Bodie's new shoes were black, not quite flash in their styling, and polished to a mirrorlike finish. They cost a bomb, and Bodie was indecently proud of them.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" he invited Doyle's admiration, studying his twin reflections in his spit-shined toecaps.

Doyle managed a noncommittal "Hmmm." He thought the reflected face beautiful. The shoes themselves left him cold; too, he considered two hundred and thirty-eight pounds a ridiculous sum to pay for footwear. Scandalous, really. He'd bought perfectly good cars for less. Anyone who'd plunk down a whacking great packet like that for a pair of shoes, and them not even bespoke--

But then, that was Bodie all over, and Doyle kept his opinion to himself. He and his partner were newly lovers. Doyle was happy and, for the first time in his life, content. Not for worlds would he rain on Bodie's parade.

In the event, the parade and the new shoes lasted until just on lunchtime when, while chasing a suspect along Kentish Town Road, Bodie and Doyle ran afoul of a spot of urban renewal. They pursued their fleet-footed quarry into a building site, floundered through a freshly poured foundation slab, and finally tackled him in a heap of demolition rubble.

"Right, then, up you come." Seizing their weakly struggling prey by the scruff of his neck, Doyle yanked him out of the construction tip and set him more or less on his feet. "You're nicked, sunshine, so hold bloody still." He punctuated his words with a brisk shaking.

Hanging onto their suspect's scruff with one hand, beating the brick dust from his jeans with the other, and trying to kick free of a tangle of rusty reinforcing wire that had wound itself round his left ankle, Doyle turned to his partner, who was cursing volubly and with invention.

"What's the matter?"

"Look at my shoes." Bodie dealt a smart clip to the back of the suspect's head. "Just look at them--they're ruined."

Doyle looked. Bodie's entire ensemble was a right mess; however, his footgear had definitely taken the worst of the punishment. "Shame, that. Perhaps they'll be right as rain when you've wiped 'em off?"

This proved overly optimistic, as indeed Doyle had feared would be the case. Surveying the scratched, whitened, lime-corroded result of his efforts, Bodie heaved a glum sigh. He tossed away his bedraggled handkerchief and administered another sound smack. Their prisoner cringed, yelping, as he threatened a third buffet.

Doyle jerked him out of his partner's reach. "Here," he said hastily, "let's take this oik back to HQ. I'll process him while you see to your shoes. Give 'em a bit of a polish, they'll come up good as new. All right?"

"Yeah, all right." Bodie drove in silence and with uncharacteristic deliberation to headquarters. Doyle sat with the suspect in the rear seat.

After escorting the snivelling prisoner to the infirmary and thence to an interrogation room, Doyle went in search of Bodie. He ran him to earth in their cramped cubby of an office, where his gloomy partner sat staring into the middle distance.

He looked from the shoes, neatly paired on the desktop and no better off for an application of black polish and elbow grease, to Bodie's sorrowful countenance. About to promise he'd replace them--anything to wipe the woe from his partner's face--he remembered his next pay packet was mortgaged to main bearings, a saddle, and a kicker-arm assembly for a '64 Norton Atlas.

Besides, two hundred and thirty-eight pounds....

He swallowed the rash offer. "Beyond saving, eh?"

Bodie stirred, his blank gaze sharpening on Doyle. "Where'd you stash that little punk?"

"Interrogation room. You don't have to talk to him, I'll--"

"I want to talk to him. By hand." Bodie cracked his knuckle joints with grim purpose and got to his socked feet.

"Er...." Doyle cast about for a distraction. "I'll talk to him while you, er"--inspiration struck--"while you fill out an expense chit!"

"Eh?"

"Yeah, Bodie--spoilt your shoes on the job, didn't you? Claim for them."

Bodie brightened. "You're a genius, Ray."

"Finally he sees the light." Doyle handed over a pen while Bodie excavated the desk drawer for a claim form. "Think you can handle this while I interrogate our friend?"

"Think I can manage, yeah." Grinning, happy once more, Bodie turned out his pockets for his receipt. "Save a piece of him for me, won't you."

Doyle savoured the thrilling little quiver the sight of a cheerful Bodie produced in him nowadays, expecting it would be short-lived. Deep down, he didn't believe the Cow would go for it and, when Bodie barged into their office an hour later and he beheld his partner's sulphurous expression, he knew he'd been right.

"No good?" Well, what could you expect of a man who locked his drinks cabinet whenever he left his office?

"Where's that mangy little sod? I'll take my money out of his scabby hide--"

"Who? Oh. He...escaped." Congratulating himself on his improvisational abilities, Doyle casually concealed his disposition report under a handy stack of files.

"He did what! Damn it, Doyle--"

"C'mon, let's go for lunch." He'd feed the man, that was what; a well-fed Bodie was a happy Bodie, always.

---

Bodie's dark moods, unlike Doyle's, seldom lasted long, so the next week seemed to Doyle unending. After seven days of jokes and forced jollity, cooking Bodie's favourite dishes for every meal, and making love to him nightlong every night in an effort to lift him from his doldrums, he was at his wits' end.

He was also exhausted and forced to accept that love sometimes comes very dear. He was willing to lay out two hundred and thirty-eight quid to restore Bodie's footwear and good humour, but he hadn't the readies; his pay had gone on the bike and the necessary business of putting food into his partner. He couldn't, in good conscience, borrow the money--he was indebted to both McCabe and Anson, from whom he'd borrowed the price of several cheer-up pints which had failed to cheer. Conscience aside, neither Jax nor Lucas was disposed to make him a friendly loan, not so soon after that unfortunate Battenburg cake incident. Susan could break a man's neck without breaking a sweat or a fingernail: one didn't borrow money from Susan. And Murph was tight as a Scotsman's purse.

Doyle had never been sure that Cowley had a better nature, so appealing to it was a last resort. Asking a second time after his first request had been refused was futile and foolhardy.

"I said 'no', Doyle, and 'no' I meant. Claim denied."

"He's depressed, sir...."

"Is he? And since when do you concern yourself with 3.7's sulks?" Cowley favoured him with a contemplative look. "Or his wardrobe?"

Uh-oh. Distraction time again. Bravely, Doyle hurled himself onto the live grenade. "Christ, Cowley, it's only government money! Anyone would think it's coming out of your pocket."

The grenade failed to explode. "Yes, yes, Doyle." Cowley dismissively waved his outburst aside and frowned in thought. "When was your last session with Doctor Ross?"

"Sir?"

"You're past due for psychological evaluation, are you not?"

"I don't quite see--"

"As is your partner, if I'm not mistaken."

Doyle opened his mouth to protest, then closed it so nothing futile, foolhardy, or stupid would get out.

"The doctor is presently on leave," continued Cowley. "She returns on the first of the month. See to it you and 3.7 are her first appointments. That will be all."

Again Doyle opened his mouth; this time, he could think of nothing to say. A psychological evaluation, damn Bodie's champagne tastes. He drew breath, marshalling his arguments.

Cowley glanced up from the file he'd begun perusing and looked surprised to see Doyle still there. He lowered his spectacles and considered his operative over their lenses. "Something's amiss with your team," he said ruminatively. "Ah, well, never mind, Doctor Ross will soon put you both to rights." Pushing his spectacles back into place, he returned to his file. "You're dismissed, 4.5."

Outside the boss's office, Doyle leaned for support against the closed door. The looming psych evaluation was even more worrisome than a down-in-the-dumps partner. Kate Ross had an uncanny facility for field-stripping an evasive agent's subconscious. Once she got started rootling about in their psyches, there was no telling what she might uncover.

He and Bodie had so far succeeded in keeping their altered relationship a secret, but there was little hope of its remaining one, not with Calamity Kate on their track. Could he withstand the fierce light of her scrutiny? Of Cowley's knowledge and certain disapproval?

Could Bodie?

He didn't know and he feared to find out. Much remained unspoken between them. His partner wasn't a talker at the best of times, and now, Doyle felt, with their love affair still new and Bodie sunk deep in depression, was no time to talk matters over.

He couldn't bear the loss. What he had found with Bodie, he would run any risk to keep. There was nothing else for it: Doctor Ross would have to go.

Blast Bodie and his expensively shod feet. This mess was all his fault.

No. It was all that old skinflint's fault, wasn't it. Well, wasn't it?

Yes, Doyle decided, it bloody well was.

---

Next morning Doyle was summoned ungodly early to Cowley's office. Being thunderstruck put him at a distinct disadvantage.

"S-sir? You wanted to see me?"

"Good morning, lad," said Cowley with a false friendliness that raised the hair on Doyle's nape.

"Morning, sir."

"I had a near miss last night, 4.5. A very near miss indeed."

"Sorry to hear that, Mr. Cowley."

"Yes, I thought you might be." Suddenly Cowley's smile wore a layer of frost. "My car blew up, 4.5, halfway between here and my flat. If I hadn't stopped at my club.... Why were you lurking in the car park yesterday afternoon?"

"Me, sir? I--I wasn't."

"You were seen, Doyle." Dropping the smile and the ersatz good humour, Cowley nailed him with a stare like twin barrels aimed in his direction. "Agent 6.2 spotted you near my car."

His heart stumbled, then galloped to catch up. God, a witness, Cowley had a witness. All his care--nicking the explosive out of Evidence, wearing latex gloves to assemble the device, using a timing mechanism and power unit of the type favoured by the PIRA and calling in a newish code of theirs to a major daily--and Murphy had to blunder in, so it was all for naught. What did the outsized clown think he was doing, hanging about in the car park like a hulking traffic cone?

"Well? Speak up, man."

Doyle gathered his scattered wits and lied like a rug. "Agent 6.2 is mistaken."

"Aye well, for your sake, Doyle, I hope he is. He's looking into this sorry business. When he completes his preliminary report, which will be in short order, I very much fear you're for it."

Doyle could only repeat, "He's mistaken, sir."

"As long as you're still employed by this organization, Doyle, get out of my office and earn your exorbitant wage for once." A final frigid glare. "And close the door on your way out."

Shaken, Doyle went straight from Cowley's office to his own. He grabbed Bodie and hauled him into the Gents'.

"At work?" Bodie raised a brow. "Like to live dangerously, do you?"

"Quiet, you great fool." Doyle made a hasty check for other occupants. Finding the facilities all theirs, he turned all the taps on and flushed every toilet and urinal in the place.

"Kinky," observed Bodie over the gurgle of geriatric government plumbing.

"Will you keep your voice down! Wouldn't put it past Cowley to have microphones in here."

"In the loo?" Obediently, Bodie lowered his voice. "Give a whole new meaning to--Doyle? What's the matter?"

Doyle blinked, shook his head; now, at the moment of confession, his heart beat in leaden strokes and his vision narrowed. His partner seemed to be peering at him from the distant end of a dark tunnel.

He swallowed with difficulty. "I've stepped right in it, and it's bloody deep."

Bodie glanced down.

"No, Bodie, will you listen to me! I've put my foot in it with the Cow, good and proper. I'm through in this mob, mate--probably be banged up for a long stretch before Cowley's done."

"Tell me," said Bodie.

Doyle told him everything. At first the words came haltingly, but by the time he reached the end of his tale they tumbled over each other in their rush to get out. "Couldn't take it, you being so sad about your shoes, mate--'n' then I was worried about Ross, was afraid you'd--but--Christ, I'll have to leave the country. You know all the best places--where should I go?"

"Settle down," Bodie told him. "God, Doyle, take a breath. Who'd the old geezer put on you?"

"Murphy."

Abruptly, Bodie's face cleared; he grinned, sun breaking through storm cloud. Doyle hadn't seen him so chipper since before the spoiling of his precious leather soles and uppers. Perhaps having the best-dressed feet in CI5 didn't seem so important in the larger scheme of things.

"Murph, is it. Relax. You're safe enough."

"Safe!"

"Yeah, Murph's thick as CI5 coffee, he'll never follow your tracks. We've got a few days before the Old Man gets impatient and assigns somebody competent."

"Like Susan...." Doyle shivered. Trying to get on full-time, that one. Always had her nose in a toxicology manual. Equalled his range scores as often as not. Just last week she'd taken up trick-roping, and twice he'd spotted her practising a hangman's knot. Susan scared him.

"Won't come to that," said Bodie with every appearance of confidence.

"But how--"

"You just leave it to me." Bodie braced one arm against the closed door. The blue eyes that always made Doyle feel weak were glowing with a warm inner light. "Look, Angelfish...was nice, what you tried to do...." He looped the other arm round Doyle's shoulders and gave him first a vigorous kiss, then one of the sweet, slow-lingering variety.

Doyle's jitters vanished. He had no legitimate cause to feel comforted or confident, but he did.

---

Next morning the Controller ordered both agents to his office. "You young thugs are in this together," he accused. "The pair of you, thick as thieves and guilty as sin. Bodie, I'd thought better of you. I'd thought better of you both."

A cold sweat sprang out on Doyle's upper lip. He cut his eyes at his partner, who didn't so much as glance his way but stood stiffly, stony-faced, as Cowley ranted on.

"You were seen by Agent 6.2, 3.7. After the fortune I've spent training and arming you, you aren't even a competent assassin. Upon my word, if I can't prove a case for you to answer, you'll spend the next year in refresher courses. As for you, 4.5--"

Bodie stirred in protest. "Sir, Doyle--"

"Aye, Doyle has an alibi, no doubt." Cowley's icy eyes flicked contemptuously over both of them. "We'll see if it holds up when Susan makes her report."

Doyle flinched. "Susan?"

"Susan is now handling the investigation. Agent 6.2 will serve as my driver and personal protection officer until this unfortunate affair is concluded and the two of you are safely behind bars. Which I've no doubt you soon will be. Nemo me impune lacessit," he intoned in a terrible voice. "Now get out!"

Back to the Gents', this time with Bodie doing the dragging. He took care of the flushing while Doyle turned taps. Then Doyle reached for Bodie and the two operatives clung together for reassurance in their alarm. They had been in tight corners before, but this one had an especially snug fit.

"Murphy again!" Bodie said under the loud rush of running water. "Thought the dozy bastard was investigating you--what does he mean by hanging about the weapons lock-up and putting me in the frame?"

"Never mind him," said Doyle rather frantically. "What did you do to the Cow?"

"Not much, just took a shot at him. Calculated trajectory and drop over distance, corrected for wind direction and velocity--God, Ray, I had him in my sights. Dunno what went wrong."

"You missed, that's what."

Bodie sucked penitently at his lower lip, then offered, "Winged the French ambassador's chief of security, though."

"Hell of a consolation, that. Bodie...what are we going to do?"

"With Susan on the case, we've only got two choices--give ourselves up or make a run for it. I hear Paraguay's nice this time of year."

What were the odds they'd be allowed to share a cell? Doyle decided he'd better brush up on his Spanish.

He practised all night.

---

"Hable más despacio," he was saying next morning while, across the desk, Bodie put the finishing touches on their back-up passports. "Quiero cortarme el pelo."

Bodie glanced up, frowning. "Not too short, Ray."

"Sí, right you are. Which way to the, er, taberna? Cereza, pronto."

"Cerveza," corrected Bodie, "por favor. Raimundo, amor mío, your acento needs work. Besides, you've already had the cereza, you greedy bugger. There are no more where that one came from." He held up the doctored passports for Doyle's inspection. "What d'you think?"

Doyle consulted his phrasebook. "Bello, querido. Perfecto."

A summons to the Controller's office cut short Doyle's efforts to improve his accent. Fearing arrest was imminent, he and Bodie were astonished and gloriously relieved when instead they were assigned to enquire into the demise of George Cowley.

"What happened?"

"He died, obviously," said the new Controller, rummaging through the former Controller's liquor supply. "Late last night. Went suddenly."

Bodie had come through, Doyle realized. No wonder he'd left so early last night. Off home to pack, he'd said. The daft article, going it alone when he could've had help for the asking--but that was his partner, always so endearingly protective of him. Keeping him out of it, slaving away on their passports, knowing all along they wouldn't be needed....

Heart swelling at the degree of commitment to their relationship revealed by Bodie's action, Doyle turned to his partner. He discovered Bodie gazing back at him, face radiant with love and admiration. A certain sensual languor about the so-blue eyes might have been the result of staying up all hours conducting an assassination, but Doyle chose to believe it had other cause.

"Just wait till I get you alone," he whispered. He found Bodie's answering smile all he could have wished--dazzling, doting, infinitely promising.

"Here," said the new Controller, thrusting several bottles into Doyle's arms. "You might as well have these. I'm not a Scotch man."

Reading the labels, Doyle pursed his lips in a silent whistle. "Thanks, Murph."

The Controller frowned. "Better make it Mr. Murphy from here on, 4.5, to keep things on a professional footing. Best to start off as you mean to go on."

"Hey, Mur--Mr. Murphy," said Bodie, "weren't you minding the Cow?"

"That reminds me...." Murphy drew an envelope from his pocket and presented it to Bodie. "According to Accounting, your expenses were shorted. This cheque for two hundred and thirty-eight pounds should see you squared away."

Bodie beamed. "Thank you, sir."

"A new broom sweeps clean, 3.7." Murphy waved them away. "Send in my next appointment on your way out, would you?"

3.7 and 4.5 withdrew. A moment later, Susan appeared in the doorway, lariat neatly coiled over her shoulder.

"Hello, darling. Any cause for concern?"

"None." Murphy smiled and beckoned her in. "Bodie believes Doyle saved their skins, and Doyle's convinced Bodie is responsible. They've a vested interest in muddying the waters. A few days, a week at the outside, and the case will be quietly closed. Natural causes."

"That explains the Cow's broken neck, but what about the strychnine?"

"Misadventure."

"And the six bullet holes?"

"Suicide."

"I'll get off scot free, then?"

"All three of you will," said Murphy. "Could've been much worse--lynching was a bit of overkill, wasn't it, my love?"

"Yes, I know." Susan was contrite. "I'm sorry, darling, I lost my temper. The cheese-paring old goat shouldn't have denied my expense claim--I simply saw red. After all, that was my best blazer. Wasn't it lucky you were the one minding him, though?"

"Lucky?" said Murphy. "Oh--yes, very. Listen, love, keep an eye on those two idle twits, would you? As long as it's all hearts and flowers and making sheep's eyes at each other, okay. If they look like making any real progress on the investigation, I want to know about it."

When Susan had shaken out a loop and gone, Murphy poured a generous three fingers' worth of Maker's Mark with which to lubricate his thoughts. If Doyle and Bodie couldn't manage to sweep Cowley's death under the rug, he'd need a fall guy. Thanks to the listening post in the Ladies', that'd be Bodie, if he had his druthers. Incompetent, was he? A dozy bastard, thick as CI5 coffee? But, depressing though the fact was, Bodie and Doyle were, after Susan, his best agents. He needed them.

Macklin, now.... Yeah. The perfect choice. Get rid of Macklin, close his eyes to a few fiddled expense claims, and he'd be assured of his agents' loyalty.

With the most pressing items of the day's agenda well in hand, Alpha One tipped back his predecessor's chair, put his feet up on his predecessor's desk, sipped his bourbon, and indulged himself in quiet contemplation of a Scot-free CI5.

-- THE END --

March 2003