Written for the "Discovered in a Sketchbook" challenge on the discoveredinalj livejournal community


"Attention all units. This is a priority E scramble, effective immediately." It was George Cowley's crisp command voice on the air.

Hastily, Doyle gulped a third of his brimming pint before growling, "Kyrie-iced, what now?" He licked the foam from his upper lip.

Bodie pulled forth his pocket handkerchief, spread it on the table, centered his sandwich on it, and dumped an entire plate of steaming chips overall, before knotting the four corners.

Doyle swallowed another third of his pint as he flung his chair aside and stood.

"All units. Attention all units. Priority E scramble, effective immediately. All units report." This time a female voice had taken over the dispatch.

Bodie grabbed his bundled meal and charged toward the door, offering cash and a whimsical smile to the waitress in passing.

Trotting after his partner, simultaneously fingering his crackling R/T with one hand, and attempting to drag keys from his snug jeans pocket with the other, Doyle offered the buxom barmaid a cocky wink for good measure.

"Not onboard yet. Alpha channel's packed out," Ray shook his head.

They were into Doyle's car and down the road with tyres screeching before the doors were quite slammed shut.

"Airwaves are crammed. Had to go all the way to delta before I could mark us up." Bodie unfastened his handkerchief, guarding the unstable pyramid of food in his lap against the g force of Doyle taking a corner on two wheels. "Steady. Else you'll finish with potatoes plastered to yer plimmies and I'll never hear the end of it."

"You're not careful there, you'll steam cook yer crotch."

"Got the sarnie for insulation." Bodie sampled a chip for temperature before feeding the next one to his partner. "Open wide."

"Not hungry, just dry," Ray grumbled and chewed. "Rot them all."

"Driving whilst bevvied," Bodie reproved, pressing another morsel into Doyle's mouth. "Better part of a pint, fast on an empty belly."

"The better part of a pint would have been the second half, which got abandoned in the glass," came the rueful retort.

"This too shall pass."

"Not if it never got swallowed."

"Gripe, gripe, gripe."

"Attention all units. The following agents are to acquire plaid shirts before reporting to HQ."

"The hell?" Doyle snorted.

"That's me," Bodie pointed out as the list of agents was read over the radio, "but not you," as it ended.

"Plaid shirts?"

"Maybe it's some sort of emergency alert simulation, and they're issuing random orders to measure response times?"

"Maybe."

"Your shirt's plaid."

"And yours isn't."

"Trade?"

"You'll never fit."

"Pull over. Give it a whirl at least."

Sighing, Doyle found a space and skidded over to park haphazardly awry at the kerb.

"Snug," Bodie rolled up the too-short sleeves of Doyle's plaid shirt.

"Don't even try to button the collar. Tear the shoulders right out, shouldn't wonder. Not to mention cutting off desperately needed oxygen to yer brain."

"Har. Bet that doesn't do as much for you as it does for me, mate."

"Still summer, and you sporting a gansy." Doyle pulled into Bodie's shirt, mussing his curls in transit. "I may collapse from heat prostration."

"Catch you if you swoon, petal."

"My hero."

"Attention all units. The following agents are to report directly to Curzon Street House."

"The plot thickens."

"And sickens like the Dickens." Doyle dragged the floppy sleeves of the borrowed pullover above his elbows before again revving the motor.

"Attention all units. Stage with a four street stopping perimeter in Curzon vicinity. Patterned ingress, restricted to the Mews tunnel."

Bodie groaned. "This is ridiculous."

"A farce in three acts," his partner agreed.

"It's not April Noddy."

"Even if it were, a priority E scramble would be right over the top for a practical joke. Besides, I'm fairly certain that first dispatch was Cowley talking."

"We'll be there soon."

"If it is a timed test, we should win top honours."

"And if it's a prank, we'll be the foremost laughing stock in London."

"We could linger along the way."

Bodie fingered the shirt in which he was now attired. After a long work day, it whiffed of equal parts Persil and personal perspiration. "Tell them we had to visit Marks and Sparks to acquire plaid?"

"Could do." Doyle slowed the motor marginally.

"Naw. Let's carry on. We've got our orders."

"Right." The car sped again through the night. The first scattered drops of precipitation pattered against the windscreen.

"Hope those pits don't pong overly," Bodie stated apologetically, and ran his fingertips across the fabric bunched over Ray's biceps.

Doyle smiled. "Eau dee beau Bodie. Used to it, an't I? Sharing many a close space with yerself."

"Reckon s'right." For some reason, Bodie found himself blushing. The heat brought his own scent, mingled with that from his partner's shirt, wafting sensuously up to his nostrils. He snuffled at the intimate aroma.

"Curzon Street in the offing. How about stopping here?"

"Avoid the crowd. Park now."

"Looks quiet enough."

"Maybe they're all holding back, waiting to see whether the first lot buys a packet."

"No time like the present."

"I'm for it, if you are." Bodie lovingly re-wrapped his sandwich and stashed it on the back seat.

They eased out of the car, lurking a moment in shadows, blinking against the fine rain which chose that moment to increase uncomfortably in volume.

"Sod this mizzle, I'm going," Doyle declared, and took off sprinting.

With a hissed curse, Bodie followed.

They halted abruptly in front of a rough brick wall with an unprepossessing wooden door set in it.

Doyle waved greetings at the hidden camera before testing the latch. The handle turned easily in his grip and the door swung outward with nary a creak.

Bodie stepped over the threshold first, hand on his undrawn weapon, eyes surveying the entryway. A single naked lightbulb illuminated the damp, cramped space.

"Let me in, it's hauling it down now."

Bodie stepped aside to allow room. Doyle, also hand on gun, drew the door shut behind them. They stood a minute, shaking the rain off their hands and faces, dripping onto floors that once had been painted green, now chipped in patches to reveal the whorls of venerable wooden boards.

Two steps led up to a tiny landing they couldn't occupy simultaneously, beneath a low ceiling that forced them to stoop. Before them fell into nothingness a narrow set of steep concrete stairs, so small and deep as to threaten interlopers with a slippery fall.

They peered down into an eerily shrouded well.

"MI5 or Hades?" Doyle chuckled.

"After you, dearest Persephone," Bodie pinched Doyle on his right arse cheek. Ray reflexed away and nearly tumbled down the flight, only saved by his partner's hasty grasp of his elbow.

"Do you mind?" Doyle protested, emphatically reclaiming his arm. "I'd prefer to take it one step at a time."

Chuckling, Bodie obligingly led the way down the gloomy passage. Somewhere behind them came the sound of dripping water, plopping monotonously onto a hard surface.

They descended cautiously and arrived together at the base of the stairs. Here they were stifled by a stygian black space, densely invisible.

With both hands extended blindly, Doyle found Bodie's solid back and stepped hesitantly to his side.

"Hullo?" Bodie called, louder than he liked. Judging from the echo, the corridor where they stood was long and largely empty.

"We've got our invitations to the ball," Doyle announced to unseen observers he could only hope weren't enemies.

Hearkening to the noise of their own breathing, they waited.

"Maybe nobody's home," Bodie groused. "Meanwhile me butty's getting stale back in the car."

Doyle laughed softly, a familiar sound in a strange place.

Bodie responded by sneaking an arm around his partner's waist and drawing him closer, damp and steaming. "Like hiding in Auntie Maude's cupboard," he whispered into an ear, feeling the intricate helix against his lips, curls nestling upon his cheek.

Around a nasty click and buzz, a synthetic lightning flash tore them apart with a jolt of tensed musculature and wildly beating hearts.

Asunder, palms raised to shield against blinding platinum white light, they crouched, ready to bolt.

"Hullo?" Bodie tried again, squinting painfully into the blazing blank.

A decidedly caustic voice replied. "Gentlemen. If you don't belong here, assume the position against the wall. If, by some strange chance, you believe yourselves to be in the right place, you may show your credentials. Two fingers only to pull 'em out, and quite slowly."

"Just our IDs," Doyle agreed, extracting his from a back pocket and holding it open in front of his chest.

"Pitch them on the floor well ahead of you. Then stand still with hands high."

"Up yer geezik," Bodie muttered, too low to be overheard, complying reluctantly with the demands.

Movement sounded beyond the glaring wall of light.

"CI5. Bless us one and all, amen. Aren't we peculiarly graced this evening?"

The search lamps dimmed to a more tolerable level.

As their eyes adjusted, Bodie and Doyle found themselves blinking at half a dozen ordinary looking blokes, staring back at them.

The bossiest of them gestured further down the passage. "They'll return your creds inside. Hurry up, chop chop. There's another lot arrived already."

Bodie and Doyle glanced back at the stairwell. They could hear evidence of more company up at the street level.

"Must have the latch on a timer," Doyle suggested.

"Thereby averting stampede," Bodie shrugged, plowing purposely through the grouped MI5 agents, only jostling them slightly as he went.

Shoulder to shoulder, the partners walked on down the tunnel. The discussion behind them faded gradually with distance, and soon they were listening to the hollow sound of their own heels striking the floor.

Fluorescently illuminated, the curved passage was lined in gleaming porcelain tiles, white and green with intricately glazed patterns. Set in polluted, grime ridden grout, the overall presentation was one of antique, decayed urban splendor.

Bodie studied Doyle, studying the tiles with an artist's appreciation for decoration.

Their progress came to a standstill. The solid steel door barring the end of the passage stood in stark contrast to the jaunty walls.

Doyle intoned, "Speak the password, step forward and be known, friend."

"Um, open sesame?" Bodie suggested, elbowing Ray in the ribs. "Wish I hadn't said that, reminds me of nosh."

"Nice fresh cobs with butter, and the lack thereof, alas. Come on, come on, come on. Open the effing door."

With a squeal of silicon seals, the barricade slid open.

"Must be your masterful manner," Bodie informed Doyle. "Door Commander. Should add that to your resume."

"Remind me to do that tomorrow. Hullo there."

A library table partially blocked the entrance, with a clerkish looking elderly gentleman seated behind it, holding their two ID folders. Bodie wished the old man had been wearing sleeve garters, to complete the old-timer portrayal. He was willing to bet the fellow still had some at home, saved in the back of a bureau.

Bodie found the incongruity of the antique scene, juxtaposed against the backdrop of a bustling modern suite of offices, somewhat unsettling.

Maybe that was the intent.

The old man glanced up over the top of his reading glasses and placidly assessed the agents standing before him.

Bodie instinctively assumed parade rest.

Doyle moved forward to run his hands over the desk top. "Nice. Georgian, walnut, very good condition. Still got its original handles?"

The elderly gent pursed his lips sternly but then relaxed into a small smile. "Yes, it has. And the locks are all in good working order, too. If we weren't, ah, rather pressed for time, you could examine the drawers. Some excellent dovetail work. Perhaps some other time."

"Oh, yeah." Doyle stepped back. There he stood, hands on hips, long, elegant fingers framing denim curves and planes. Bodie's old military jumper, soft blue grey knit, draped in interesting shadows and highlights over him like a still life subject, all set to be sketched.

Doyle offered the gent a shrug and a wry grin, mad green eyes glittering under his damp chaos of curls.

The old man snorted in mild outrage.

Bodie concurred with the sentiment, knowing it well. He had meanwhile come to the conclusion that this was no clerk, but rather some former military brass of long standing.

The old man confirmed the impression by addressing him. "RAF?"

"No, sir, Paras."

"Ah, yes. The names tend to lose themselves before the faces. Well, carry on, you two." He returned their IDs. Pulling a silver pocket watch from his waistcoat, he glanced down at a ledger and made some notes in it.

Thus dismissed, Bodie and Doyle edged around the table and into the busy hall beyond. Before they could wonder what to do next, they were accosted by a junior executive. He was brush cut, carefully shaved despite the hour, and wearing portions of an expensive business suit. With his silk tie loosened and his pristine shirt sleeves unfastened, his deshabille seemed calculated to imply that his usual meeting with the prime minister had been interrupted for other more urgent matters.

Bodie stifled a derisive groan.

Oblivious to critique, the man grabbed Doyle's arm and drew him to an office door.

Bodie braced, certain that Ray was about to thrash the fellow for impertinence.

In plummy tones, the man addressed them, all the while reading his watch. "Stand here. In three minutes and twenty seven seconds, you may knock. Do not enter until you are addressed from within."

Eventually drawn by unexpected silence, the executive looked up to find himself nailed by a brilliant gem faceted stare.

Doyle studied him, starting at his hair, slithering down the stretch of his neck tie, lingering on the flies of his trousers, taking in the polished toes of his shoes and returning along the same route in leisurely fashion.

Bodie strove hard to keep a straight face.

Meanwhile a small gathering of bemused agents paused to watch the byplay.

Ray fluttered his lashes, licked his lower lip, thrust it forth in an appealing pout, and piped in a perfectly pitched soprano, "We'll do our very best, sir."

At which point, Bodie lost it. Huffing a guffaw, he nudged Doyle. "Mary left the navy to attend spy school. I hadn't heard."

"What do you mean?" the man reddened and sputtered.

But Bodie turned his attention to the door, as if it were his sole goal in life. "Er've lost track of the time. Forgot to check me watch," he confessed forlornly.

"Don't look at me," Doyle retorted. "Erm not wearing one."

"Do you mean to say, you've come away for a mission without wearing a watch?" the executive demanded.

Doyle wrinkled his nose. "Dun know about you, mate. Me, I came away for me supper. Never got it, though, did I?"

"Well," the officious man instructed. "We must all make sacrifices, mustn't we?"

"Oh, sacrifices!" Bodie exclaimed. "But I didn't bring a goat, did you?" He jostled shoulders with Doyle.

"Naw, but here's a kid," Ray indicated the junior executive. "A kid's more biblical than a goat, yer know? Kid's the thing for a sacrifice. Shall I do the honours?"

Magically a glittering switch blade appeared in Doyle's grasp. He stepped carelessly toward his victim, whilst somewhat fondling the weapon's haft. "Yer volunteering, right?"

The alarmed man darted back, eyes bugging from his head.

The onlookers seemed suddenly less amused. A few stepped forward cautiously, intending intervention.

But the knife instantly disappeared from Doyle's hand as if by invocation. He turned his back on the lot of them and returned to his study of the closed door.

Which opened as if on cue.

A rather senior looking fellow stuck his head out and addressed Bodie and Doyle. "Gentlemen?"

"No, sir," Doyle walked calmly past him into the room.

"Generally, I find it safest to humour him," Bodie confided in a stage whisper, following closely after his partner.

It was obviously an ops ready-room they'd entered. Several men sat at a long table, conferring, poring over documents, marking lists and maps.

Bodie nudged his partner and muttered. "Don't look now, but third one from the left is Ricky Vee of the GSG. Recognize him from me SAS stint."

"International cloak and daggers," Doyle grumbled. "And me without me trench coat."

"Ahem," said one of the old men, folding his hands upon the table top. "Bodie and Doyle, CI5, isn't it?"

"Damned decent of George to come across with an offering, eh?" another commented in an audible aside.

"Yes," the first agreed. "Well, gentlemen, we appreciate your joining in the festivities this evening. And we trust you'll find 'em up to your usual standards for entertainment. I suppose I needn't ask if you're armed."

"Yes, sir," Bodie agreed, since the old gent paused expectantly.

"Splendid. Very likely you'll go out in the first sortie then. Enjoy yourselves."

Bodie shrugged at Doyle and they exited through a different door.

This time they were greeted by a tall woman, physically fit, clad in a tidy white blouse and straight grey skirt.

"Things are looking up," Bodie grinned at her.

"This way," she replied, all business.

Bodie pouted disappointedly at Doyle, who patted him consolingly on his shoulder.

They were ushered into a large meeting room. It held several tables, all manned by women.

"Houris, Valkyries," Bodie declared, enraptured.

"Registry queens, more like," Doyle snorted.

"That's what I said, innit?"

They strolled past the first table, which held a stack of plaid shirts.

"Needn't have bothered with the bloody switch," Doyle scowled, fingering Bodie's jumper.

"I shall cherish it always, nevertheless," Bodie fluted, petting his borrowed shirt in luxurious strokes where it snugged his well formed torso.

Doyle lingered on the image a moment. "You'll launder it and hand it straight back, you mean."

"No romance to you, none at all."

They paused before the next table, where a petite redhead perched on a high barstool placed before a chair. "Have a seat," she told Bodie.

He raised his eyebrows suggestively at her.

She raised a comb unsuggestively at him.

Holding his chin in one firm hand, she deftly parted Bodie's hair to one side. Instantly, his defiant waves started back the way they'd come. Meanwhile the girl glanced away from him, to consult an eight by ten glossy mug shot on the table.

"Doesn't resemble your subject in the least," Doyle told her, examining the portraiture with a critical eye.

She shrugged, smiling slightly. "It's a dark and stormy night."

"The captain and his men were seated about the campfire," Doyle promptly continued the classic tale.

"'Captain,' said one of the men, 'tell us a story.' And so the captain began, 'It was a dark and stormy night...'," Bodie completed the cycle.

The registry queen looked unamused. "Step along."

The next table held a cardboard carton full of handcuffs. "Hold out your hands," the attendant girl told Bodie, grabbing his wrists.

"Oh, darling. And it's only just our first date," Bodie fluttered.

"Always enjoys a forceful bird. Fancy a threesome? Do you do leather, love?" Doyle chortled.

She ignored the exchange. "They're breakaway. Give a hard tug and they should unfasten straight off. Test it."

Bodie gave the required hard tug, and the handcuffs sprang open.

"You can wait until the end of briefing to put them back on," she informed him.

"Ta, ever so."

Now they arrived at the end of the large room, where camp chairs were arrayed before a chalkboard.

The latest girl noted their names and organization on a clipboard sheet. "That's the first twenty, complete, sir," she addressed her superior.

"Yes, but most of them are ours," the old man shook his head in disapproval of the roster. "Still and all," he studied his watch, "best foot forward. Right, seats everyone."

Twenty men sat. Ten had dark hair parted on the side, and wore plaid shirts.

"Now then, this evening's frolic features a little chase of hares and hounds. You're all armed and readied. Those of you issued bracelets will wear them out the door. The rest of you are to escort your partners as if they were in your custody. Immediately outside are ten cars. These are to be driven to ten separate destinations. You will find printed street instructions on the driver's seat. Proceed directly to your designated destination. If you find yourself followed, you may attempt evasive manoeuvres, but then continue to your destination. If you are attacked, you are to defend yourselves, up to and including the use of deadly force as necessary. Any questions?"

Bodie and Doyle had a couple dozen, but managed to keep from uttering them aloud.

The foremost in Ray's mind was, "Who's the bloke in the photo?"

The chief one in Bodie's mind was, "Can we stop for dinner?"

But unfortunately their questions went unanswered.

Now the agents were gathered at the door.

"Crowd out and mill around at first, to generate confusion in case of observers," the old man advised them. "Good luck, and go."

They crammed somehow through the doorway and found themselves grouped in a dim car park, with the rain baptising them anew. They all grimaced and grinned at each other. Then the first pair took the initiative to head toward a car.

Doyle had started at once by examining the available motors. With Bodie firmly collared, he dashed for his chosen favourite. As he shoved him into the passenger seat, he sheltered his partner's head with his hand in proper copper style, avoiding the door frame, and stealing the opportunity to turn the protective gesture into a chummy caress.

Over to the driver's side then, and he found the key in the ignition. "Read that for me," Ray handed the sheet of street directions to his mate, revved the motor and peeled out at the head of the line, with ruthless precision cutting off the nearest competitor for the lead.

Bodie gratefully broke out of his handcuffs. "Wonder if the Minister of Silly Ops is in command tonight."

"Too right, he is."

"Go southwest along Curzon Street. I hope you don't mind my spouting something dramatic."

"Gob it out, duck."

"Turn right on Queen Street. It's just this. It's all gin and oranges to me who the crate is we're meant to masquerade as, in our plaid shirts and handcuffs. Don't know, don't give a damn, nor the assassins neither, nor whether they succeed in nailing each other. I'm not about to play willing target practice for that cowboy outfit back there, and us with bullseyes painted on our bums. MI5 can stuff it til it reaches their bewdles for all of me. So there it is, and I've said me say."

"Good, I agree."

"You do?" Bodie examined his mate's profile. He found in Ray's expression, evidence of a seething resentment that exceeded his own annoyance at being labelled bait for a trap. Rather enjoying the notion of Doyle's care on his behalf, he couldn't resist probing it a bit further. "Not going to lecture me about duty and honour and other bin liner substances?"

"Hell, no. What do you take me for?"

"Everything you've got, sweetheart."

"Mmm. Hold that thought. Mind telling me where we're supposed to turn next?"

"Blah, blah, blah. Very convoluted. Cut to the chase and head for East India Dock Road."

"We chucking their printed instructions already?"

"The geezer said we could take evasive action."

"Only if we're being followed."

"Well there's plenty of cars behind us. So, we're being followed. Who cares who's back there? We're under orders to evade."

"I like your devious thinking, old son."

"There's plenty more deviance where that came from, trust me," Bodie offered Doyle a lubricious look. "Wish we had our own motor."

"Yeah, this one handles like a milk float."

"Plus ours had me butty in it."

"Oh, Willem," Doyle shook his head affectionately. "Carnt stop for takeaway."

"Carn."

"You want to stroll into a caff, wearing handcuffs?"

"Already took 'em off."

"And if the villains shoot at us? Could take out the entire occupancy of a Wimpy Bar whilst we're dodging."

"So I'll stay in the car, with the plaid shirt. You walk in to obtain the carryin' out."

Doyle contemplated the plan a moment before rejecting it. "Don't like us splitting up just now. Could mean setting you up pretty for a hit while I'm gone."

Bodie groaned loudly.

"Listen," Ray urged him. "Maybe our designated destination will have a well stocked larder."

"But if not, it's the nearest pub for us and no more arguments, right?"

"Okay. Where'm I going next?"

"Um, the A13 to M25 to A12. These instructions should land us deep in the heart of East Overshoe, Nowherebeus."

"Lovely. Must remember to buy postcards."

They sped on through the dark dank, driving from urban to suburban to rural. The final set of directions took them off lonely roads to country lanes, the last of them unpaved.

They arrived finally at a deadend, emphasized by a lopsided board fence and stile, set in a prickly shrub border.

" 'Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, some boundless contiguity of shade'," Bodie recited.

Doyle moaned. "Think we took a wrong turn?"

"There weren't any turns to miss," Bodie sighed, staring out at the rain sheeting the window. " 'Never such a sudden flood, upridged so high, and sent on such a charge'."

"Bodie," Doyle interrupted impatiently. "Maybe there's a house past those trees."

"The mythical designated destination? Bah." Bodie pondered Cowper for further snippets before resuming. " 'He calls for famine,' Too right, very appropriate, that bit. 'He calls for famine...'."

"Bo-die!"

"Awright, keep yer shirt on. Correction, keep my shirt on. House past the trees? Let's see, then," Bodie began to open his door.

The inside car light flared.

Out of the night, there came several thuds, a clink and a clatter. "Down!" Bodie slammed the door, plunging them again into shadows. "Damn."

Contorted to crouch backwards and low in the seat, Doyle glared at the silvery spider's web array of a bullet hole through the safety glass of the rear passenger window. "They didn't follow us. Certain of that at least."

"Waiting in ambush, likely enough."

"Marvelous." Doyle opened his door an inch. The move was greeted with a second round, this one destroying part of the windscreen.

"Fire on both flanks," Bodie concluded.

Ray winced and tucked, shaking a cascade of glass fragments from his curls. "Hullo!" he bellowed out into the gloom. "Listen, we know what you came for. But see here, it's pointless. The bloke you're after isn't us. He isn't English, right? Well, me and my partner here, we're both Brits. And there's just the two of us, you can see that for yourself. So there's no point in us shooting each other. I mean, we're decoys, nobodies, yeah? Cannon fodder, you know? Expendable. And yer just wasting your ammunition, blazing away at us poor misguided minions of the Queen. Proper proletariat, we are. Lowliest of the low. And like I said, neither of us is a foreigner, so we can't be whoever it is yer after. I mean, me, I'm from Derbyshire. Um, here, I'll prove it. Just listen to me accent. Um. Air dow! It's gerrin a bit black ower ta Bill's Motha's."

Bodie hooted, "Trying to talk them to death?"

Unabashed, Doyle continued calling. "And me partner, here, he's from Liverpool, he is. Just like the Beatles, huh? You know, the Fab Four, and all that. Thorough Scouse from stem to stern."

Bodie shrugged and piped up, raucous and rather hoarse, "She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah."

"Oh, brilliant performance, very convincing." Doyle rested his head on his forearm. Suddenly, he looked up, startled at the sounds of a racing engine and wheels churning damp turf. After a moment, blaring headlamps pierced the night, angled away and disappeared back down the lane.

Doyle laughed out loud. "There's persuasive eloquence for you. Or maybe it was the threat of your singing scared them off."

"I don't believe that worked," Bodie chuckled, making another move to exit. "I simply do not believe it."

"Do us a favour," Doyle grappled his mate's wrist insistently. "Take off the plaid."

In the insignificant glow of the small dome light, Bodie studied his partner's concerned countenance a moment before nodding. He unbuttoned and removed the shirt, tossing it onto the back seat.

Meanwhile, Ray removed the pullover he'd been wearing.

"What are you stripping for?" Bodie wondered.

"If they see one of us shirtless, they'll know why. Both of us shirtless will just confuse the issue, so neither of us is the obvious first target."

"If you say so." Cautiously, slowly, Bodie slipped out of the car, hiding behind the door a moment. He cocked his head, listening to the soft country silence awhile, examining it for evidence of enemy presence, before finally rising to a stand. "Think they've decamped the premises, as it were."

Doyle squirmed his way back from where he was wedged under the steering wheel, writhing around onto the seat so he could ease out of the car. A gust of wind followed by a sheet of rain slapped him in the face. He shuddered in discomfort and took off, sprinting toward the thicker darkness beyond, which he hoped might represent a building.

"Soggy Doyle redux," Bodie shook his head and once again chased after his mate.

In the center of a dense stand of trees, they found a tiny bungalow. The door proved to be unlocked.

Suspicious of any good fortune, no matter how meagre, Bodie and Doyle sneaked through the entrance.

Inside was a single square room. The thick walls and low ceilings proclaimed the extreme age of the dwelling. It was very nearly empty, and therefore easily searched, despite the dense shadows.

Bodie found the one and only light switch, which he threw. "Electricity. Imagine that."

"No furniture."

"Refrigerator." With great expectations, Bodie breached it. "Charming. Cool damp house with a warm dry refrigerator. Both empty."

"Hey, don't look so disappointed. Mission accomplished, right? Designated destination as decreed. Let's give the felons five to flee. Then we scarper on our own behalf."

Bodie grinned, cheered by the prospect of imminent sustenance. He looked down to stash his gun inside the security of his belt, and then froze suddenly. "Blood," he hissed.

"What? Where?"

"On the floor, there, and there's some more," Bodie indicated the trail of small reflective red puddles.

"No place to hide a body in here."

They both stared suspiciously at the walls and corners, despite the readily apparent accuracy of this assertion.

"The calendar on the wall is current, so someone's been inside recently. Maybe someone was injured who was in here earlier?"

"It's too wet for that. Looks fresh."

Bodie glanced quizzically at Doyle, who shrugged.

"Uh, Ray, what's that on your shoe?"

Mystified, Doyle stared down at his trainers, as if he might discover someone else's feet there. "Maybe I walked through something bloody outside?"

Briskly, Bodie confronted him, grabbed a shoulder to hold him steady, and started examining him, beginning at his mussed mop of wet hair. "Glass," he gingerly picked out some clinging fragments. "But no blood."

He brushed his hands searchingly over Doyle's bare torso. "Stand still."

"Tickles."

"Take off your shoes."

Huffing annoyance, Doyle sank to the floor. The wet laces of his trainers proved difficult to untie. Bodie knelt to work on one, while Ray got out of the other. His rain-soaked socks followed, and he wriggled his bare toes. "See, nothing."

Bodie dragged his partner upright again. "Drop trou," he ordered.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Skip the verbals and just do it."

"I trust your intentions are honourable?" Doyle fluttered his eyelashes as he unfastened his jeans.

Bodie grabbed the damp denim and emphatically tugged it down to ankle level.

Ray stepped out, rather chagrined at his partner's intense inspection. "I should warn you, I never scrutinize on a first date."

Bodie stroked one of Doyle's thighs and gently grasped his buttocks. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"The rear echelon?" Ray suggested, twisting in an unsuccessful attempt to view his own posterior aspect.

"Off with your pants, Ray."

"What is it?" Doyle slipped out of his black briefs.

Bodie's face was quite close to the subject at hand. "Mind you, you might want a second opinion. But I'd say it was a lateral laceration of the left arse cheek."

"Me bum's bleeding?"

"All along the curve here. Rather ugly looking. Imagine you slid over some broken glass, getting out of the car."

"Huh. Didn't feel a thing. Still don't. What are you doing, shedding yer shimmy?"

Bodie stripped off his vest. "Using it to stanch the flow. Unless you fancy using the curtains for bandages."

"Ech," Doyle shuddered at the view of rather musty looking old fabric shading the windows.

"This might be more efficacious if you were to recline. Less stress on the wound."

Bodie sat cross legged on the floor, and still applying firm pressure to the injury, draped Doyle's form prone over his knees.

Ray rested his face in his arms. "Wonder whether I'll catch me death first of chill or exsanguination. Talk about em-bare-arse-ment."

Bodie stroked his unencumbered hand soothingly over the smooth stretch of Doyle's exposed back.

"Glad you've got warm hands."

"Think it's tailing off now."

"Is that a pun? Wonder why it doesn't hurt. The injury, not the pun."

"Maybe severed the nerve supply. Seen that before, in action. Deep shrapnel cut that's virtually painless."

"Well it's damned inconvenient. Oh gawds, what now?"

Alarmed at the bright light that suddenly flared outdoors, they both leaped to their feet.

Bodie drew his gun from his belt and ran to the window. With one hand pressing his injury, Doyle sidled up next to his partner, trying to catch a glimpse past broad shoulders blocking the view.

"Jay-sue-us, it's the Old Man," Bodie groaned.

"Which old man? We've been hip deep in Old Men, ever since this op started."

"Our Old Man, George Cowley."

"Oh no, no, no, no. I'm not about to face the Cow in this condition. Got to get me clobber on." Ray scurried back to the sodden pile of gory clothing.

"Ray, don't be stupid. If you try to haul your arse back into those wet jeans, you'll start bleeding again."

Doyle already had donned Bodie's vest, and was sorting out the black briefs.

"No you don't!" Bodie snatched away the underpants. "Listen, mate, it's for your own good."

In a head-on charge against his partner, Doyle tried to recover the briefs. During the ensuing tussle, there came a clamour. The front door was flung open to slam against the wall with a loud reverberation.

"Freeze! MI5."

Bodie and Doyle froze, and after a heartbeat, pivoted to stare at the newcomer.

It was the junior executive. He appeared quite competent in his stance, drawing a bead on them with a shiny black Sauer 38H.

Ray noted with incongruous interest, the man had abandoned his necktie back at Curzon Street House, but was now wearing a trench coat.

"Bodie? Doyle?" From behind the cover of the outer door frame, Cowley peered inside, his cheek against his fists, lovingly clasping a charming little COP 357 derringer to the side of his face. "Och, wha's this then?"

"Uh, sir, I can explain. I took off me shirt, actually Doyle's shirt, because of the plaid, see? And Doyle took off his shirt, actually me jumper, because we'd switched earlier, according to orders. I mean, we weren't ordered to take them off, we'd exchanged them, for the sake of the op."

Pocketing his weapon, Cowley stepped through the doorway and eyed his men.

They offered quite an intriguing image.

Bodie stood there, blushing rosily, naked to the waist, his sculpted chest glistening white with a lingering patina of rain. In his restless hands, he fingered Ray's skimpy black underpants. In sudden realisation, he shoved them behind his back.

Beside him, Doyle shone forth, damp and disheveled, utterly nude right down to his bare toes, except for Bodie's vest, which hung limply upon his chest, but stopped short of covering his exposed crotch and the masculine appendages thereunto appertaining. Notably, he did not blush, but absently wiped his blood stained hand on the worse stained undershirt.

Cowley blinked repeatedly. "Raymond, are you wounded?"

"Glass-fragged under his left bum cheek," Bodie nodded vigorously, displaying the gory underpants as evidence and ultimate vindication.

"I'll just go and fetch the first aid kit, shall I?" the junior executive volunteered briskly, already hopping to the task.

"Thank you, Jamie." Cowley advanced on his men. "Now then lad, let's have a look at it."

Doyle backed cautiously away from his Controller.

Bodie snagged Ray's elbow, enforcing a halt to his partner's retreat.

Clucking with disapprobation, Cowley drew out his crisp linen handkerchief and applied pressure to Doyle's buttock, which after recent action again was trickling blood down his thigh.

"When we discovered the damaged car in the lane, we assumed the worst," the Old Man confessed grimly.

"You got that right," Ray grumbled, sandwiched between the clutches of his partner and their superior.

"Bandages," the returning Jamie announced cheerfully.

"I think Doyle would prefer Bodie to tend to him," Cowley chuckled.

"Certainly," the MI5 agent handed the first aid supplies in perfect sequence to Bodie, who applied alcohol swabs, antiseptic, a neat bundle of sterile four by fours, and abundant adhesive tape to his stoic partner's anatomy.

"I took the liberty of bringing you some dry clothes," Jamie offered a small duffle bag. "It's only just my tracksuit, but it's clean," he added apologetically.

Thoroughly abashed at this generosity, but shivering in the draft, Doyle eagerly seized the proffered garments. "Hate to risk getting blood on yer gear," he shed the vest before donning the exercise clothes.

"All in the line of duty, what?" Jamie grinned. "Your pullover, if I'm not mistaken," he handed it to Bodie.

"Cheers." Bodie was delighted to find himself once again decently attired. "Not to floss the gift horse's teeth, but what are you doing here?"

"Ah, well, that. After the first crush, I discovered the higher-ups had short-circuited your readiness preparations. I suppose such oversights are understandable in the command level, what with the bigger picture on their minds, and such." The junior executive shook his head in mild censure before continuing. "Because you arrived already armed, they'd whisked you off to the sortie briefing, and you never got issued radios. The others received mission-dedicated R/Ts. Having all the teams touch base but yours, by a process of elimination I knew your individual destination. By then, Mr Cowley had joined us, and together we followed your itinerary. How you managed to arrive so quickly, I don't know."

"Erm, uh," Bodie shrugged at Doyle, who smirked wickedly back at him.

"Police reports of a possible disturbance in the vicinity hastened our arrival, and our agents managed to nab the miscreants as they were leaving the scene. They were rather loudly insistent that they were fleeing from a couple of madmen, and should be allowed to continue. Naturally we gave little credence to that."

Cowley offered a wry chuckle, but then adjusted his features as Jamie glanced at him askance.

"Of course the R/Ts are of no interest to you, this late in the game. But I did bring your meal vouchers, which you also missed issuance. Good for reimbursement, if submitted in the current fiscal year." Jamie pulled a leather folder from an inner coat pocket and extracted two chits.

"Meal vouchers." Mesmerised, Bodie received them and wistfully read the fine printed cardstock.

"Maybe you could join us for dinner?" Doyle suggested.

Pleased with the invitation, Jamie's even features showed a faint flush. "Yes, I'd like to. In any event, we'd better use my motor, and we can call to have the other towed."

"I hope you are feeling up to a sit-down meal, Doyle? You appear rather pale," Cowley studied him minutely, showing far too bright a twinkle in his eye.

Nothing daunted, Doyle replied. "And how do you come to be on the scene, sir, if I may ask?"

"Act in haste, repent at leisure, you know, Raymond," came Cowley's dour response. "Having loosed the pair of you on an unsuspecting MI5, I had aye a thought to follow up on the assignment to its conclusion."

"Meal vouchers," Bodie said dreamily, displaying them to Doyle. "Hope there's something open nearby."

"I know just the place, not too far a drive," Jamie declared. "Restaurant with an excellent menu and several locally brewed draught beers on tap."

At the mention of beer, Doyle perked up considerably. He stepped into his trainers, gathered his discarded clothing and expeditiously aimed for the door.

Jamie followed after him.

Carefully clutching the meal vouchers, Bodie joined the Controller exiting the building. "So, sir, it was only on general principles that you trailed us, with no particular concern for our status?"

"On the contrary," Cowley retorted. "I had no sooner found your car, left in an uncharacteristic condition in the Mews district, than I perceived the nature of the emergency."

"You mean because we'd left our CI5 radios behind?"

"No, Bodie. I would consider that quite typical."

"Then what was it worried you, sir?"

"I was alarmed to find, abandoned in its entirety on the back seat, an uneaten sandwich for which I could not account."

Bodie grinned winsomely at the Old Man.

Ahead of them through the night came a simultaneous gale of gleeful laughter from Doyle.

-- THE END --

September 2007