodie's eyes lingered on the sleeping man an instant longer than necessary, his worried mind searching his own reactions to the sight for hints of trouble. Doyle was so vulnerable now that it frightened him. He wished . . . he wished that things were simple again, that he could look at Ray with matey concern and nothing more, but it had been years since Bodie's life had been that uncomplicated.

As they sped through the empty mountain roads, another night ride was heavy on Bodie's thoughts, the ride that had altered Bodie's reality forever. He let memory wash over him as they drove along the winding Swiss highway, reliving the sensations.

That particular evening Bodie's nerves had been strung out, the action not enough to appease the adrenaline rush that had come from knowing Doyle was out there alone with his cover blown, with only a handgun for protection, playing a deadly game of hide and seek on foot across the countryside of Surrey. The police corruption complaint they'd been investigating was even more widespread than Cowley had suspected, influencing eight villages in the area. Not knowing whom he could trust, but aware that Lander's mob had a plant in each of the local law enforcement agencies and doubtless a watch on the roads, Doyle had tried to make his way clear by cutting across the surrounding farmland. Ray had been on the run for over eight hours before a missed check-in had alerted C.I.5 that anything was amiss. Then, it had been another fourteen hours before a chance, rushed phone call from a temporarily empty farmhouse had given C.I.5 Doyle's location.

Bodie could still recall the sense of relief he'd felt on first laying eyes upon his shagged-out mate. With his clothes soiled with mud and soaked with sweat and morning dew, Doyle had looked a sight as Ray delivered his verbal report to Cowley before stumbling into the passenger side of the Capri with hardly enough energy left to close the door behind him and issue a terse command to be taken home. Within seconds, Doyle had been asleep, curled into a cat-like ball with his uplifted butt resting uncomfortably close to the gear stick.

Bodie had driven in silence that night, a strange, twitchy feeling curling through his guts. His gaze had kept straying to his sleeping partner, his nostrils flaring to catch the subtle scent of a salty, damp Doyle. Unnerved by the baseless tension, Bodie had done his best to ignore his growing unease, but it was like trying to ignore the fact that there was a poisonous snake sharing your sleeping bag.

It wasn't until they'd hit the motorway that he recognized the source of his discomfort. Reaching out to shift gears, his hand had accidentally bumped into Doyle's rump. The brief contact his knuckles had with the velvety softness of the mud-splattered black cords shot a tingle of pure carnal lust through Bodie's unsuspecting system that drew a gasp from him and melted his twitchy innards to quicksilver. Panicked, Bodie had glanced his partner's way, sure that the unbridled yearning blazing less than a foot away would have jolted Doyle into wakefulness. But Ray slept on, undisturbed.

In that fleeting instant, Bodie had lost his soul to the unconscious ragamuffin, snared not by the conscious sensuality that was so much a part of the wakeful Doyle, but rather by the innocent desirability of the sleep-parted lips.

From that moment on, Bodie's life had not been the same. The rampant sensuality that he'd formerly viewed with fond acceptance became his own private hell. Days were when he couldn't bear the bittersweet torment a second longer. Still, he somehow managed, masochistically hoarding away the hurtful pleasures of now-insufficient intimacies, to vent steam on the unsuspecting females he dated.

The years passed in that limbo of misery were the best and worst of his life. Doyle allowed him liberties that he bore from no other person, including lovers. The ruffling of rebellious curls, the surreptitious touch to the irresistible backside as Ray climbed a flight of stairs ahead of him, the frequent contact necessary solely to Bodie's own starved soul – Doyle tolerated all of it under the guise of joking. Bodie never cared to consider what would occur were he to offer those same caresses in all seriousness. It was safe to play the clown, but if Ray were ever to suspect how Bodie truly felt about him . . . his life would be sheer hell.

That Doyle bore him some affection, he did not doubt. Though sometimes cactus-prickly, Ray was one of the most loyal creatures Bodie had ever encountered. Even in the early days when antagonism was rife between them, Doyle would still cover for the ex-mercenary, distasteful army-type Cowley had saddled him with, defending a man he purportedly disliked even against sympathetic colleagues. Bodie had overheard it more than once, some disgruntled co-worker, miffed at Bodie's lack of diplomacy, sounding off to Doyle sympathetically . . . only to have their head handed to them with Doyle's vicious 'Bodie's all right. Put a cork in it.' Then, as often as not, Ray would come to him and give Bodie the same grief over the situation that had so upset the outsider, but that was fine with Bodie. For the most part, he liked everything out in the open. Except his past, of course, and these strange desires he felt for Ray . . . they were the only things he'd ever hidden from Doyle, because he knew how his moral partner would respond to either.

Yet, when that Mathers bitch had revealed more of Bodie's past then the ex-merc generally liked people knowing, Ray hadn't asked him a thing about it. Bodie had been tempted to come clean and tell all to Ray then, but; although he knew that Doyle's feelings toward him had expanded over the years, Bodie was still uncertain of their depth.

Nightly, he'd consider the idea of sounding out his unquestionably heterosexual partner on the possibility of their giving it a fling in bed, and just as inevitably Bodie would reject the thought.

There were only three responses Doyle could have to such a proposition: the first, and most probable response was an outright 'no'. Once a blunder of that nature were committed, their partnership would never be free of its shadow. The second possibility frightened Bodie even more than the first – the possibility that Doyle might go along with the idea for his sake, humouring his partner's aberration out of loyalty and friendship. It wouldn't be pity, but it would be too damn close for Bodie's pride to swallow it. The last option was more fantasy than anything else – Doyle melting in his embrace and entering the relationship wholeheartedly. That last was totally unrealistic, of course, but it made for nice daydreams.

And daydream it was. Bodie was uncomfortably conscious of Doyle's sexuality, very much aware of his partner's lack of inhibitions. Had Ray wanted him, Doyle would have done something about it long ago.

Now, years after his painful discovery, driving through the cold alpine night with his ravaged partner asleep at his side, Bodie searched for remnants of the lust that might pose a threat to Ray in his abused condition. He looked hard at the defenceless figure, letting his gaze linger on the battered mouth and exposed neck, waiting for the yearning to swamp him as it had that night so many years ago.

Startled, Bodie recognized only an overpowering urge to safeguard the sleeper from further harm and the warmth of a gentler emotion that could only be love. He had no desire to ravish his partner in this condition, no interest in the wasted body besides seeing it sound and whole again. Oh, he knew he could get turned on if he thought about Ray long enough, but it wasn't the Doyle that cringed at his every touch and stumbled about with such heartbreaking clumsiness that he'd be thinking about. It was Doyle as he had been that turned him on, that cruel, arrogant seducer that would rip his heart out if Ray ever got whiff of his weakness.

This Doyle was safe. There was nothing the least bit appealing in this scarred shell of the man Ray had been.

Satisfied that his partner was safe from his unhealthy appetites, Bodie concentrated on more immediate worries, like the reception they would receive at Jacques' sister's lodge.

A ski resort hardly seemed the proper place for someone in Doyle's state, and as much as Jacques assured him that his sister would welcome them, Bodie was still uncertain. He decided that even if they couldn't hide out there for long, at the very least, it would be a convenient stopover. If necessary, they could be back on the road by morning.

Sometime later a wooden sign shaped like an arrow came into sight. Bodie peered at the neatly painted black letters of its inscription, compared it to the directions Jacques had given him and then turned onto a narrow pathway that seemed to be composed of more ice than road.

Thirty-four minutes and any number of treacherous turns later, the near vertical road tapered out into a relatively level area. Bodie blinked in surprise at the sight of the structure that stood amongst a copse of tall, snow laced blue spruce, much as an explorer might upon reaching the North Pole only to discover that Santa Claus really did have a workshop there.

The place was an engaging mixture of stone and wood. Irregularly sized, round grey stones that looked like granite walled the building from the snow-piled earth to the windows of the ground floor. The front door stood a good ten feet above the car . . . so that the door wouldn't be blocked by snow piles, Bodie realized as he took in the stairs that led to the door.

From the ground floor up, the walls were constructed of wood that was painted a pristine white that seemed to sparkle brighter than the starlit snow. Dormer windows capped the top floor, lending the enormous lodge a vaguely antique dignity. What appealed most to Bodie was the wooden porch that gartered the house. The bare, blond-wood construction looked like it would be more at home in the American old west, but was somehow not out of place in this distant wilderness. Perhaps it was the fact that its colour matched that of the roof's shingles almost perfectly or maybe its ruggedness was just in keeping with the untamed mountaintop. Whatever the case, Bodie liked it immediately.

No sooner had he stopped the car in the car park than the front door opened, an inverted skinny trapezoid of warm light spilling out into the darkness. A small feminine figure appeared silhouetted in the doorway.

"Is that you, Bodie?" an unfamiliar voice called in English as good as Jacques'.

Doyle started awake at the sound, staring about in confused alarm.

"It's okay, mate. Just a friend," Bodie explained, placing what he hoped was a reassuring hand on Ray's broad, bony shoulder. "Yes, ma'am, it's us," he answered the stranger in a louder voice.

The woman, whom he took to be Jacques' sister, scooted down the stairs with childish vigour. Bodie got out of the vehicle as she approached the car, his slightly above average height dwarfing her by over a foot. Dazed from the tiring drive, he stood immobilized with shock as the petite woman collected him into a surprisingly strong embrace.

"We've been waiting for hours. We'd begun to worry. The roads up here aren't good in the best of weather," she said.

"I'd noticed," he agreed, muffling the words in a warm woollen shoulder. Released at last, he asked, "You are Marie?"

A grin broke across her round, laugh-lined face, its brightness immediately identifying her as a former Dupres. Her eyes sparkled with a girlish delight that belied her age, which had to be close to sixty. "Who else would be mauling you in a freezing car park? Jacques has told us so much about you that we feel we know you. This is my husband, Wilhelm Gruber."

Hoping his blush was lost in the darkness, Bodie offered his hand to the lanky man now standing behind Marie, too overwhelmed by her reception to wonder how she'd noticed her husband's silent approach with her face buried in Bodie's coat.

"Welcome," Gruber greeted, his soft voice thick with a regional accent that could have passed for Swiss, German or both.

"Would you take the boys' bags inside, dear?" Marie asked her husband. Then, as she peered into the car, the cheer left her voice, replaced by worry. "Is this the friend that Jacques' mentioned?"

Not sure exactly what Dupres would have told her, he nodded. "Yes, my partner, Ray Doyle. He's had a . . . bit of an accident and needs someplace quiet to recover."

"Well, we'd best get him inside out of this cold," Marie said, clucking over the mute convalescent.

Bodie bundled his partner out of the car, snagging the attaché out of the back seat on the way.

Entering the lobby of Gruber's lodge was reassuringly less traumatizing than that of the Gypsy's Rest. Though both travellers blinked at the brightness, their senses were not overwhelmed by the decor. Firelight danced across a cosily furnished sitting room. The walls were bare save for a few oil renditions of majestic alpine scenes.

A rack behind the reception desk overloaded with skis and the sounds of music and laughter erupting from the closed doors to their right bespoke the lodge's success.

"The public room," Marie explained upon noticing his glance. "Don't worry, we'll set you up far away from it, though sometimes the next mountain over doesn't seem like it would be quite far enough."

"We don't want to impose on your hospitality," Bodie expressed upon finding himself led though a STAFF ONLY door. The doors lining that particular wing were unnumbered and, from the view he obtained through the few that stood open, seemed to be the proprietors and employees' rooms.

"It's no imposition," Marie assured, looking like she meant the words.

"Jacques had mentioned a cabin," Bodie tentatively said.

"The chalet," Marie agreed. "We only rent it out to long-term customers, and even then only once the main house is filled up. Jacques is very particular about his things. The place is empty now, but there are no linen or groceries in. I'm afraid my brother didn't give us very much time to prepare for you."

"We had to leave Geneva rather unexpectedly," Bodie explained. "If it's put you out at all, Ray and I could always . . . ."

Could always what? They were standing on a remote Alp. There weren't any other hotels for miles. If they weren't welcome here, Ray and he would be sleeping in the car.

"Put us out?" Marie seemed shocked. "Nonsense, we're glad to have you. Jacques speaks of you quite often. Are even half the things he tells us true?"

Bodie smiled. "Probably not."

A hearty chuckle that seemed to read through his lie met his reply as Marie translated, "Which no doubt means all we've gotten is a very diluted version."

Marie turned into the open door at the end of the corridor, leading the group into a small, comfortable room. "This is our son Robert's room. He's away at school now. We thought we'd put Ray in here. It's warm and quiet. Just what he needs now. There's an adjoining door to the room Jacques usually uses when he's up for only a few days. We thought you might . . . ."

"Thank you. It's perfect," Bodie replied, more than a little overwhelmed by the Grubers' thoughtfulness.

"Have you eaten?" Marie asked, all motherly concern. The family resemblance between the petite woman and the ex-pilot was small. There was some insinuation of their relationship in the overall facial shape that was reinforced by the flash of a smile, but on the whole there were more dissimilarities than likenesses. Where Jacques was on the small side, his weight was composed of stocky muscle that made him seem larger than he was. Marie consisted of plump padding that somehow lent her a smaller appearance. The premature white of his old friend's hair had graciously skipped the female member of his family. Though streaked with grey, there were still more blond strands than silver in the short curls. The eyes, too, were no mirror of her brother's slate coloured gaze. Marie's clear, merry blue eyes embraced everything with a warmth and vivacity that Bodie felt to the depths of his disillusioned soul.

"Yes, ma'am. We stopped along the road." The less said about that stop, the better, Bodie thought. Not wanting to embarrass his partner in a public restaurant on their lunch stop, Bodie had brought the food out to the car. Ray had behaved as though he believed Bodie meant to poison him with the ham sandwich, struggling like a child resisting a particularly odious tasting medicine.

"Some tea then?" Marie asked.

"That would hit the spot," Bodie admitted.

"I will go for it," Gruber offered, leaving Bodie's suitcase beside the chest of drawers.

"Come along, Ray," Marie said, taking hold of Doyle's arm. "Let's get you settled."

Before Bodie's amazed eyes, Doyle went with Jacque's sister. When Doyle made no move to undress, Marie bustled over to help. Doyle stood at ease as she removed his parka and jumper, displaying none of the panic under a stranger's touch that his partner of eight years had inspired.

Totally dispirited, Bodie sank down onto the chair beside a small table, shooting bolt upright again as an outraged "Rrrowwurl" yowled from beneath him. "What

the . . . "

"Oh, that's Cleo, Robert's cat. She haunts his room while he's away," explained Marie, depositing Doyle onto the other chair. "I can remove her if you like."

About to agree, Bodie paused, watching in fascination as the grey and black ball of fluff gave the clumsy interloper who'd nearly sat on her one last glare before leaping up onto the table. Her pink nose sniffed at Doyle's hands as they lay lifelessly on the table, then the small cat wholeheartedly rubbed its ears against Doyle's bony wrist.

Doyle stared down at the busy creature for a moment, then the hand not being assaulted by the rubbing rose to hesitantly touch the silky pelt. Even across the table Bodie could hear the cat's ecstatic purr at Doyle's encouragement.

His spirit buoyed beyond measure by this small indication that Doyle wasn't completely cut off from the real world, Bodie shook his head and slowly said, "No, she's fine where she is."

A pretty girl, whom Bodie took to be a chambermaid, entered with a tray a few moments later and said something in rapid French to Marie.

"Oh, dear, not again," their hostess laughed after dismissing the girl. "That makes three times this week that poor Will has had to pull Mr. Williams out of a snowdrift. Come, Bodie, have some tea," Marie instructed, pouring the rich coloured, fragrantly steaming brew into old-fashioned teacups.

Careful to check the chair for unseen occupants this time before lowering himself down onto it, Bodie reclaimed his seat. Without conscious thought, Bodie prepared two cups of tea, one to Doyle's liking. He placed the one with less sugar beside the purring cat, having little hope of its being accepted or even noticed by his partner.

"Aren't you thirsty after your long drive, Ray?" Marie asked when it became apparent Doyle wasn't going to touch the cup of his own volition.

Hopeful that perhaps his partner's response to Marie's influence would extend into the vocal range, Bodie waited until the silence became acute before making explanation. "Ray hasn't spoken since I got him back."

"Back?" Marie asked, her confusion obvious.

Remembering his 'accident' spiel in the car park and still uncertain of what Dupres would have told his family, Bodie asked, "What did Jacques tell you about us?"

"Just that Bodie would be coming to stay at the chalet for a while with a sick companion and that we – meaning I – were not to bother you with awkward questions."

Bodie considered keeping his mouth shut, then realized that Marie's helping him would make her as much of an accomplice as it would have the good doctor. With that in mind, he gave her the unadorned truth, "I see. Jacques was trying to protect me. Ray and I are . . . we were British law enforcement agents. Ray was captured by a particularly nasty nutter while on guard duty. That was six months ago. I only got him back yesterday. He . . . he doesn't seem to recognize me." Some of the emotion he felt must have seeped out through the brittle explanation, for Marie's eyes softened as they settled upon him.

"You poor boy. You've been searching for your friend all this time?"

He nodded. "The government had listed Ray as missing, presumed dead. I knew he wasn't." After a pause for consideration, Bodie decided to plough ahead. For all Jacques' believing that the Grubers' ignorance would protect them, Bodie felt that Marie should know what she was getting her family into by harbouring them. "I must warn you that several nations are now actively seeking me. If you allow me to stay here, it could result in trouble for you and your loved ones. I wouldn't want that."

"Why are they looking for you?" It was a sensible question, with not a hint of panic in Marie's compassionate blue gaze.

"Mostly for illegal entry or egress. I . . . didn't have a passport when I left England. My search for Ray did, however, necessitate some questionable activities, which some governments might view as major felonies."

"The same type of activities you were engaged in when you met my brother?" Marie asked.

Although Jacques had been the gunrunner back then and he a slightly more respectable mercenary, Bodie saw no point in disagreeing with the woman. "Similar."

"Jacques says you're a good lad. I can see that's true. He says you're family to him, that makes you our family, too. They'll be no question of your going outside this valley until your friend is better. We'll get you set up in the chalet tomorrow. It's very secluded. No one from the outside will ever discover that you're there. Once the locals know that you're a permanent guest of ours, they'll be as close-mouthed about your presence as they are about everything else," Marie assured.

Bodie gulped back the rising lump in his throat. "Thank you, ma'am. I really don't know what to say."

"Try calling me Marie for starters. 'Ma'am' sounds so ancient."

"Hardly that," Bodie protested, leaning forward to brush a chaste kiss onto her rapidly reddening cheek.

"Let's see if we can't get something warm into your friend here," Marie suggested, filling a clean cup with fresh hot tea and allowing Bodie to add the condiments. "Please, Ray, lamb, have a little sip?" she soon was reduced to pleading.

"Here, let me have a go," Bodie said, annoyed by Doyle's seemingly heartless ignoring of their hostess. He lifted the cup to the stubbornly set mouth, doing his best to remind himself that Doyle's refusal wasn't intentional. In his oblivious state, Ray probably wasn't even aware of his actions. Still, it took every bit of his imagination to convince himself that it wasn't defiance hardening Doyle's introverted gaze.

At first Bodie pleadings echoed the ridiculously childish nonsense Marie had been crooning at the sick man. His patience tired of that quickly, snapping entirely when Ray moved his chin to tilt half the hot milky contents of the cup over Bodie's sleeve.

"That's it," Bodie declared, with heartfelt fierceness. "Stop being such a difficult bugger and drink your bleeding tea. Now." As in the car this afternoon when the limits of Bodie's patience's had been exceeded, terror reclaimed Doyle's gaze and he took a hasty sip.

"Good. Now, swallow your bloody medicine," the ex-C.I.5 agent ordered,

placing one of the quickly retrieved pills to the bruised lips and offering the tea once again to wash it down. "That's fine, mate," Bodie approved once the last of the tea had been downed.

At Marie's curious look, Bodie held up the plastic pill vial. "Antibiotics. I'm afraid he's caught a touch of the flu."

"Maybe some rest will help. You both look like you could use it," Marie observed.

"It has been a trying day," Bodie admitted. "I'd like to thank you and your husband for taking us in like you have. We'll try not to be a bother."

"Don't try too hard, please. Since my son Robert left for school I've been desperate for a baby chick to look after. Hobbies don't quite manage, you know?"

Bodie nodded, the last six months having given him a bitter lesson in loneliness. "I've heard my partner described as many things before, ma'am, but that's the first time anyone's called him a baby chick. Though, with all that hair he looks more like a sheepdog pup," Bodie reflected, wishing his words would get a rise out of Ray, who continued to stare at the cat beneath his stilled fingers as though Bodie and Marie had ceased to exist. "Well, I'd better get our sheepdog settled for the night."

"He doesn't do anything for himself, then?" Marie asked softly.

"They . . . worked him over pretty bad. Ray just needs some time to get himself sorted out." The desperation behind that hope must have shown. The sympathy shining in their hostess' kind eyes almost finished him. It was very similar to the look her brother had given Bodie when he related the morning's mishaps at the doctor's office. Jacques had not once suggested that he abandon Ray to the chancy mercies of strangers, but the compassionate sorrow in his eyes had seemed to suggest that Bodie had taken on more than he could manage. The incidents at the rest stop and getting Marie's tea into Doyle were beginning to justify those unvoiced fears.

"Of course, he does," Marie rushed to reassure. "Why don't you finish your tea while I get him settled?"

"I really should . . . . "

"It's been a long drive here. You look almost as exhausted as your friend. Please let me help."

Bodie capitulated gracefully, watching as the capable woman took charge of his mate. There was little hesitation in Doyle's response to her instructions and not a trace of the paralysing tension that gripped Ray whenever Bodie attempted to remove or adjust any of his charge's clothing.

Perhaps Dr. Warner had been right after all, Bodie thought. His partner obviously perceived no threat in the woman's maternal ministrations; whereas Bodie's presence was unquestionably upsetting. Maybe a hospital was what Ray needed, after all.

Disturbed by the unsettling doubts, Bodie munched half-heartedly on a tea biscuit and listened to the water running in the bathroom.

Marie's head popped out the loo door. "Where are his pyjamas?"

"He doesn't have any. Last night he slept in a towelling robe."

"Ahh, boys," she laughed. "I'll be back in a minute.

Scooting out the bathroom door, Jacques' sister was back in even less time with an armload of flannel. "These are Robbie's old things. They'll do for Ray, but I'm afraid you'll have to stick to towelling robes. My men aren't broad enough for their clothes to fit you."

Bodie smiled, unable to recall the last time he'd used pyjamas. Ray habitually slept in a pair of loose pyjama bottoms for some unfathomable reason, but he himself normally slept in bare skin or his clothes on nights when he was too exhausted or inebriated to be rid of them. "Quite all right."

Bodie blinked as Marie and Doyle stepped from the bathroom. The green and white checked flannel nightwear gave his friend a very young appearance. Were it not for the ugly mottling on his face, Ray would look as though he should be dragging an overstuffed teddy bear behind him.

Odd, Bodie thought. In all the years he'd known his partner, only rarely had Doyle stuck him as looking youthfully innocent. His view of Doyle generally fell into one of three categories – exotic, sexy as hell, or downright menacing. Innocent wasn't an adjective Bodie ever associated with this competent partner. Ray was one of the most streetwise coppers Bodie had ever met. But now in a single day, he'd twice made this observation. Figuring it must be due to Doyle's uncharacteristically vulnerable state, Bodie watched Marie settle his mate beneath a daunting pile of blankets.

The cat bounced from her perch on the table to claim the space besides Ray's feet.

Thinking that the hard wood chair from Robert's worktable would be a much less comfortable bed than Jacques easy chair that he'd slept in last night, Bodie began to pull it toward the bedside.

"Oh, no you don't," Marie said, placing a hand on the chair back. "Your bed is next door."

"I think I should be here in case Ray needs anything or gets up."

"He's not going anywhere. Look how tired he is," she pointed out, motioning toward the sleepy green slits that looked like they were being forced open by sheer strength of will. "As soon as we leave he'll be out like a light. And if he should go wandering, Cleo here will be sure to let us all know."

"'ey?" Bodie asked, not understanding.

"As soon as he sets foot out of that bed, she'll be howling for her breakfast. Wakes the whole house up, Cleo does," Marie laughed.

Still reluctant, Bodie hovered.

"Come on, we'll leave the lamp on. You can leave both your doors open if you're still worried," Marie said.

On these conditions, Bodie agreed. Looking back from the threshold, he noticed that Ray's eyes did droop shut the moment they were at the door.

Reassured that Ray was finally getting some comfortable rest, Bodie allowed himself to be led to the room next door. He was so exhausted that he barely took in much more of the comfortable furnishings, except for noting that the room had a bed, dresser and nightstand.

A quick trip to the loo, then Bodie was testing out the softness of the goose down pillows. He was deeply asleep before he'd even fully stretched out.

---

The melodious song of an unfamiliar bird penetrated his sleepy consciousness, its sweetness drastically at odds with the desolate environments in which the last six months had accustomed him to waking. Bodie started fully awake, jerking upright in the bed to stare about the grey-lit room

Looking around the cosy bedroom, the memories returned. They were at Jacques' sister's hotel, with Ray safe in the next room. From the distant kitchen he could just catch the clatter of pans and, when he listened especially closely, a voice he took to be Marie's in brisk speech.

Bodie pulled himself from the comfortable bed. Dragging on his robe, he padded barefoot across the floor to the open door of the adjoining room.

This room was situated in the corner of the ski lodge. It had windows on both the eastern and southern ends of the room. The rising sun hit the window on the far end of Doyle's room. Bright golden light splashed across the foot of the bed, its warm band growing as the sun edged further up into the sky.

Bodie stood motionless in the doorway, soaking up the sight.

Doyle was still soundly asleep, curled on his side, facing the door. During the night, the cat had moved, perhaps to escape the heat of the rising sun, perhaps to be closer to Ray. Cleo now lay beside Doyle's neck, her small, valentine-shaped head pillowed in Ray's fingers that covered her front paws. They looked for all the world as though they'd both fallen asleep while Doyle was petting her.

Standing there, forever an observer, Bodie knew a moment of irrational anger that Doyle could show acceptance to a dumb animal and an absolute stranger. Right then, he felt very closed out. He longed for some reassurance that he was not the ogre his partner's cringes made him out to be.

But, then, maybe he was, his conscience cruelly suggested, recalling a throwaway comment Ray had once made when he’d called him a 'priapismic monster.' Bodie’s assurances in the car that Ray was safe from his desire while in this state might be no more than self-delusions. It was entirely possible that his partner had read his heart and feared the want buried there.

Or, it might be more impersonal than that. After being brutalized by men for so many months, Doyle might fear him simply because of his gender. Marie and the blasted cat couldn't rape him, so Doyle would let them closer to him because they presented no threat.

Or so Bodie tried to tell himself, unable to shake the chill that the former possibility cast on his soul. Pushing all envy aside, he strode back into his own room to prepare for the day.

When he returned less than thirty minutes later, his partner was already awake with Marie perched on the edge of the bed trying to tempt Doyle with a spoonful of completely unappetizing gruel. Bodie paused in the doorway, listening with amusement as their hostess tried to mimic his own tone of last night.

"Eat, now." Unfortunately, her version was interspersed with totally unintimidating, "Please, Ray, lamb, do it for me," and the like that Doyle was meeting with an unimpressed stare of basilisk staunchness.

Ray’s expression changed as Bodie took over the task. Bodie’s look of simmering rage that quelled most witnesses' reluctance was equally effective on Ray's appetite. The oatmeal and toast were grudgingly consumed, followed by a chaser of pills and tea.

That task done, he started to herd his unenthusiastic friend toward the bathroom.

"Would you like some help?" Marie asked, almost palpably sympathetic to Ray's plight.

Bodie paused, wanting nothing more than to hand his partner over to her unthreatening care. But patterns were too easily established. Convenient as it would be to accept the help Marie was only too happy to offer, fairness mandated he refuse. It wouldn't be right to allow Ray to become accustomed to another's presence, only to rip Doyle free when he'd begun to trust. The sooner Doyle got used to him, the better.

Searching for the words to explain this to the approaching woman, Bodie spun back to his partner as the surprising click of the bathroom door sounded. His hand wavered over the doorknob, wondering if he should intrude.

At last, Marie and he ended up staring uncertainly at each other. Finally her face broke into a smile. "Well, I guess that settles that."

Not knowing whether to be pleased or not by Doyle's choosing to emerge from his limbo rather than endure his touch, Bodie settled nervously on one of the straight back chairs by the worktable.

"You worry too much," Marie scolded gently.

"He's . . . I'm not used to him being so helpless."

"Ray seems to be doing all right for himself at the moment."

Bodie snorted. "Only because he fears me. I'm beginning to think that maybe the doctor was right. He might be better off in a convalescent home."

"No," there was no doubt in Marie's firm denial, "you care for him. He is best with you."

"But the doctors would be able to help him better. He can't even talk or feed himself as he is now. How am I going to repair that?" Bodie fell silent, shocked that he'd allowed his fears to slip out like that. Never had he been one to seek reassurance from others. Sometimes, he'd accept it from Ray when Doyle offered it, but even then he never actively sought reassurance, much less bluntly demanded it.

"I think you use the wrong verb," Marie said calmly.

"How so?"

"You say you believe he can't speak, can't eat without you spooning the food into his mouth for him. From what I've seen of your friend, I'd say Ray won't eat or speak."

"Won't?" Bodie asked, almost feeling his ears pricking attentively forward like a hunting hound's to his master's horn.

"Tell me, Bodie, since you recovered your friend, has Ray . . .soiled himself or required your help to use the toilet?"

Flushing at the bizarre question, Bodie shook his head. "No. Why do you ask?"

"Because it seems to me that if he were as bad off as you believe him, he wouldn't be able to attend to bodily functions either."

Flabbergasted, Bodie recognized the truth of what she was saying. Even yesterday on the drive when Doyle was little more than a drugged up zombie, Ray had still staggered into the loo at the petrol station under his own steam.

"But why would he . . .?" Even as he asked, he knew. Ray wouldn’t talk, at first the silence had probably been due to his reluctance to betray information and later because of the abuse he'd received. His refusal to eat was more easily explained, much to Bodie's horror. Physical evidence and his brief sampling of the temperament of Doyle's captors had shown Bodie that there was little to encourage his partner to live. With hope of rescue dashed or forgotten, death by starvation might have seemed the only means of escape.

"I don't know why he should wish to starve himself," Marie answered his unfinished question. "The more important question is, has he the will to accomplish it?"

"Raymond Doyle is the most stubborn man I've ever met."

"Then you can't leave him. Whether it be fear or something else, Ray responds to you. If I'd tried all day, I don't think I could have persuaded him to swallow one spoonful of that oatmeal. I doubt if a nurse would do much better or would have the time to coax him with a ward full of other patients to see to. They’d have to force feed him with a feeding tube, which in itself can be something of a torture. For what it's worth, I think you've made the right decision."

"Thank you." Although made for selfish reasons, it was nonetheless comforting to find another who felt he'd done the right thing.

"Has he clothes in there?" Marie asked once the water had stopped running and Doyle still did not emerge.

"Ah, no." Bodie hastily gathered up the discarded tracksuit trousers and shirt from last night and made a quick forage through his suitcase for clean underwear.

"Wait a second," Marie said, heading toward the room's closet. A stack of folded blue jeans and shirts were pulled from a box on its top shelf. "Robbie hasn't touched these in years. They're not fancy, but they might do Ray for a while."

Bodie accepted the clothes with thanks. "I'll get him into these," he said, picking out a pair of jeans and a soft red corduroy button-down that showed only a little wear at the elbows.

"Once he's ready I could show you over to the chalet, if you'd like."

Agreeing, Bodie knocked on the bathroom door, waited a moment and then entered.

---

The load just wasn't going to fit, Bodie despaired sometime later as he attempted to arrange his belongings and the abundant wardrobe Marie had donated to Ray into his compact suitcase. He shuddered to think about the number of steamer trunks it must have required to haul Robert's things to university if these were just his discards.

Finally, Bodie figured out the logistics of the thing, poked the corner of yet another jumper back in, deposited his not inconsiderable weight atop the gaping end before the suitcase could surmise his intent and find some new way to thwart his efforts. Bodie weathered the wobbling which threatened to dump both rider and bag from the bed, and at last snapped the recalcitrant clamps shut.

His triumphant shout was ignored by his partner, who had watched the proceedings from his seat at the table with nearly the same degree of interest a rubber chicken would have paid him. Bodie, who would have gladly traded a year of his life for a single, "ride 'em cowboy" taunt or even a mischievous push to overbalance the suitcase while he'd been upon it, contented himself with the knowledge that Ray at least hadn't cringed at his shout.

By now accustomed to the frequent bouts of coughing, Bodie did his best not to hover as he waited for the latest onslaught to subside. Marie had given Doyle a box of tissues, which his partner now clutched like a teddy bear to his chest.

Suitcase in hand, Bodie stood beside his partner until Ray at last raised a watery eyed gaze up to him, as if to ask Bodie’s bidding.

"Marie's going to take us over to the chalet," Bodie reminded, almost convincing himself that it was his explanation and not the guiding hand on his elbow that motivated Doyle.

Without warning, Ray froze, to stand rooted between Robert's worktable and his recently vacated chair like some great evergreen trapped in a glacier's transparent, eternal grip.

Wondering what sordid connotations a guiding hand to an elbow had taken on in the last few minutes, Bodie turned irritably back toward his partner. This was the same kind of freeze-up that occurred whenever Bodie tried to help Doyle undress or whenever any other sexual overtones entered dealings. But this time Bodie was innocent; he'd done and said nothing to inspire such a reaction. Unless, of course, Ray had recovered his reasoning abilities and realized that going to the chalet meant they'd soon be alone together.

The expression on Doyle's face drove all thought from his mind. In the past, he'd seen Doyle frightened of death. On those few occasions where Ray had found himself powerless at the end of an opponent's cocked weapon, a strange, ethereal expression would still his features and a wildness would enter his eyes as Ray anticipated the inevitable. But although his partner's face held remnants of that expression, this was different than those near fatal brushes. Never had Bodie beheld such a look of stark terror.

As he watched, all traces of colour had drained from Doyle's flesh, even his bruised lips appearing white as he stared unblinking over Bodie's right shoulder.

Unwilling to move, lest he add to the unreasoning fear, Bodie frantically searched his own actions for its cause. Nothing, no word or gesture or . . .

A sound broke the nerve-rending silence. Shocked, he realized that the tiny, childlike whimper was coming from Dole. It was the strangled cry of someone too frightened to voice the scream Bodie could see building in Ray's eyes.

Abruptly, those eyes darted to Bodie's face, begging him as he'd never seen his partner plead before.

Quick as a tiger's pounce, Doyle moved. Almost jumping behind Bodie, both his hands clutched the taller man's arm. The beseeching expression in the panicked green gaze seemed to promise Bodie anything if he'd just . . .

Just what?

Frantic himself now, Bodie peered around the room. When his gaze swept to the door, the ex-C.I.5 agent found his answer. Just for the barest instant he beheld what had so unnerved his partner. A tall, black-clad man with wispy blond hair and eyes burning black with intent filled the doorway. Bodie’s free hand closed around the hilt of his holstered weapon as he took in the auctioneer's spectre.

Then, the ghost moved further into the room. Morning sunlight touched the shadowed face, picking out furrows and points in the aquiline features where smooth, malicious hardness should have been. Instead, the light cast warmth into the dark eyes until they shone a confused, soft brown.

"Gruber," Bodie breathed in relief, releasing the gun to take Ray in a rough embrace. "It's all right, mate. You remember Marie's husband, Wilhelm? We met him last night," Bodie murmured, as much for his own reassurance as Doyle's.

Oddly enough, Ray didn't shake free of his hold, seeming to draw unconscious strength from the loose hug. Bodie held on until he felt Doyle's breathing steady and the wild racing of the heart thundering so close to his own chest still to a near-normal beat. Only then did he release Doyle.

Ray stared at their host, sanity fast returning.

Still stunned himself, Bodie's gaze was transfixed on his partner. Even as he watched, Doyle began to inch away from him in movement so gradual as to be almost unnoticeable.

Doyle paused, as if realizing his withdrawal was not unobserved.

Bodie's face cracked into a wide, encouraging grin of almost imbecilic proportions. He knew it was foolish – Doyle's reaction probably didn't mean anything at all – but the fact that Ray had turned to him for protection buoyed his spirit up as nothing else had.

The Doyle he had found in that murky warehouse two nights ago would have remained rooted with terror, allowing the auctioneer to take his kiss or whatever else he desired without protest or thought of flight. Hard as it was to see, some degree of healing must have transpired in these last two days. Maybe Doyle wasn't up to fighting, but he now at least sought escape. However slight Ray's trust in him, that one show of confidence had done wonders for Bodie's morale.

Maybe it had only been a choice of the lesser of two evils, Bodie thought as the proposition inherent in Ray’s desperate gaze returned to mind, but at least it indicated that Doyle saw a difference between Bodie and his former captors.

"Your friend, he is all right?" Gruber asked, still framed within the doorway.

Bodie thought Gruber's hesitation was caused as much by his own instinctive grab for his weapon as Doyle's distress. "It takes Ray a little while to get used to people, that's all."

"My Marie said I should take your bags to the car," Gruber explained, appropriating the now cumbersome suitcase.

With his partner in tow, Bodie followed their reticent host through the hall.

"You and your wife have been very kind to us," he said awkwardly, trying to breach the silence. Marie, Bodie was sure of, but Gruber's feelings toward his intrusive houseguests were a mystery.

"Is family," Gruber explained, a shy smile gentling his hawk-like features.

"Family?"

"Jacques, he says you are the son he never had and my Marie would very much like to. . .how do you say. . .to adopt your friend."

Bodie laughed at that notion. "Ah, our Ray of sunshine is a good deal more than your sweet Marie can handle, I think."

"Perhaps," Gruber agreed, falling back into silence.

But this time the ex-C.I.5 agent was comfortable with the quiet, contentedly following their host out to the car park.

Hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, Marie waited there at the wheel of a jeep that looked as though it would be more at home in the African bush than Western Europe were it not for its bright blue colour and the odd ploughing device affixed to its front. The gleaming slickness of the royal blue paint would never blend in with the subdued greens and tans of the bush lands.

Bodie grinned at the incongruous picture their tiny hostess presented behind the controls of the oversized land rover.

"Have everything?" she asked in the tone of voice Bodie had always imagined a concerned mother would possess.

"Everything that would fit," Bodie replied, opening the boot so that Gruber could fit the dangerously overstuffed suitcase within. Bodie tucked the attaché case he carried in beside it and firmly locked the trunk. The remainder of his ill-gotten gains still made him very self-conscious. He’d never had this much money in his entire life.

When Marie made no move to join them, he glanced questioningly over at her.

"I thought it best if I rode up ahead of you. That way no one would have to drive me back down. Besides, this monster will cut a trail you should be able to follow."

"Cut a trail?" Bodie asked, not liking the sound of this.

"The chalet's been empty for the last three weeks. We've had five storms since then. There is bound to be a bit of snow on the road."

Not knowing what else to say, he contented himself to an inadequate, "oh," and settled his partner in the Volvo.

Giving a wave to Gruber, who had all but disappeared into a flock of ski-laden, luggage-toting new arrivals, Bodie followed Marie's jeep past the lodge. He tried not to show alarm as she ignored the ice covered road that led up from the main highway and headed directly toward a high mound of snow in the centre of the patch of blue spruces to the left of the lodge.

Her land rover plunged lustily into the sparkling snow pile, spewing a steady stream of flung snow to either side and leaving a car-sized path behind it. Bodie reluctantly left the shovelled, paved drive behind to turn into the snow packed trail she had blazed. He drove between the tall banks, doing his best to keep his wheels on the tracks left by the rover's thicker treads.

The day cold and clear, bright sunlight splashed down at them out of a brilliant blue sky. Bodie admired the bright colour of the endless stretch of blue above and tried to recall a time he'd seen a more vivid sky.

England's summers, memorable for those rare, totally cloudless days, didn't quite match. Home had a special quality to its beauty, part nostalgia, part that indefinable blend of riotous colours of flower gardens and lush green grass against a backdrop of blue. England's sky was pretty, but never remembered solely for its own colour.

He thought of Africa. That sky sometimes came close on days when there was no dust. During the rainy season, before the sun had scorched the land brown and dry, one might catch a sky this blue. But the days Bodie had spent there were hard ones, with little time for such distractions.

Finally his mind lit on the memory he'd been searching for. The Aegean Sea. There had been a day when a pitifully young man had sat alone on the deck atop a boatload of contraband machine guns. For miles upon countless miles nothing else had shown in the water. Sea and sky, sky and sea, for as far as the eye could see, not even the white cap of a wave to relieve the loneliness, all of it tinted a blue so blinding that it hurt to look at it. That had rivalled the vividness of this painfully bright day.

Abruptly, Bodie realized that it wasn't only that the sky was so bright. His eyes had settled into a tight squint, instinctive protection against the blinding white of the snow that rose almost as high as the car door on both sides and capped every evergreen and bare limbed bush or tree they passed. A glance at Doyle revealed an even greater discomfort. Ray's eyes were narrow slits, his face contorted as if in severe pain.

Probably did hurt like hell, Bodie thought, observing how Ray's grimace stretched scab-covered cuts and wrinkled bruised flesh.

Why his partner didn't just curl up and go back to sleep as he'd done on yesterday's drive, Bodie couldn't imagine. Until he realized how strange this must seem to Ray. Doyle's squint was fixed on the rover up ahead, occasionally darting to the high banks on either side or to the rear window. Whenever Doyle would look back at the safety of the receding lodge, his lips would purse almost resignedly and a peculiar expression of trepidation would flicker across his features.

Bodie could almost read his partner’s thoughts. Ray was probably telling himself that last night was too good to be true. Doyle probably had no idea as to where they were going or why, Bodie thought sympathetically. And, it was entirely possible Ray had never seen this much snow before.

"We’re still in Switzerland, Ray," Bodie softly explained, not wanting to startle his already nervous companion. Absorbed in the intricacies of uphill driving, Bodie did his best to explain their destination. His words fell into the silence like ten pence into a pond, leaving no impression of their passage.

Ray didn't even look his way as Bodie spoke. Yet, the gesture seemed to have some effect for, although Doyle watched as intently as ever, the invisible current of anxiety seemed to ease somewhat.

The going was slow, mostly because of the depth of snow. In the places where the route would curve and Bodie could see where Marie went before she got to it, there was no indication of a road. To his untrained eye, they seemed to travel over an increasingly steepening hillside, the ground they covered no different from that of twenty feet away. Still, they hit none of the rocks and boulders he knew had to be there, so he assumed they were indeed following a hidden road.

Often the rover would have to veer off the trail it was ploughing to unload its accumulated burden at the side in great grey and white piles that towered above the banks. The first time Marie paused to clear the plough, Bodie almost drove up her tail, thinking it just another curve in the serpentine road.

The distance they were covering surprised him. Although he hadn't been told so, Bodie had thought the chalet close, at most half a mile away. They crawled past the slopes dotted with specks of garishly clad skiers who flowed down the mountainside like raindrops down a pane of glass. Bodie observed the lift machinery curiously as they passed under a chair lift, amused by the awkward weaving of ski-shod feet overhead. Then they left the ski slopes behind, cutting their way through what looked like untouched wilderness.

Here the timber thickened to a more than decent forest and Bodie’s trained eye could tell where the road was. Some might mistake the gaping slash of empty snow between the knotted trunks of towering pines as just another clearing, but Bodie, who’d spent years searching the African bush for just such openings between thickets, recognized the road for what it was.

He was grateful for the tall, skinny trees. Although their shadows were thick and chillingly cold, they cut the irritating glare of the snow down to a manageable level. He turned up the heater and smiled reassuringly at an apparently oblivious Ray.

Once they reached the timberline, the road began to climb in earnest, swinging up and around to the far side of the mountain in wide, snakelike curves that were treacherous. The turns were nearly 180-degree angles; gradual enough to lull a driver into a false sense of security that lasted until he hit a patch of ice at a speed he'd never be doing on a more sudden turn. Bodie didn't want to dwell on the results of such a skid, preferring to concentrate on the slow moving vehicle that was clearing the way for them.

Gradually, the forest thinned. Gnarled short scrub pines took the place of the regal spruces. Naked rock climbed high on the driver's side of the car, threatening a messy stop should their car spin out to the left. The alternative on the right wasn't much better. Bodie estimated that they were at least 13,000 feet up.

The drop Doyle was currently staring impassively out over didn't go straight down. First they’d have to break through the flimsy snow bank walling that side of the road, then they'd bounce around for a couple of thousand feet before reaching a nice cosy ledge, or, if extremely unlucky, tumbled all the way back down to the timberline.

Marie pulled perilously close to the cliff to disgorge her snowy burden. Instead of moving immediately on this time, the jeep came to a complete stop. The rover 's door opened and Jacques' sister approached them.

Bodie watched her carefully choose her footing.

He rolled down his window, letting in a wall of icy air.

"We're making good time," Marie announced, astounding Bodie who would have thought six miles in 45 minutes slow going for a three-footed tortoise. "We should be there in about ten minutes. For this next stretch, floor the accelerator. You're going to need your momentum to make it up that hill. Hold back on the gas and you'll probably slide back down."

"All right," Bodie agreed, hoping they wouldn't end up the rover's exhaust pipe. Their former boss had had some incredibly voluminously voiced regrets following an order to 'step on it.'

As if reading his mind, Marie said, "Wait until I've cleared the way first. There's a sharp turn to the left that gives way to a fairly level stretch."

"The top?" Bodie asked hopefully.

"As close to it as we can get without climbing gear." She laughed. "I'll plough right through to the down hill grade. Once I've got it clear, I'll sound the horn and you can start up. Remember, go fast."

"Thanks."

Bodie hastily rolled up the window as she walked back to her rover.

He watched as Marie shot forward, barrelling up the steep slope like a proverbial bat out of the Norse version of Hel. She almost didn't make it.

Bodie gritted his teeth, the breath catching in his chest as he watched Marie’s hair-raising start gradually slowed under the weight of the snow the plough was accumulating. Just as he was about to manoeuvre their own car out to block the existing road against the rover's inevitable backwards slide that would take their hostess off the cliff at the very next curve, the rover jutted forward as if thrown into overdrive. A moment's more of nerve-racking climb and it disappeared around the bend in a streak of blue.

Bodie breathed a sigh of relief and settled back to wait. He was finding country living a bit more exciting than he'd anticipated.

A horn's blare hooted through the stillness. Giving a quick thought to avalanches, his foot eased down onto the accelerator and they started to move forward with an ever-quickening pace.

He reached out to tug Ray back from his imminent impact with the windshield, and then devoted both hands to steering.

The Volvo's tires dug into the tracks left by the jeep, spewing a mad spray of snow in its wake. Three quarters of the way up the slope, Bodie felt their climb begin to slow. He jammed the already floored pedal down as far as it would go. The motor gave them a minuscule push, just enough sent them the rest of the way up the difficult grade.

As promised the ground levelled, surprisingly fast. Judicious application of the brakes brought them to a reluctant stop, a mere six inches from the rover's tailgate.

His muscles tight as at the end of a dangerous op, Bodie took a moment to relax and stretch out.

At least their hideout was secluded, he reflected, unable to imagine many lawmen determined enough to tackle that road mid-winter. The spring thaw would, of course, bring better roads, but by that time any police report the doctor might have filed on Ray would be ancient history.

Marie started forward again. Bodie automatically followed her.

The road sloped downhill in gentle, lazy curves. Descending should have been easier than the climb up, but Bodie found himself constantly gaining on the slower moving vehicle. His fingers aching from clenching the wheel, he did his best to avoid ruining the Volvo's grillwork.

A left turn brought them to another steep cliff. Bodie gaped at the view afforded from this side of the mountain.

A seemingly endless stretch of pine-dotted, snow-capped mountains filled the land clear to the horizon. The lack of skiable slopes on this, the southern side, lent the place a wild, untouched splendour. The walls here were composed of jagged peaks and stony ledges, perfect for climbing but little else.

The sheer stone wall the road had been hugging for the last mile or so dipped inward to form an enormous, crater-like ledge. Looking at the depression, Bodie had the absurd notion that something had taken a generous bite out of this side of the mountain. The grey stone walls rose endlessly up on all sides of the level ground they'd paused on and seemed to stoop over at their tops to shield much of the ledge. A large village or several sports arenas could have fit comfortably on it.

As it was, a large natural field had developed on the ledge. Bodie deduced the existence of healthy soil from the abundance of spruce trees that fringed the walls of the elliptical hollow. The centre of the ledge looked to be open ground beneath its deep carpet of snow. The winter-darkened tips of hidden vegetation that were probably shrubs and thorn bushes poked their way through the cold white mantle at various parts of the field.

The only man-made constructions stood at the far end of the hollow amidst a pleasant grouping of green spruces and slender, bare limbed trees. The smaller of the two structures was a garage or tool shack of some nondescript and uninteresting sort.

The other odd building claimed Bodie's full attention. On first sight the chalet – or so Bodie presumed it to be, as their hostess was heading straight toward it – looked like an arrow with a shortened trunk and elongated tips. Triangular in shape, the sides of the roof tapered downwards almost to the ground.

The red wood building stood two levels high. An enormous rectangular window dominated the front of the house, its size encompassing the four smaller, lace draped windows on the floor directly above it. The entrance was a door of darker wood, placed to the right of the huge window. Another tiny window, shaped like a half moon and paned with bright stained glass, twinkled merrily above the doorway, seeming to offer a welcoming red and blue sparkle even from the distance.

The land rover ploughed a path clear to the garage doors, and then veered to the left to dump its load of snow.

Bodie pulled in beside the rover and glanced at Ray.

Outwardly unperturbed by the trip up, Doyle was staring out at the chalet. If there was no curiosity in his friend's gaze, Bodie was relieved to find that at least the blankness was also missing.

"We're here," he announced unnecessarily, rubbing his hands together with a false animation that was totally wasted on his mate. For all the notice Ray took of him, he might just as well have broken down and sobbed at their safe arrival. He couldn't decide which was worse, being totally ignored or cringed away from in terror.

Seeing their hostess crunching her way toward them, Bodie belatedly opened the car door. Instantly, he regretted his action. There was a coldness to the dry, clear air that he would not have believed possible. The rush of it inward from the open door leeched all warmth away at its very touch. A moment's exposure had Bodie wishing for a snowsuit and balaclava. Recalling Doyle's flu, he hastily closed the car door behind him as he popped out to meet their hostess.

"We made good time," Marie declared, flashing a blinding smile. "The pass wasn't nearly as bad as I expected."

"Cynic," he chided lightly, not really wanting to experience what she considered bad.

Seeing the bulging cardboard boxes piled in back of the rover and fearing the remainder of the absent Robert's wardrobe to be packed within, Bodie asked, "What’s all that?"

"Food, linens, towels, and other essentials. It's a bit of a hike to the nearest off-hour."

Bodie laughed and took hold of the largest of the boxes. Following Marie toward the front door, he stopped to look uncertainly back at the tousled, longhaired head just visible through the moisture condensing on the passenger window. He felt strange leaving Ray sitting somewhere to wait his return like a tied up pooch.

"He's warmer in there than he'll be inside until we get the heat working," Marie assured him, trapping a box between her hip and the doorjamb as she searched her pockets for the key.

Bodie awkwardly collected the box from her and held it atop his own weight burden while she struggled with the cold lock. At last, it gave way.

Marie led him quickly through a large room that left him with the fleeting impression of light and space. Sitting room, he guessed as they passed through the doorway situated directly opposite the front door to a small dark hallway with two open doors and an arched doorless entrance.

The room to the left was a tiny bathroom; the glimpse he caught of the furnishings through the half open door to the right led him to believe it a study. Something in the jumbled assortment of books crowded on the wall shelf behind a huge desk brought Jacques immediately to mind.

The archway led to a surprisingly modern kitchen. It lacked so much as a hint of the rustic simplicity the wildness of the trip up had led him to expect. Not a sign of a hand pump, he happily noticed, placing his burden on a heavy oak table.

"Furnace is this way," Marie said, leading him from sunny cheer of the yellow kitchen to a staircase by the back door that led to the basement.

Once the intricacies of the heating system had been mastered, the boxes cleared from the rover, and Ray and their cases collected from the car, Marie took them on the grand tour of the chalet.

There were few surprises on the ground floor. C.I.5’s training had conditioned Bodie to automatically note the positions of stairs, doors and windows, even if only on an unconscious level.

Bodie did, however, take the time to appreciate the beauty of the dwelling that was so generously offered to them. He’d always wanted a place with a fireplace, he thought, admiring the stone hearth that took up the entire left wall.

There was none of the elegance of Jacques' usual furnishings here. The sofa was huge and the armchairs down-stuffed to capacity for maximum comfort, but they weren't antiques.

The tables and bookcases were not constructed from expensive mahogany or cherry wood. The wood furniture was plain old, utilitarian cedar, but the colour of their rich, dark finishes matched that of the doorways and moulding boards almost to perfection.

An unassuming ivory paint covered the sitting room walls, its simplicity unmarred by the frenzy of artwork that accumulated seemingly by spontaneous generation on any empty wall space where Jacques Dupres resided for more than a week. Only one painting hung in the sitting room, a rectangular oil almost as long as the couch beneath it, depicting a stag who'd just risen from drinking at a mountain stream. The portrayal was strikingly lifelike. The tense poise and forward pricking of pointed ears suggested the buck’s drinking had been interrupted, the alert glint in the widened brown eyes seeming to fix on the observer as through he were the interloper. The detail was incredible, the fuzz on the five rack antlers so vivid one could almost stroke its velvety smoothness.

In another setting the oversized painting might have been intimidating, but situated as it was across from the scenic window that claimed the whole length of the opposing wall, its size did not seem quite so imposing.

The view from the window, bordered as it was with towering mountains and snow-laden valleys, ripped one’s breath away – so overwhelming was its unreal splendour. Even Doyle, who'd exhibited no more interest in the house than he had the dashboard of the car or his hapless keeper, paused to gaze almost thoughtfully out over the picture window’s awesome panorama.

Bodie took an immediate liking to the picture window and the cosy comfort of the room it lighted.

All surprises were presented by the chalet's upper level. Due to the triangular construction of the house, the upper four rooms were all oddly shaped. The bare-beamed ceiling sloped gradually from the highest point right inside the door to the very floor at the far end. Two small windows jutted out like square crystal jewels into the roof's steep grade from each room.

Just right of the staircase was the large, sun warmed master bedroom with its huge bed, soft woodsy hues and private bath. Bodie decided immediately that this would be Ray's room. The small windows looked out over the same view that had whetted Doyle's interest on the ground floor. Bodie hoped it would speed his recovery.

The remaining two rooms were of equal size. One was decorated in a spectrum of pastels that ran the gamut from pink to aqua, and accentuated with frills and lace that made the ex-mercenary intensely uncomfortable.

Perplexed, Bodie stared at a vase that held a bouquet of peacock feathers. The room was so intensely frilly and feminine that Bodie couldn’t credit it being in a house of Jacques’. Though always a bit more cultured than the typical desert rat, there had never been anything the least bit soft about Dupres.

Marie seemed to sense the questions burning in his mind as Bodie stared at the pastel room, for she softly supplied, "Robert and my Anna used to come stay with Jacques when he visited. I’m afraid her uncle spoiled her terribly. He let her decorate the room herself."

"I didn’t know you had a daughter," Bodie commented. All he’d heard about was Robert, who was off at university.

"I don’t, not anymore. She died of a fever when she was nine," Marie answered.

Bodie bit his lip, regretful of his casual prying. "I’m sorry."

Marie nodded and seemed to pull herself together with an effort.

More subdued, they went to investigate the remaining room. It was painted ambiguous beige. Furnished with only a single bed, chest of drawers and bare nightstand, the austerity of this last room seemed stark as a prison cell when compared to the comfort of the other two. Bodie decided to stow his own gear here, relieved by its unassuming decor.

"This chalet belongs to Jacques?" Bodie questioned as Marie led them back into the sitting room.

Doyle, who had trailed after them with a disturbing lack of interest, stopped just within the doorway. The stillness of his posture suggested that he was consciously trying to deflect attention from himself. Bodie, who'd noticed everything down to how frequently his partner blinked, casually snagged Ray's arm in passing and settled him on the sofa beside him. Pale with strain, Doyle looked as though he could use the rest.

"By rights the chalet, lodge, and practically the entire mountain belong to my brother. It was our parents' and their parents’ before them." Once again Marie seemed to hear his unvoiced question, for she explained, "They did not approve of my Wilhelm, so they left everything to my brother."

"But he said. . ."

"Jacques never cared much for mountains living. It’s too desolate for him. He deeded everything but the chalet over to us as a belated wedding present – he was lost somewhere that year. You know how he is, just as you're about to have him declared dead he shows up laden with presents and a tale that would bug out a potato's eyes."

Bodie laughed, but was forced to agree with her.

"You look like you could use some hot tea," Marie said, jumping to her feet.

"Marie, you don’t have to . . ."

"Sit down. Next time I visit, you can serve me. Okay?"

Smiling at her infectious vivacity, Bodie said, "You better tell Wilhelm that if he doesn’t keep you happy, I’m going to steal you away."

"Careful there, lad. I might just let you, at least for a week or two," Marie chuckled before ducking into the kitchen, blushing like a schoolgirl.

As he settled back into the sofa, he looked over at Ray, whose gaze was focused on the picture window with unmistakable interest. Glad to see anything taking Doyle’s attention outside of himself, Bodie relaxed, a peaceful comfort settling over him. Almost, he could believe that there was an end to their troubles in sight.


...Continued in Chapter 3…

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