The Professionals Circuit Archive - Building Justice	     Building
Justice

 

by DVS

  
 "Are they here yet?" Cowley's impatient voice demanded from within his
office.

"Yes, sir, just arrived," Betty replied with her characteristic calm, and
she waved the two agents towards the open door of the inner sanctum with a
flip of her hand which advised them to hurry.

Twenty minutes late and already guaranteed a healthy portion of their
superior's wrath, Bodie and Doyle stepped promptly into the office, only
to find Cowley now on the phone. Forced to wait in turn, each of the CI5
agents spent the time studying their boss, trying to judge his mood. Both
were curious as to why they had been asked to report an hour early, and
irritated the call had come late enough to make it impossible to arrive on
time.

Doyle tried to keep a yawn from floating up past his jaw, but eventually
had to put a hand up to his mouth and just let the thing happen so that he
could be done with fighting it. Bodie, annoyed, let an elbow fall into
Doyle's ribs with enough force to show how annoyed he was--because now he,
too, was fighting a yawn.

And of course, he was the one caught with his mouth open when Cowley
finally turned his attention to them.

"Sorry, sir," Bodie murmured.

Cowley did not have time for trivial matters. "Sit down," he ordered them
both. They sat. Cowley pulled out a brown folder from the stack before
him, slid his glasses onto his nose and began to speak as he opened the
folder.

"You're off the Iponni case for the moment. Turn the information you've
collected over to Jax before you leave here today. I have a new assignment
for you, something you two are best suited to handle." He pulled a pair of
photographs from the folder and handed them over. "This man has been
living in this country for at least thirty-five years, using the name
Robin Aubrey."

He paused while they looked over the photographs. They were of the same
man, but taken at least twenty years apart. In each, he wore a white shirt
and black pants, and he had obviously not stood for a portrait but was
caught unawares. One picture featured some sort of banquet hall or meeting
place, in the other, he was caught on his knees, ministering to some roses
in a small garden. He was a grey sort of man, with non-memorable features
and a plain face.

Doyle handed the pictures back, while counting back thirty-five years.
World War II? "A spy, is he?" he asked.

"A good guess, Doyle, but not quite there. We believe him to be an English
citizen, but with a German father. The father," Cowley consulted the
sheet, "was a man named Hans Wilhelm Shenk. He did not marry Aubrey's
mother." There was no censure in Cowley's words, only dry statements of
fact.

"And what makes Mr Aubrey of interest to CI5?" Bodie wanted to know,
handing the photographs back.

"We believe Aubrey was known in Germany, during the early war years, as
Der Schrecken."

"The Terror? Horror?" Bodie worked out, unearthing it from his slight
store of German.

"Exactly. The man is wanted for war crimes. Having established that Robin
Aubrey is most probably this individual, he has been detained and held for
transportation back to Germany, where there will be a trial. Problems,
however, are developing hourly in this case."

So of course he's turning it over to us, Bodie thought, and let a bit of a
sour smile escape. Doyle moved fractionally closer to him, expressing a
silent agreement.

"What sort of problems?" Doyle asked, when Cowley didn't continue.

"Unique ones. First, the man was not a member of the German military or
the government. He could claim dual citizenship, but as far as we know, he
never did. He travelled on an English passport, as an English citizen. He
was, as far as we can determine, a civilian, a student. There is some
indication that he was in that country to locate and meet his father, who
had abandoned the family when Aubrey was four years old. At any rate, he
remained in Germany as the war began, possibly because he had a well
paying job he didn't wish to leave. He was translating books from English
into German. This was before the modern copyright laws, but even at that
time it was a case of pure plagiarism. He also may have been translating
German pamphlets into English."

Cowley paused to take a sip from the half full tea cup at his elbow. From
his faint grimace, the two agents concluded it had grown quite cold. "He
was connected with the writing community, and by association, with a
segment of the arts and music fields as well. He had an active social
life, out every evening by all accounts."

Bodie picked up the photographs again. "Him?" It seemed hard to believe.

Cowley ignored that. "He disappeared from Germany late in 1943. Assumed
dead. However, that was also the time Der Schrecken ceased to operate."

"Operate?" Bodie asked, eyebrow flicked up as he asked the question.
Beside him, Doyle fought the urge to reach up and touch that odd spot on
Bodie's brows which so intrigued him. He remembered kissing it last night,
licking it and sucking at it while Bodie laughed, called him mad and tried
to push him away.

"Street name, code name, perhaps, for a man who turned in people to the
Nazi government. Accounts vary, but he was responsible for between two and
five hundred deaths, as most of the people he turned in were not seen
again."

"The Jews," Bodie said.

"Actually, although there were some Jewish individuals involved, he seems
to have had other targets. According to testimony, he betrayed," Cowley
pulled out a sheet to consult, "a family from India, sixteen severely
handicapped men, women and children in a private hospital, a group of
gypsy women who may or may not have been prostitutes, a Jewish banker and
family, and," he paused, "over two hundred homosexual men. These are the
cases documented or partially documented. There most certainly were more,
based on the amount of money he is estimated to have had at his disposal,
and assuming he was paid a set rate for each betrayal. He received,
apparently, modest pay for these services."

Beside him, Doyle felt Bodie go absolutely still. He was fighting a
coldness in the pit of his own stomach as well. It was all he could do to
keep his eyes on Cowley.

"It was by chance that Robin Aubrey was seen and identified last year, by
tourists. The case against him was assembled quite slowly, and he was only
arrested last month. There have been a number of delays as it was
established that these were crimes which could be prosecuted, and to give
the families of the victims time to come forward with statements and
proof. A segment of records has been produced which proves payments were
made...ach! You do not need all the details. It will suffice that you
understand that there is evidence enough to prosecute and we have been
asked to hold Robin Aubrey until special officers are sent from Interpol
to escort him to the trial, which is to take place in Berlin."

Cowley took another sip of the tea, shook his head and shoved the cup
aside and out of reach so that he would not be tempted again. "You are the
best qualified for the task of guarding Aubrey. He has," here a cool smile
touched Cowley's lips for a second, "escaped once. Last week. When MI6
were holding him."

Bodie's lips turned up as well. "One old man gave them the slip?" he
asked, well able to imagine how the other agency felt about that small
embarrassment, and quite glad to hear of their failure. He had no use for
MI6 or Willis. It was his fondest hope that he could see Willis's downfall
before he died. Or before Willis did.

"Quite. I understand Aubrey played on the sympathies of a homophobic agent
and then attempted to escape. He was soon recaptured, but by a policeman,
not one of MI6's own." Cowley's lips twitched. Doyle openly smiled, glad
his old mob had also managed to put egg on the face of MI6. He had his own
scores to settle with Willis and his goons. They had hurt Bodie, and were
thereby automatically on Doyle's list.

"I need not point out to you that there must not be another escape
attempt. I expect to turn over this prisoner on time and in good order. I
know I can count on you. We will be using a new safe house; get the keys
from Betty. Then go pick him up--this is the address--and wait for my
call. It should be 48 to 54 hours before he'll be collected."

"Why not just leave him with the police?" Doyle wanted to know. "Nice cell
should do the job of keeping him in."

"Because it is my understanding that there are elements who wish to
prevent him from being questioned, from going to trial. Someone else,
someone in this country, has secrets, connected to Aubrey's secrets, which
they wish to conceal. I have only a report from MI6 to rely on in this
matter," he added, frowning. It was a sad thing when you could not trust
the reports and the information from your own side, but as long as Willis
was in charge of that department, CI5 would never trust information from
that source again. "There are too many people who have access to a jail.
It will be better if he is guarded by people I know I can rely on
utterly."

"Perhaps MI6 made the report up just to get their hands on him," Doyle
said.

"Perhaps they *let* him escape," Bodie said bitterly, remembering his own
"escape" which they had planned to make fatal.

"Aye, and perhaps paranoia can cripple a man--or an organization--in the
end. For now, I want you to play a cautious game. If there is trouble, you
know what to do. If you are placed in the position of having to shoot
Aubrey, don't make it fatal. I do not want it said in the papers that we
killed an old, defenceless man. Which would be said, although he is in
good health and quite muscular for his age. Don't let his appearance fool
you. He is a dangerous man."

"So one of us has to watch for trouble from the inside and the other for
trouble from the outside. Easy," Bodie said, with light sarcasm.

The phone rang. Cowley dismissed them impatiently and turned his attention
to the instrument. They left at once, collecting papers and a key from
Cowley's secretary on their way out. She gave over the items impatiently,
having been just going in with another pot of tea.

"Must be nice, having someone wait on you hand and foot, delivering tea at
all hours, anticipating your every need," Bodie commented as they took the
lift down.

"True. D'you suppose that's why he never married? Gets it all at work?"
Doyle asked.

"All?" Bodie's eyebrow went up, his expression half scandalized, half
laughing. "Can you imagine Betty...."

"No. I can't!"

Bodie shook his head. "Problem is, I can. Can see her kneeling there
between his legs, sucking him off--very efficiently, mind you, our Betty
is efficient in everything!--while he gets on with the paperwork! On the
phone, perhaps, to the minister. He just has to listen and say "I see,"
and "Yes, of course you're right," every few minutes. Waste of time,
that--unless you can do something else at the same time!"

"You've a horrible mind, Bodie!"

"Ah, but if it weren't for my horrible mind...." Bodie let the rest of the
sentence trail away, as they were signing out.

He made Doyle smile, and that pleased Bodie. Both of them remembered quite
well where Bodie's horrible mind had gotten them. In bed. Together.

Because he was thinking of their sex life, Doyle said as they slid into
the car, "That will be more than two days, you know. Without."

His partner did not have to say without what. Bodie sighed. "Yeah. I
know."

"Two days. We'll need to take along a kit, and clothing. Have to stop by
my flat, and yours."

Bodie smiled. "So we will. My place first, or yours?"

"Mine's closer." Doyle was in the passenger seat, and Bodie was driving.
Bodie, hampered by the early morning traffic, still made excellent time,
and at this hour, at least there were parking spaces available in front of
Doyle's flat. Doyle opened the locks, while Bodie waited with growing
impatience. Once they were inside, and the locks in place again, they
headed straight to the bedroom. Doyle pulled down a hold-all from the
shelf in the closet and emptied it of sports equipment, filling it again
with items from his bathroom shelves, while Bodie sorted out enough
clothing for two days from the various drawers and packed it neatly.

And then Bodie stripped. Doyle, tucking a paperback book into the corner
of the bag--you never knew, after all--was inspired, upon looking up, to
do the same, almost tripping when he tried to move with the pants not
quite off his ankles. Bodie was laughing at him by the time Doyle finally
joined him in the bed, but he stopped when Doyle pounced and covered
Bodie's mouth with his own.

"It's my turn," Doyle whispered in Bodie's ear, when they finally came up
for air.

"Yeah. It is," Bodie agreed, his eyes wide with a mixture of boldness and
anticipation. Yet under that, Doyle could see the thread of nervousness.

"Third time's the charm," Doyle said. They had been lovers for months, but
they had started out with the simple joys which could be provided by
hands, slowly moved to the pleasures which a hot mouth could give, and
only this month had they dared the last, most exciting frontier. It was
still new, still a blend of naughty sin and fervent exploration.

Bodie had found his way into Doyle's body three times, first to take his
virginity, then, on another day, his exploration of a new position had
found them joined again. He'd been too close to the edge to know more than
just a few frantic strokes on that occasion. The third time had been last
night, when they both had too much to drink and had been forced to go
slowly, with fantastic results.

And Doyle had been twice in Bodie's body as well, popping his cherry with
one smooth deep stroke on the first time they had joined, making slow love
to him the second time and taking much more care, despite Bodie's moaning
and begging for deeper, harder stokes. Bodie had found an unexpected
affinity for sodomy. He had gone from scorn--real men don't allow that to
be done to them--to instant conversion. Just thinking about it caused him
to clench, below, as if he were closing around an invading cock.

Doyle had the cream they used, and he began to make Bodie ready,
slathering the stuff on Bodie's balls because Bodie loved to have them
rubbed and rolled by slick fingers. Then he moved behind, finding the
bunched nub of muscle and working to make it open for him.

How strange it was, to be here in the morning, with the curtains drawn but
the early light still diffusing through the fabric to lighten the room. To
feel and see the wide strength of Bodie from this angle, and smell cream
and musk and sweat, and sense the eagerness in the strong body before him.
He tried not to hurry, but Bodie was presenting, holding his own cheeks
wide awkwardly. Doyle braced himself, centring his cock on that pink
ruched target, feeling it give way before his press.

Bodie had to let go, to throw his hands forward to catch himself, brace
himself, and Doyle took hold of Bodie's hips for balance and pushed home
into Bodie's tight heat. Bodie moaned as the length of cock slid in,
gasped and grunted as Doyle wiggled, twisted, worked the hardness in as
far as it could go. Doyle felt the play on every inch of his cock, and it
sent a shiver through his whole body. The sweat popped out on his back and
neck, turning the curls at his nape wet in an instant.

And all the while, Bodie was making amazing sounds. When he wasn't
ordering Doyle to do it harder, deeper, he was fighting to say anything at
all. Half a word, sometimes, was all he managed, or just a bit of a
syllable, as if he had started to say something and been ambushed by
another thought. Plain grunts and gasps, all indicative of pure pleasure
and a plea for more, were followed by shivers and arching. It was like
playing a violin, each change of angle or pressure creating a different
sound, and it was heady, inspiring stuff. Doyle fucked energetically,
having to hold on tight as Bodie responded with equal enthusiasm; when
Bodie went rigid with orgasm he was at last still enough for Doyle to get
in the few strokes he needed as well before Bodie clenched down and came,
drawing it out of Doyle at almost the same moment.

They lay, Bodie face down on the bed, Doyle on top of him, still joined,
breathing like marathon runners at the end of the race, wet with sweat
where their bodies touched.

"You like it. Being fucked. You even like it more than fucking," Doyle
whispered against the heavy neck. He licked at a trickle of sweat, idly.
He felt powerful, still inside this strong big body. His lips nibbled at
Bodie's skin. "It's true," he said, the words muffled against Bodie. "You
want to be fucked all the time. I saw you look at the table in the
restroom. I know what you were thinking. You were thinking about bending
over it. About having every bloke in there line up and take turns poking
it into you!"

Bodie turned his head so that he wasn't face down anymore. "Just you, Ray.
It was only you I wanted in me." He contacted his muscles, feeling the
cock still in him, and sighed, remembering bliss, but it had the effect of
trying to expel Doyle's softened cock.

"Going to buy one of those vibrating dildos, so I can fuck it in and out
of you while I suck you off," Doyle promised, and felt the shudder of
reaction under him. Carefully, he lifted off and out of Bodie, the slight
wet sounds of their parting putting a stupid smile on his face--which
vanished as he caught sight of the clock.

Bodie looked up and saw it as well. "I need a shower."

"Me, too. We'll have to hurry, though, we still have to pick up your
clothing. Unless you want to settle for using my kit and wearing the stuff
you left over last week."

"Did you wash it, or leave it dirty?" Bodie wanted to know, slowly rolling
over and sitting upright.

"What do you think! One white shirt, one pair of brown, one pair black
trousers, one polo, black, one pair of socks--you can borrow a pair of
mine--and I can't find any of your pants. Have to borrow mine."

"I'd strangle and die," Bodie predicted.

"'Ve got a pair of red satin boxers with white hearts on it, never been
worn! I'll give you those!" Doyle said, and actually produced such an item
from a bottom drawer.

"Where did you get 'em?" Bodie asked, as they were thrown at his face. He
clawed them down and held them out before him with two hands, showing them
off to best advantage.

"Came anonymously in a Valentine's Day card years ago. Seemed a size too
big for me--wondered which lady had such exaggerated visions!"

"Never found out who it was sent 'em?" Bodie asked, folding them away in
the bag and going for the other clothing Doyle had mentioned. He knew Ray
was watching his every move. For some reason, Doyle liked to see him
naked, liked to see him move around the room without a stitch on. Bodie
thought about oiling his body up some night, working out a bit to pump up
and show his muscles off to best advantage. He knew instinctively it would
turn Doyle on, hard.

"No. Go shower, I'll finish up here."

Bodie did, soaping himself up well, invigorated to the point of almost
singing aloud in the shower, which he often did when alone. Bloody stupid,
really, sharing something as intimate as a bloke's cock up your arse and
then being too shy to sing where he might hear!

Just as he was clean and stepping out, Doyle came to take his place under
the water, and Bodie stood, drying off his body with sure, efficient wipes
of the thick towels Doyle favoured, watching Doyle scrub at his feet.
Funny, that, as his feet couldn't possibly have gotten dirty. But then,
people had habits after awhile, and they tended to turn showers into
rituals which they did not vary. He, himself, trained by two minute and
three minute military showers, tended to wash everything quickly, first
groin, then head, and afterwards going back and seeing to the other
details.

Dressed and ready, he led the way down to the car, bag in hand, while
Doyle followed with a box of provisions from his own kitchen. Doyle
insisted on stopping at several shops as well, buying his favourite brands
of tea and coffee, and chocolate for Bodie. Seldom did they have the
opportunity for such preparation, and they were both enjoying the luxury
of it.

Bodie was driving, as he often did, and making sure that Doyle didn't see
signs of the discomfort he was beginning to feel in his nether regions. In
the heat of the moment, on fire with lust and high with the excitement, he
felt nothing but pleasure. It was later, when his blood was cool and his
brain working again, that he felt the ache, felt the hollow place bored
into him by Doyle's thick flesh.

Would it change? With enough fucking, would the muscles stretch and
strengthen, as other parts of the body did with repeated use? Or would it
just become loose, so you didn't notice as much? He knew of no place to
find such things out, either. Good thing, though, he thought, that it's
just Ray I want. With lots of partners, things could get out of hand,
stretched, damaged, at a very fast rate. Ray was the only one he trusted
with his arse.

Monogamy actually has sound principles behind it, he realized, as he nosed
into traffic, if it reduced wear and tear on certain body parts. The
thought was such a shock to him that he almost didn't see the bicycle
which cut in front of him, causing him to touch the brakes with more force
than usual. Doyle gave him a funny look, but Bodie hardly noticed.

Bodie, who had often had more than one girl at a time--one for every day
of the week, a few years ago, he recalled--had never understood why anyone
could even think of limiting sexual adventures to just one person. One had
lots of friends as a matter of course, so why not lots of lovers? Now,
however, it was different. But *why* should being the one taking a lover
into his body make it different?

"Penny for 'em," Doyle said quietly.

"It's stupid," Bodie stated, but said anyway, "You believe in monogamy?"

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"It's not for everybody." Doyle looked over at him. "I never thought it
was your sort of thing, for example."

"I'm giving it serious thought."

"You'd better be," Doyle said in a threatening voice. He was not joking at
all.

"Like that, is it?" Bodie asked.

"You disagree?" Doyle asked belligerently.

"Actually, no." He made his turn. "Nobody but you has ever been up my
arse. Nobody but me has ever been up yours. It's...pure," he said. At his
choice of word, Doyle let loose with a filthy giggle. Bodie ignored it,
continuing to try to explain. "It's worth keeping that way."

"Which means promises and commitments," Doyle warned him.

"Formal ones?" Bodie wanted to know.

"Could be. Fancy wearing white?" Doyle asked with a grin.

"Black. Both of us. Leather." Even as he suggested it, Bodie was laughing.

"Church wedding?"

Bodie shook his head. "Nightclub, probably more like it. Or mountaintop.
Pagan rituals."

"What, jumping over fires?" Doyle suggested. "And risk burning your best
assets?"

Bodie shook his head. "That's religion. I don't want religion."

"Well, what do you want? Besides a cake? I know you'll want the cake,"
Doyle told him.

"Cake? Good idea mate. Bubbly as well, and wonderful food."

"You don't want a wedding, you want a banquet!"

"That's what we're talking here? Wedding?" Bodie said, in the tones of one
who has no idea of how he ended up on the subject.

"Monogamy," Doyle said helpfully. "Means having only one sex partner or
love interest."

"I know what it means, Doyle!"

"Promises bother you?"

"We don't need 'em. You know how I feel!"

"And you know how I feel. Promises just translate it into something you
can hear and see. Our whole civilization is built on contracts. It's what
they invented writing for. It's in our genes...."

Bodie laughed, finding the pun. Frustrated, Doyle hit him on the arm,
hard.

"Careful, mate, or you'll have us off the road," Bodie said.

"We turn up here. On the left," Doyle said, in a voice that was perfectly
calm, almost careless, even. Bodie wasn't fooled, and he didn't let his
partner change the subject.

"Do you really want a wedding?" He couldn't quite keep the horror at the
idea out of his own voice, envisioning one or either of them in frothy
white. It didn't suit his image, and he hadn't thought it fit Doyle's,
either.

Doyle answered, "Not even a ring. Be stupid, that. But I
want...something."

"A romantic at heart?"

"If you like."

"I suppose we can come up with...something. We've two days of being good
little lads on this assignment. We can use the time to think up what would
suit."

Doyle nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

"Enthusiasm. It's a wonderful thing," Bodie intoned.

"Just thinking of the assignment. Minding the sort of animal who'd do that
to somebody else."

"To gays."

"And children and women and cripples, by Cowley's account. Preyed on all
the helpless, didn't he?"

"Gays aren't exactly helpless, from what I've seen. Just out-numbered."

"You know what I mean. They didn't have anyone they could go to for help."

"He's going to trial."

"After a nice peaceful life. Decades of it. Not fair."

"Haven't had the trial yet. He might be innocent."

Doyle shrugged. He wanted to see the man for himself.

Bodie decided to change the subject. "About Cowley," he began, cautiously.

"What about him?" Doyle demanded.

"I could be wrong..." Bodie said, eyes straight ahead on the traffic.

"Frequently are, but do get on with it," Doyle urged. "We're almost
there."

"He knows about us." Good thing he was driving. A choke and a jerk like
that would have had them up the nearest pole.

"How do you figure that?" Doyle wanted to know after a deep swallow and a
valiant attempt to get his breath back.

"He picked us. Said we were best suited for the job."

Doyle shook his head. "Because of our previous experiences with MI6--and
because we're the best team he has," he added without much modesty.

"Because he knows *we* won't be swayed by homophobic rhetoric. He thinks
we'll have some vested interest here."

"You're daft. We haven't been together for long, and we were circumspect.
How could he know? Don't even spend the night, most of the time."

Bodie grimaced. "Something I'd like to change. Did you get that
application for shared housing?"

"It's at home. Under 'Reason for Request' I put down that we wanted to
save time and cut down the mileage."

"Good. Bet he knows you picked up the application." Bodie slowed to begin
the search for a parking space. The opportunities did not look good.

"Go directly 'round the back. There's a place to park for those shifting
prisoners," Doyle instructed.

"I always get asked to move on and have to flash the card at them. Very
boring."

"My heart bleeds," Doyle said. "About your crazed idea about Cowley...."

"Oh, he knows, but he's decided to ignore it, even use it. Could rely on
us utterly, isn't that what he said?" Bodie wanted to know.

"You're taking it out of context!" Doyle protested as the car came to a
halt. Bodie pulled his ID out of his pocket, got out of the car, locked
it, and pointed out the young constable who was already heading their way.
Doyle grinned. "It's how you look, mate! Suspicious!"

"Too handsome to be one of your lot, that's all it is," Bodie said with
the proper amount of pity for those not born with his natural beauty.

As soon as the man came near, they dropped their banter and became all
business. The young officer escorted them in, drawn more by the mystique
and glamour he perceived in them than by any real need they had for the
company. It took over an hour of verifications and seeing this person and
that before they were escorted to a cell where one plain grey man sat,
waiting.

"Doesn't look like a killer," Bodie said in a low voice, to Doyle.

"Probably never killed a fly. Just...told the one with the swatter where
the fly was. All the same to the fly." Doyle's whisper caused the man to
look up. He had neutral eyes in an unexceptional face. He could not have
heard what Doyle said, but he knew he was being discussed, and a sharpness
came to him as he stood up.

"Will you want cuffs on him?" the jailor asked, eyes going from one CI5
man to the other.

"No. We'll want a bit of nylon cord, though, about four foot long," Bodie
said.

The man grunted, and said, "Ask for that at the desk."

They did. They waited ten minutes while it was produced. Bodie used it to
tie one hand of the prisoner, then to run the cord through the back belt
loops and tie the other hand. People remembered if you took a bound man
into a house in daylight. This, with the man's suit coat on, showed he was
bound only in the awkward moments when he was being put in or taken out of
a car.

"It's not hard to get out of this--but it does slow a man down," Bodie
said as Doyle was bending over and signing the last of the seven sets of
required forms and papers. He forced himself not to let his eye linger on
the wonderful curves Doyle was displaying. It wasn't that difficult,
really, if he kept his mind on what he was doing. He made himself watch
the prisoner instead.

Robin Aubrey was not looking at anything in particular, but Bodie had the
impression that the man was well aware of everything around him, from the
gun under Bodie's arm to the number of men between him and the door.
Knowing there was no chance to overcome such odds, he was presenting a
mild and cooperative air, but Bodie knew in his bones that it was a
facade. His internal alertness cranked up a notch after only a few minutes
in the man's presence.

It was so easy not to see him. He was the clone of every elderly man in
the corner of the pub, in the park, on the bus. Nothing to make him
memorable at all, and he was well aware of it. He ought to have on a
hat--he was the sort of man who would wear one, and he had grown up in an
era when a hat was an essential part of outdoor wear.

"He's all yours," said the officer at the desk with a final scrawl on the
bottom line. He folded all the papers together into a packet and handed it
over. Doyle thanked him politely as he took them.

All playing the game, Bodie thought impatiently. He moved ahead, checking
the way, looking for trouble, opening the car door. Prisoner in the back
first, then Doyle. Bodie would drive alone in the front, like a chauffeur.
Nice short drive, light traffic. Bodie hummed tunelessly while he drove,
the picture of careless ease. His glances in the mirror were so casual,
his air so relaxed that the only reason he got a second look from those
they passed was because of his handsome face. He took the scenic route,
checking for a tail at every corner.

They reached the safe house. It was a modest, modern place, too new to
have any character. The architect had delusions, but they were small
ones--narrow windows that went from ceiling to floor and, inside, one wide
open area of hall, room, and kitchen, and the bedroom up a short series of
white steps, and with stained glass on one whole side so that it was more
a loft than a room--and it was easy to see inside.

"Where do you suppose the old man got hold of this?" Bodie murmured as he
passed Doyle on the way through to check all the rooms. Doyle flashed a
grin at him but did not have time for a reply.

"All clear," Bodie said on his way back. "Back door opens onto a wonderful
parking space. I'm going to move the car." Doyle nodded, and directed the
prisoner to sit in the comfortable chair beside a bookcase which held a
pitiful few paperbacks.

"Are you going to untie me?" the man asked. It was the first time he had
spoken. He was polite, and his voice was unexceptional.

"When he's back," Doyle said, not looking at him. He exuded an air of
deigning to speak only because he wished to, and not as a favour to his
prisoner. "Stay there," Doyle added. "You don't get up unless you ask
first. You don't go to the bathroom alone. If you're a good boy, we'll let
you eat with a fork--eventually."

"Ah. Well, at least it's more attractive than my last prison," the man
said. Bodie came through, hands full, and went back for the other box.
When he came back again, he came to sit with the prisoner while Doyle put
things away. Picky bastard, Doyle. Wanted things just where he wanted
them, and lined them up with military precision. He would also check the
drawers for knifes and silverware, and count them--three times a day.

"Stand up," Bodie said, and his nimble fingers freed the man from the
nylon cord, which was put away in Doyle's bag. "Stay away from the windows
and the door. We have television. We choose the programme and how loud it
is. You don't go to the bathroom alone. You don't get near the phone. If
someone calls or comes to the door, you keep quiet. Is there anything you
don't understand?"

"No."

"Sit down. Stay there."

"I think I should tell you that I intend to cooperate in every way,"
Aubrey said with extreme politeness. "I was wrong, before. To run away,
you know but I must...I was afraid. I am not the criminal they seek, you
must understand how strange it is for me to be in this position. I've
decided that the best way to prove my innocence is to go along with them,
to let them have the trial. The truth will come out then. I...." He
faltered when Bodie made no move to stop his monologue, but merely stared
at him with eyes which looked more black than blue.

Doyle came up behind them. "Don't annoy him," Doyle told Aubrey. "He's
enough of a bastard in his normal state, but a bloody pain in the arse
when he's annoyed." It was a warning, but there was pride there, too, and
the promise that Bodie would be allowed free rein for his annoyance to be
expressed.

"I see." There was a thread of distaste in the tone, something which
assured the two CI5 agents that he found them both to be at the least,
uncivilized. Curious reaction for a man who had sold hundreds of people
into an early death.

Doyle smiled. It was a cold smile, the one usually seen by those he had
just busted. "You should have stayed with MI6, much more your sort." Then,
without changing expression, he snapped out, "You don't get up without
permission. You don't go to the kitchen."

"I understand."

Doyle gave a short nod. "Tea in a few minutes," he said, more to Bodie
than to their prisoner. The phone rang. Bodie went to answer it. From this
half of the conversation, Doyle knew that it was Cowley. Bodie rang off,
turned, and flicked his wrist, showing two fingers. Doyle nodded. Check in
every two hours, Bodie was telling him. He went to get the tea.

Bodie had his usual mug, and Doyle his china cup. They found a plain white
one in the cupboard for Aubrey, who took the offered tea with a murmured
thank you and sipped it gingerly.

"Quite good!" he exclaimed, startled into saying it aloud. "I'm quite
grateful," Aubrey added, taking another sip.

"Too kind," Doyle said wickedly, mocking. He had control of the teapot,
making it clear that boiling hot tea was a weapon he would not give Aubrey
access to, and he never poured in any particular pattern. They drank tea
until the pot was empty, and then first Doyle and then Bodie used the
clean white bathroom. Doyle then escorted the prisoner for the same
privilege. He did not avert his eyes or pretend any modest disinterest,
but stared as the man unfastened his trouser and stood in front of the
toilet. Aubrey ignored him as best he could, giving all his attention to
the task. He washed his hands at length afterwards, too carefully.

He's studying the place, Doyle realized. Doyle let him, wanting the man to
know that it was impossible to escape. There was no window here. No
weapons.

Bodie had spent the time while they were in the bathroom putting their bag
in the bedroom and making a pot of tea, as well as opening a package of
lemon biscuits. He had taken a look out of each of the windows and was now
turning on the television.

"Already?" Doyle said with mock horror.

"Just looking," Bodie protested, but he did settle down to watch, with
Aubrey beside him on the sofa, and Doyle in a matching chair. Bodie was
slightly uncomfortable from the ache in his nether regions. If they had
been alone, he would have mentioned it by now, and Doyle would tease him
mildly and inquire as to how he felt at regular intervals, and jokingly
offer to kiss it better. Bodie frowned at the screen, resenting that the
other man kept them both silent and circumspect.

And in this place, there wasn't even a spot for a private peck on the
cheek except for the bathroom, and if they were both in the bathroom,
nobody was watching Aubrey. He sighed. Doyle brought him fresh tea, and
Bodie thanked him with both his voice and his eyes. Doyle's eyes answered
back, warm and sparkling with the buried affection.

Eventually, Doyle prepared a meal, working on a fairly elaborate menu
because he had the time to do it right and because he was in the mood to
indulge his partner's love of good food. They ate at the white table off
red plastic plates, with flatware which had blue enamelled handles, and
they drank from plastic glasses because it was safer. Aubrey said kind
words about the meal, and Doyle graciously accepted the praise.

Civilized. A round of bathroom visits, and then Bodie was settled with the
prisoner in front of the box again, while Doyle cleaned up. Usually, they
did it together, Bodie washing, Doyle drying because he knew exactly where
he wanted things to go, even when they were in Bodie's flat. Bodie missed
it, missed the teasing, and the pinches and promises. Washing up was the
beginning of foreplay for them. Bodie, who had always disliked the
chore--it took much longer to clean everything up than it took to
eat--actually found himself enjoying it lately, to the point where he felt
vaguely robbed at being forced to sit here with this grey stick of a man
and watch the sports.

The evening drew to a close. Doyle took a coin out of his pocket, tossed
it in the air, and then trapped it against his arm. He cocked an eye at
Bodie.

"Tails," Bodie said, thinking of tails, but not quite in the way the
situation suggested.

Doyle lifted his hand and looked. "Tails it is," he agreed.

"I'll take first watch," Bodie said. They would divide the night into six
two hour shifts. In other situations it would be four shifts, but in this
case it was not necessary--and both of them hated nights with only four
hours sleep.

Doyle nodded, and went and brought sheets, a blanket and a pillow out to
the front room, where he unfolded the sofa and made the bed there--before
going to the bedroom to sleep.

"All yours," Bodie said to Aubrey, pointing to the sofa bed.

"I say!" the man said, surprised.

"You stay where we can watch you. Hope you can sleep through the telly,"
Bodie said with false solicitousness.

The man's lips thinned but he did not reply to that. Instead, he asked,
"Have you any pyjamas I can wear?"

"Sorry. You'll have to sleep in the nude. Or in your pants, or in your
clothes." Bodie was unsympathetic, in spades.

"Ah." Without other comment, the man sat, slid off his shoes, and then his
black stockings, followed by his tie, shirt and trousers. Finally, wearing
a thin white t-shirt and white boxer shorts, he slid under the sheet.
Bodie turned off a few lights, changed the channel and settled down in the
chair. It was quiet.

It stayed quiet through the first shift. When Doyle came out, yawning and
sleepy-eyed and beautiful, it was all Bodie could do to keep his hands and
his mouth to himself. It was nice, though, to lay down into the hollow Ray
Doyle had made in the bed, to smell the scent of his partner in the
pillow. He set the small alarm clock and fell asleep before he had time to
properly appreciate it.

It seemed he was awakened only a minute later, but the clock assured him
two hours had passed. This time, they shared a brief brush of hand against
hand as they passed each other. It meant more than it should have.

The old man was awake, and asked to use the bathroom, and Bodie went
along, bored, but alert. Afterwards, Aubrey didn't go back to sleep, but
asked for tea. Bodie made the man sit in a specific chair in the kitchen
area, and he made the tea swiftly.

"I don't like homosexuals," the man said, after the first sip, "I've never
hidden that. But I don't know why they think I'm this man they...."

"Belt up."

"Pardon?"

"Close your mouth and keep it that way. Unless you've got something to say
so vital you're willing to risk losing a few teeth over it."

"I...very well. You are correct, it is not my concern."

Oh, well done, Bodie thought, admiring the way the man's turn of phrase
held just a hint of dire warning. Okay, mate, I'll play your game. For
now. "What's not your concern?" he asked in a belligerent voice.

"I'm sorry, I really should not have...."

"Just spit it out," Bodie ordered.

"It's about your...co-worker."

"Doyle? What about him?" Bodie wanted to know. What was this old sod up
to?

"He's...one of them."

"One of what?" Bodie asked obligingly.

"A homosexual. I can tell. I've always been able to tell. That's why
they've connected me with that man in Germany. He could tell, too. Only he
acted on it, they tell me, where I have only used the skill to remove
myself from the vicinity of such a person."

"Doyle. Right." Bodie laughed, a genuine laugh, even while he mentally ran
through his memories of the evening and tried to think of anything which
could have given Doyle away.

"I assure you, it is quite true. They have small little ways which give
them away. You saw how at home he is in the kitchen?"

"You'd be eating eggs three times a day if he weren't."

"The way he's put together, and his eyes. It all tells the story. You must
be careful of him."

Trying the old divide and conquer trick, Bodie decided. With considerable
skill, too. Under other circumstances, with other partners, it might just
work. "Oh, I'm careful of anyone who can shoot the way he does. Or is that
one of the signs, too?" Bodie asked, letting amusement show.

"Oh, I'm sure he has his...skills. But they...the homosexuals, you know,
they have a compulsion to...sexual activity. If he does not have an
outlet...he might feel the need to...."

"Doyle has a reputation with the ladies," Bodie said dryly. "I doubt
either one of us has anything to worry about. He's always stealing my
birds," he said with trumped up irritation. He remembered how he had felt,
in the early days, when Doyle would half-inch a girl away from him, and
how he had returned the favour just as often.

"Protective coloration, I assure you. Many of them hide their perversions
behind a normal facade. Some, indeed, have an equal affinity for men and
women, and use innocent women--ladies--for...odd purposes."

"Know about it firsthand, do you?" Bodie wanted to know.

"Yes. It is quite painful to me, but...my father...my father was one of
them."

"Your father!" Bodie worked to put the right note of amazed horror into
his voice.

"He left us when I was just a baby, for...a man."

"No!" Bodie thought he may have overdone it, and asked quickly, "How do
you know? Maybe your mum just told you that. Abandoned women, they get
vicious sometimes. I know," he said, memory supplying him with some
visions of very angry women he had known through the years. Most of them,
he had to admit, had some basis for their anger. He'd not been good at
relationships. Before Doyle.

"Oh, I investigated it quite thoroughly. My father had gone to France with
the man. I tracked him down, you see. I was over on the continent at the
time they say I was, and yes, I was asking questions, discovering about
the whereabouts of homosexuals. But I wasn't the one who betrayed all
those poor people. Why should I? I was just looking for my father."

"Why?" Bodie asked flatly.

"Pardon?"

"Why look for your old man? He didn't want you." The cruelty was
deliberate. Bodie wanted to see if he could goad the man into stupidity,
into revealing what he was up to.

"I wanted to know why. I didn't understand, you see. My mother was
beautiful, I was...a good boy. Why did he leave us? I didn't understand,"
he repeated, and there was an echo of that confused little boy in the old
man's light voice.

"Did you find out?" Bodie asked.

"Eventually. It was difficult. I had to go to many towns, ask questions in
several languages. It did improve my French, and my German; until that
point it had been just school work. The only way to learn a language is to
speak it. The problem was, my father had not gone away to be with a
man--he had gone to be with a hundred men. I would hear of him, and find
when I arrived only an abandoned lover--most of whom were unhappy enough
with my father to be willing to give me clues as to where he might have
gone next."

"And?"

"I found him living with a man my own age, perhaps even younger, in a
small ugly flat in Berlin. He welcomed me warmly enough, but wanted
nothing to do with me or my mother. I asked him my questions. He was
brutally honest. My mother had appealed to him because she had a bit of
money coming, and he stayed as long as the money lasted. He had not wanted
a child, and had tried to have her...dispose of me before birth. And then,
he said that as I was there, I was welcome to stay--he had heard there was
a particular thrill in...ah, incest. That wasn't the phrase he used, of
course. My father was a crude man."

"He just wanted to shock you into going away," Bodie told him.

"If so, then he was successful. I left. However, I didn't have enough
funds to return home to England, and was forced to work there for a few
months to gain the money I needed."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Bodie asked, refilling their cups.

"To warn you, of course. I see that you do not believe me about your
partner, but I could not rest unless you knew. I learned so much about
such creatures in my search for my father. I found not one of them who had
a single virtue at all."

"Except the ones who helped you find your father."

"Do you suppose they helped me out of kindness? No, each of them only
thought to gain a revenge upon my father. They were motivated by a
small-spirited need to hurt."

"Oh," Bodie said, trying to keep his lip from twitching and showing that
he was amused. He was rather sure Aubrey was sowing seeds of suspicion,
and the old man did not know exactly what sort of infertile ground he was
dealing with. "What do you think I should do about it?" he asked.

"Only be very careful. That is all you can do--until he reveals himself."

Bodie had a mental image of Doyle 'revealing himself' and it was probably
not the one Aubrey had. He tried not to think of it, but considered
instead what he had been told. The story of Aubrey's father rang true, and
it was obvious that Aubrey had based his views of gays on bitter personal
experience. It would do no good to tell him that gays and bisexuals were
any other way, for his mind had been made up half a century ago.

It was also clear to him that this man had motive for turning in
homosexuals to the Nazi prisons. He had a hatred for his father, he had
knowledge of the men who had been his father's lovers. His rage and
disappointment had tipped him over into an insanity and he had struck back
the only way he could. Bodie wondered if one of the men betrayed and sent
to die had been Aubrey's father. Maybe Cowley would know. Or was Aubrey
subtle? Had he let his father live, but let him know enough to lay a
burden of guilt. These lovers of yours die because they loved you....
Although daddy seemed to have been an insensitive ass at the very least.

"It won't work. I've known him for years."

"As you wish," the man replied mildly. "I think I will go back to bed
now."

Bodie followed him over, tea in hand, to take up his position in the
chair, and when he thought the man was asleep, he dimmed the lights and
did the rounds of the windows. He thought about the hurt of a young child,
about how it could turn and twist inside and come out as something even
worse than the sin of the parent, and he had a sort of sympathy for young
Aubrey--which lasted just until he thought of how he would feel if
marching brown-shirts came for him, for Doyle. The thought of forced
labour, mad experiments and gas ovens turned his stomach. All that pain,
terror and death, aimed at children, at ethnic groups, at....

Us. Bodie had no use for that sort of thing. He believed in a
straightforward fight, in enemies he could see. Oh, he admired a man who
had a wider view, men, like Cowley, who could double and triple think. But
then, men like Willis had that same ability. Willis, with his flexible
morality, his any method justifies the means. Bodie's hand curled into a
fist as he stood looking out the window into the quiet street. Willis had
more in common with Aubrey than either probably realized. Both deserved a
bullet, and in one of life's little ironies, they were on opposite sides
of the fence.

Bodie glanced at his watch, and then at Aubrey. Twenty more minutes until
he and Doyle switched. He yawned, and checked the street again. There was
one more car out there than there had been last time he checked, but it
was dark.

The hand on his watch moved too slowly, but at last he heard Doyle in the
bathroom, the muted sounds of water signalling when he was about to
emerge. Bodie waited, curbing his impatience, until Doyle came out.

"How is it?"

"Quiet," Bodie told him. "One more car out front."

"Good night."

Bodie met his eyes, telling him that any night he didn't spend in bed with
Doyle was not good. "Yeah. He's all yours. Treat him gently, he's given to
flights of fancy."

Doyle laughed, checked the prisoner and went to make his tea. Before he
could pour a cup, the man on the couch was up and announcing that he would
like to use the bathroom.

Doyle sighed and went to escort him there. All that fuss, and for little
result. But that happened when you got old, he thought. He wasn't
surprised when the man joined him at the table, pushing forward his cup in
mute request.

"Thank you. Your tea is excellent," Aubrey said, after his first sip.
Doyle said nothing, and his expression did not invite further
conversation.

After a moment, Aubrey said, "Your friend and I had an interesting
conversation while you slept. Because of the nature of the charges against
me, we discussed...homosexuality." He paused delicately.

Doyle affected supreme indifference.

"Did you know...he's one of Them?"

"Do you know how much it's going to hurt when I remove your balls?" Doyle
asked in pleasant, conversational tones.

"It's you he wants. You were all he talked about. Perhaps he doesn't even
know how much it shows. He...." Aubrey paused when Doyle flowed to his
feet and advanced on him. He straightened. "I'm sorry. I'll say no more. I
thought I was doing you a favour, but as I see you've no wish to hear it,
I'll say no more. Excuse me. I shall return to bed," Aubrey said, and
taking one more deep swallow of tea, he did so.

Doyle was left alone to think about what the old man had said. He doubted
either he or Bodie had given any indication of how things were. It was
more likely the old bastard was trying to drive a wedge between the two
agents, suggesting the worst accusations he knew in order to manipulate
their reactions. There's some it would work on, Doyle thought. It was
funny he was trying it on with them, considering that, of all the security
agents in CI5--they might be the only pair who were....

Or, not so funny at all. It was the kind of accusation which could kill a
career, damage a relationship. Aubrey had no way of knowing it was true.
Did he? Did it show now, that Doyle found his pleasure in bed with a man,
that the man was Bodie? Bodie said George Cowley had sussed it out. Maybe
there were signs, maybe he had changed somehow?

He shook his head. No, his instincts said he hadn't changed, not in any
way others could detect, and he knew Bodie worked hard--and
successfully--at maintaining their usual relationship in public. They had
always joked with each other, always shoved each other and horsed around.
Nothing changed, and no way for this vicious man to know that they were
lovers.

Aubrey wanted them at each other's throats, more concerned with watching
each other than watching him, or he wanted to bring them down with him in
sheer meanness. A man who turned in hundreds of people to the authorities
liked having power, liked ruining lives. If Aubrey could not hurt them,
then he at least wanted to leave chaos in his wake. Doyle tried to think
like Cowley. What advantage was this man trying to gain? What game was he
playing? Did he have accomplices, people who would try to free him?

Doyle was under the impression that Aubrey was a loner, that he had always
worked alone. That might not be right. But what could he be working
towards? Freedom? Or just one last chance at irritating the authorities
which were bringing him to justice?

Doyle, restless, went from window to window, and at each he stood a long
time, looking out. Mentally, he worked out what he would do if attack came
from this direction, or that. What he would do if a bomb blew open the
door. Where to crouch for best protection if the door burst in at this
very moment and an assault team roared in, guns blazing.

What to do if there was a quiet knock at the door.

He went back to his tea. The house was quiet. Bodie was, very faintly,
snoring, and Doyle smiled, remembering their first argument after they had
started spending nights together. Bodie hadn't believed he snored. None of
his girlfriends had ever complained, he had said hotly.

"I'm not one of your girlfriends!" Doyle had retorted, and they had stared
at each other, the air alive with tension, before Bodie had burst into
laughter. They had ended the evening making love, sixty-nine, the cock
between his lips telling each man that no, this was not a girlfriend. The
full mouth and the nudge at the back of the throat reminded them with each
thrust that this was not a woman with whom they made love.

Doyle moved, awkwardly aware that remembering making love to Bodie was
causing an unfortunate reaction in his pants. Not the time or the place,
he sternly informed his nether regions. Fortunately, his groin cooperated.
Doyle listened to the night sounds. The man on the sofa bed turned,
seeking a more comfortable spot.

Doyle wished he had thought to bring a radio.

He hated minding. Hated most stake-outs. Obbos. Watching, when there was
nothing to watch. Too bad so much of the job was like this.

Sound of a car door outside. He went to the window, watched lights go on,
a car pull away. Not the best safehouse Cowley had ever come up with. Who
selected these damn things anyway? Some of them were eventually used as
flats for agents. It would be nice to live here. With Bodie. Get a huge
king-sized bed up there and the place would be perfect.

No chance. If they did get to share, it would be a nasty bedsit at the top
of ten flights of stairs, or some small hole with no windows. Punishment
for daring to want to share it with a man.

Pessimistic tonight, aren't you, Doyle?

It kept him from thinking about the day. About how he had fucked Bodie.
Like screwing a wildcat. Memory put a smile on his face. Bodie really did
love it. Macho stud Bodie, demanding and dominant, even in the matter of
his own submission. 'Fuck me harder, dammit, harder, get it in there.
Pound it in, I want to feel you in there!" Ghostly echoes of the words
Bodie had said were enough to get Doyle going, and he restlessly moved
again, checking doors, distracting his mind.

Eventually, he resorted to mild exercise, to running in place and knee
bends to get his blood moving into his brain. Fortunately, just as he was
fading again, it was time to change. Bodie, yawning but alert, saw that
their guest appeared to be asleep and risked a pat on Doyle's butt which
was, in any case, hidden by the low light. Doyle gave him a cheerful two
fingered salute which told him to knock off the funny stuff, and embraced
the bed with enthusiasm.

It seemed he hardly had his eyes closed when he felt Bodie's hand on his
shoulder, shaking him awake. "Whuu?" he asked, rather stupidly.

"We're being watched." Bodie whispered, "I called it in. A car is coming
for us. Ten minutes." Bodie was gone before the last word crossed his
lips. Doyle sat up, said a bad word when he saw the time, and forced
himself into the bathroom. An empty bladder and cold water on the face
could work wonders on a man's outlook on life. He grabbed his bag and took
the steps two at a time.

Downstairs, Bodie had packed up all their things into the boxes, and
stacked everything by the back door. Their 'guest' was rousing, staring at
them with blinking confusion.

"Get your clothes on," Bodie ordered Aubrey, adding, "Quietly, and without
putting on the lights." When the other was dressed, Bodie stayed with him,
while Doyle watched out the window at the car which held two men. He
hadn't been able to see anyone watching the back, but that didn't mean no
one was there.

"Show time," Bodie said from his post at the kitchen window. Like a black
cat in shadows, he moved to the door and eased it open. He nodded to
Doyle. Two men came in as three went out, a process which took less than a
minute. Bodie driving, with Doyle and Aubrey crouched down in the back,
the car eased down the alley and turned away from the building. Bodie saw
no one following, but he took no chances. He stopped once, in the
blackness between two buildings, waiting, watching.

"You can get up now," Bodie told his passengers half an hour later.

"Agh," Doyle moaned, straightening slowly, a hand on the back of his neck.

"Is this necessary?" Aubrey asked querulously. Neither answered him, but
Doyle put a warning hand over his mouth, and the man became quiet. In
front, Bodie opened the glove box and pulled out a piece of paper, which
he read, folded, and handed to Doyle, who read it, re-folded it and handed
it back.

An hour later, they met Jax, in a car park, trading their car for a dark
van in twenty seconds flat and without a word being exchanged. They drove
one, saying nothing. Morning came, traffic increased, and they lost
themselves in the streams of cars.

As soon as the shops opened they picked up coffee and pastry, eating it as
they drove, and by mid-morning they were trading their clothes and shoes
for secondhand, purchased in a dingy small shop Doyle knew from his days
on the beat. Their own clothing and Aubrey's they posted back to CI5. When
they came out, the van was gone, and they spent the next two hours
exploring the joys of public transportation. Lunch was fast food,
literally eaten on the run as they walked towards the tube.

Sometimes Bodie stopped and consulted the paper. Twice he checked his
watch and stopped to make a phone call.

Any time Aubrey opened his mouth to ask or protest, Doyle or Bodie would
demand silence. After noon, it became clear that the older man was going
beyond tired and into the realms of exhaustion. He had been kept too busy
to be troublesome, but now was becoming a definite drag on their speed.

In a car park near several very busy intersections there was another van,
different in colour from the one they had before, but operating from the
same key. They were heading north into a light rain, Bodie driving and the
other two stretched out on the carpeted floor of the back. Two hours
later, at a transport cafe, Bodie and Doyle traded spots, changed course,
and continued on.

In late afternoon they stopped at a small rural hospital, where Aubrey was
x-rayed and given a complete physical by a gruff and rotund country doctor
who had apparently had a very trying day. Aubrey protested, but no one
responded to his demands for explanations.

The three ate heartily at a local pub and then they took to the road
again, this time with Doyle at the wheel and Bodie in the back with
Aubrey. It had been hard to keep conversation to the minimum, but mindful
of the instructions in the note, both Bodie and Doyle had managed to do
it. It was only when forced to silence that Doyle realized how much they
did talk during an average day together. Jokes, comments, observations,
complaints and instructions usually flowed between them in a steady
stream. Now there was a silence, not uncomfortable, but definitely
unnatural.

Aubrey hardly seemed to realize that another bloke was sleeping right
beside him, or that his feet and hands were loosely tied. Bodie, all too
aware of the prisoner, slept that light sleep which is not as restful, and
every time a stop or a train whistle or an increase in the rain woke him,
he thought for just a fraction of a second that the warm body next to him
was Doyle. The repeated disappointments were making him irritable,
although that might have been from lack of sleep as well.

He wanted his own bed, and Ray Doyle next to him, and...he clenched his
buttocks, judging his own soreness. Just a slight twinge to remind him,
and so he decided. Yeah. He wanted loving, too. Wanted that bit of Doyle
which looked so average in repose, so impressive in erection and felt so
huge when stuffed up his arse.

And what did he have next to him? Some bloody dried up old murderer. He
was almost glad when the van stopped and Doyle called out, "I've picked up
the r/t." Then, into the machine, he said, "4.5 to Alpha. Reporting for
further instructions as ordered."

"4.5, this is Base," came a well-modulated woman's voice. "Proceed to Safe
House Seven."

"Right. 4.5 out."

Bodie climbed forward into the seat beside Doyle, happy to be released
from their bout of silence. "And may it have beds, razors, deodorant,
aftershave, soap, showers and food. Not necessarily in that order."

"All the mod cons. Ha. You recall number seven? The reason CI5 has it is
they couldn't find any other fool willing to rent it. The plumbing is
chancy, the fish processing plant is next door and the insect life
remarkably varied."

"How could I have forgotten," Bodie murmured, with a glance behind to make
sure their guest was still asleep. He couldn't go out the back--Bodie had
the door jammed--and he was unlikely to creep up behind and try to attack
them, but still....

"It did have a bed," Doyle said. "With springs off the ark."

"We'll let our guest have it," Bodie suggested. "Let his punishment begin
a bit early."

"You think he did it. Turned people over to the Nazis."

"Yeah. My gut instinct says he did. Getting back at his father."

"Turn here?"

"Next one. Are we being followed?"

"Nah. The bloke back there just doesn't know how to get out of this bloody
maze, either. Looks different at night."

"Don't think I've ever seen this bit even by day. D'you want to drive?"
Doyle asked.

"You're doing fine," Bodie said. "I like these vans. Could get one when I
retire. See the country."

"Planning that far ahead?" Doyle asked, making his turn.

"No further than next Tuesday. Or whenever we finally get a few days off."

Doyle smiled, not asking what Bodie was planning. He thought he knew.

Safe House Seven--under the new numbering system Cowley had ordered
several months ago it was seven, it had been previously numbered 13--was
not so much a house as a warehouse with a corner inside converted to
living quarters. It was easy enough to drive up to the gates, which were
conveniently open, and then up to the garage doors, big enough to admit a
lorry. These opened from within and they drove inside.

Dark, cavernous, the place echoed with their footsteps--and those of
others. Bodie went first, followed by Doyle, who was holding on tight to
their prisoner with one hand, his gun in the other. Bodie opened the door
of the crudely walled off quarters and checked inside, then tapped lightly
on Doyle's arm to say it was safe to come in. Once in, they turned on the
light. On one corner stood a cot, and in another a battered table on which
rested the nation's second oldest hot plate, the oldest kettle and a
package of digestives. A stained sink dripped water from a sagging faucet.
The disposable cups, packets of sugar and the tea bags were all covered
with dust. A CI5 agent, Anson, crouched by the door, gun levelled.

"Here for the package?" Doyle asked with hope in his whispered words. He
was tired of escorting Aubrey all over the country.

"We go into the cellar," Anson said, taking hold of Aubrey and dragging
him to the centre of the room, where he pulled aside a broken chair and
lifted up a trap door. "Wake us when it's all over. Oh, and Father wants
you on the top floor."

"All go," Doyle said, moving the chair back into place and joining Bodie
at the door. Bodie flipped out the light, but did not immediately open the
door. In the dark, he looped an arm around Doyle's shoulders and neck and
pulled him close for a short but enthusiastic kiss. Doyle answered it with
equal passion, then pushed him away and opened the door. Like twin
shadows, each a reflection of the other, they made their way to the stairs
and up three flights, passing two other agents who obviously expected
them, but none the less held guns on them until identification was made.

The top floor was more like a scaffolding, a crude and unfinished
structure. Cowley was there. He gestured for them to come over, and handed
them each a gun which fired not bullets, but darts, and a canvas packed
with ammunition, each needle-tipped projectile in its own compartment. He
also handed them each an r/t which was yellow, rather than the usual dark
and unobtrusive tones.

"This time the two of you won't bring me a corpse when I ask for a living
captive--who can talk. Keep your other guns in the holsters; you'll be
shooting at fellow agents. The r/t's are on a new microwave band. Use them
for all communications. Any questions?"

"You mean, like 'What's going on,' or 'Who are we shooting at and why?'
and that sort of thing?" Bodie asked, too seriously.

Cowley impatiently waved them away. ""We've no time. They'll be here at
any moment. I have enough men up here, now. Go down to the vehicle you
arrived in and station yourself there. Don't fire until my signal. Do you
understand?" he demanded sharply.

"Yes," Doyle answered for both of them, and pulled Bodie out of the room.
Their boss was already turning his attention back to the r/t in his hand.

"Up, down, back, forth. I feel like I ought to have strings attached to my
joints," Bodie complained.

"Don't give him the idea," was all Doyle had time to say before they both
went quiet for the trip down the stairs and outside. In the van they
crouched, working the darts out of their fabric pocket and loading them
into pockets. Both of them had worked with these anti-riot weapons before,
both hated them. They were single shot, easy to load but prone to jams.

They did not have long to wait. Shadows moved. Doyle pursed his lips and
sighted, following one, then another with his gun, waiting for the signal.
More shadows. The nearest were only a few feet away when the signal
finally came.

The reports from the dart guns were muted, and answered by gunshots and
echoes. The range and the sounds told Bodie and Doyle that they faced a
widely spread group of some size, but also one which was considerably
outnumbered. There was a strange exhilaration to the battle as well. There
was no constraint, no worry about who was targeted, for striking a friend
would lightly wound but not kill. At the same time, the risk was as great,
for those were real bullets coming their way. Several of them forever
destroyed the paint job on the van, but none came close to the men using
it as a shield.

Ten minutes later, the whine of the shots slowed, and then came to a stop.
"Playing dead?" Doyle breathed, rolling over next to Bodie while he
reloaded.

"Have to be," Bodie said as quietly. "Bet Cowley has a squad in
bullet-proof vests to look into the matter. Glad it's not me this time,"
he added, remembering the bruises, round as saucers, which he had once
worn for a month.

"Yeah." Doyle fell silent, and they listened. Scuffling under a nearby
car. He waited, then squeezed off a shot. A grunt and the sound of a body
giving into gravity's embrace followed. Doyle grinned, his broken tooth
gleaming momentarily in the dark.

Cowley's amplified voice echoed eerily, loudly, through the night. "This
is Cowley, Controller, CI5. Lay down your weapons. Approach the door of
the warehouse with your hands on top of your head. I repeat. You are
ordered to lay down your weapons and approach the warehouse with your
hands on your head."

Nothing moved.

"They're going to get him angry," Bodie predicted. "They're not going to
like the results."

Doyle snorted a bit of laughter, his eyes still unceasingly sweeping the
wells of darkness. There was a rattle to the left, and a man separated
himself from the shadow of a vehicle and stumbled forward. At the corner,
another broke, running away, but he was felled by a shot from the roof of
an adjoining building.

"Half of CI5 must be out here," Doyle estimated.

"Yeah, but who else?" Bodie wanted to know. Another man staggered out, but
collapsed before he reached the door. The warehouse door opened, and a
team, bulky with Kevlar trotted out to collect that one and then spread
out to search the lot. Doyle could feel the tension ease just a little in
Bodie. Almost over.... Their strange r/t beeped. "3.7, 4.5, 3.3, 7.2, 5.4,
please join Alpha inside. Everyone else maintain position." The mechanical
voice ended in a squawk of static.

"The master calls," Bodie said, swinging upright cautiously.

"Woof woof. Do you suppose we'll get some answers?" Doyle asked, easing
down to the ground.

"Nah. We'll be sent to fetch his slippers," Bodie predicted. "Heel!"

"In a minute," Doyle said, without apparent rancour, "I am going to bite
you."

Bodie dared give a light pinch on Doyle's buttocks before he sprang away
towards the door.

"Bloody bastard," Doyle said, but the words did not have the venom they
would have had a year ago. They both curbed their tongues once inside.

A very satisfied Mr Cowley was reading the ID of the man before him.

"Willis's mob?" Bodie said, keeping most of his surprise hidden from the
others. "All of them?"

"Aye, eight so far. And we've only one injury," Cowley said with
satisfaction. "We'll need to transport the prisoners to headquarters. Take
two in the vehicle you have. I'll want to see the both of you two hours
from now."

"What about Aubrey?" asked Anson, coming up with a haggard and limping
Aubrey in tow.

"He's served his purpose. Still, it would waste time to send him back to
the Met for only a few hours. Take him along. No doubt we'll have a cell
free for him." Cowley was already turning to leave.

"Wait. I need to speak to Mr Cowley. Privately!" Aubrey demanded. When
Cowley did not seem disposed to give him immediate attention, he added,
"If you will not speak to me, I will be forced to reveal what I know about
these men, publicly!"

"Are you about to accuse my agents of impropriety? I will have to tell you
that the entire time you were in their care, you were monitored. I have
audio tapes of every moment. The only person whose actions are
questionable are yours."

Aubrey looked stunned.

"We've no time for your nonsense, Mr Aubrey," Cowley said. "It seems you
make a habit of accusations of homosexuality against those you wish to
damage. I have statements from two policemen and a former neighbour of
yours regarding other accusations you have made, and I've no doubt, given
the nature of the charges made against you, that it has been a life-long
propensity. It may have been effective in Germany fifty years ago, but
this is England. I shall give a full account of this matter over to the
trial board." He dismissed the other man by turning his back. Anson,
wisely, hauled Aubrey out of sight.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged looks, wanting to speak but prevented because
there were a dozen people in sight. Bodie decided that the better part of
valour was diligence. "Let's collect our passengers and go," he advised
Doyle, who nodded in agreement and hastily led the way out.

"God, I'm tired," Bodie said as he held open the door for his fellow
agents to boost in the two bound men who were waiting for them.

"Could sleep for a week," Doyle agreed. He couldn't say anything else,
afraid that what Cowley had said was true, that the van was bugged. He
glanced around, thinking of where he would plant a bug if the job had been
given to him. Steering column?

Bodie saw where Doyle's eyes went and he gave a grim smile. He'd spent the
last five minutes desperately trying to think of what he may have said
during the op which could have been revealing. As far as he could
remember, if there was a recording, and it started after they picked up
their prisoner, then they were safe...but he recalled a rather extensive,
explicit and damning bit of conversation on the drive to the jail. If that
was recorded, their collective goose was cooked.

The silence on the drive back to HQ was thick and absolute. They hustled
their prisoners to the cells and went back upstairs to begin the necessary
paperwork. Both were exhausted and wanted nothing more than to crawl into
bed. To sleep. It was a relief when they were summoned into Cowley's
presence.

The old man had that look he got sometimes during an operation. His eyes
were bright, his movements quick, and there was no sign that he was short
on sleep. He looked damned happy, in fact.

Bodie and Doyle must have looked as dead as they felt for Cowley waved
them over to chairs and said, "I'll not offer you a drink. You don't look
as if you'll arrive home if you drive home with it in your bloodstream."

"Try me," Bodie urged, willing to take the risk--and willing to have Doyle
drive!

"No, it'll keep. We've something to celebrate, you, Bodie, and Doyle and
I." He poured himself a few inches of golden liquid and took a respectful
sip.

"A rise?" Bodie asked hopefully.

"Better than that," Cowley advised him, and the rich satisfaction in
Cowley's voice caused both of his operatives to sit up a bit straighter.

"What are we celebrating, then, sir?" Doyle asked.

"The beginning of the end, lads--of your friend and mine, Henry John
Willis."

Bodie's eyes lit up, and Doyle's as well. "Better than a rise," Bodie
agreed in a low voice, almost like a purr.

"This celebration..." Doyle began, letting his voice trail away to lure
their boss into a more extensive explanation.

"We are celebrating something almost as rare as this scotch," Cowley said.
Then, more loudly, he exclaimed, "You followed orders! For once, the pair
of you followed orders!" Cowley grinned, catching their eyes, sharing the
joke. "It counted this time, lads. It made a difference. We'd not have had
an opportunity like this one again. Willis, mad enough about losing a
simple minding job to CI5--he let his anger rule him, his need to be on
top, to win. We've a use for men like that in the services. He's a fine
watchdog, and he's served well. But he's turning on his neighbours, lads,
he doesn't know friend from foe anymore."

Bodie waited patiently, knowing the story had to be told in Cowley's own
way and in his own time, and willing to let his boss indulge himself in
the triumph of the moment.

Doyle was more impatient. "What did the dog do?"

"I knew...suspected...he had ears here. More than one pair, in fact. I had
no proof. I needed to know the extent he was spying on us. Never mind that
if he had played the game honestly, I'd have given him what he asked for.
Well," he amended after a reviving sip of his drink, "ninety percent of
it, anyway. Cooperation solves the mysteries each service faces. But he's
in a deeper game, playing by his own rules, and if they keep this country
safe, I've told myself I can tolerate them."

"His rules almost got me killed!" Bodie protested hotly.

"Aye, and that was his first mistake. His second was to move on me. I'll
not have it," Cowley said, as if Willis was a dog making too free with his
lawn. "I'm a patient man. And he's not. Oh, he thinks he's clever enough,
and perhaps he is, but I've got him now."

"How?" Bodie asked point blank, his impatience nearly strangling him.

"He wanted to embarrass us by taking Aubrey away. His own organization's
mistake--if we were to fail as well, it would show that it was not that
his man was a fool, but that the enemy was exceptionally clever. That's
pride, lads, and it goes before a fall."

Doyle nodded encouragingly.

"So I sweetened the pot, baited the trap. I put you two in charge of the
prisoner. He'd like to take you down, Bodie. He'd like it even better if
you were dead."

"Feeling's mutual," Bodie said, and looked with longing at the glass in
Cowley's hand. He was feeling more and more in need of a drink.

Doyle was getting more and more impatient for the end of the story. "And
so?"

"And so you followed my instructions--to the letter," he added again, and
Bodie was starting to resent it. They followed orders reliably. Every
time! Almost.

"We had cameras on them, monitors. We checked phone lines, bugs,
computers, r/t frequencies. Each time you changed clothing or vehicles, or
called in, we had another opportunity to trace a lead. We discovered a
clerk in records with divided loyalties, and a wee problem with the r/t's,
and an electronic method of collecting the vibrations which is quite
crude, but it's the simple methods that work, sometimes. And Aubrey's
shoes were augmented as well. Enough to lodge an official protest. A waste
of government money, spying on us. There's too many on the other side to
waste resources spying on each other, and I'll tell the minister that! Oh,
I'll tell him that, and more. I'll play the injured party, and if he
doesn't grant me some concessions I've in mind, then I'll point out that
if Willis must do such things, he could at least learn some subtlety!"

"You're going to make him look like a fool," Bodie said. "It's not enough.
I want him to suffer." It was more true to say Bodie wanted him dead, but
Bodie was practical enough to know it wasn't worth a life sentence to
bring that about.

"Oh, he will, Bodie, he will. This is the first step, as I've said. There
are several plots in motion, pushing him towards one more mistake, one
more public debacle. I'm not moving against him, mind. It's important that
he hang in his own noose. But I'm allowing his vices, his weaknesses, full
rein. Within two years he'll be gone. Or I will."

"No chance of that, sir," Doyle said.

"Thank you for that vote of confidence." Cowley knocked back the last of
his drink and looked at them again. "Why am I talking to you? Go home and
sleep. I don't want to see you for twenty four hours." He poured himself
another drink, smaller than the first.

"Yes, sir, thank you," Doyle said, more than willing to go home to bed.

Bodie wasn't quite finished. "Mr Cowley?"

Cowley looked up, impatiently.

"You told Aubrey you had tapes of the whole operation. Starting when?"
Bodie had stood up and Doyle joined him, his face falling into sober
lines.

"Oh, I've tapes. Nothing you need worry about," Cowley said flatly. "You
did that right, too. Very discreet, weren't you? Of course, I'd have
edited them if I had to, but you were kind enough to spare me the
trouble."

"Always glad to be of service," Doyle mumbled. "Come on, Bodie."

Bodie shook off the hand on his arm. "Where was the bug? Where did you put
it?" he demanded.

Cowley looked at him impatiently, then let a quick grin blossom. "I didn't
plant one. Used the one Willis had put in Aubrey's shoe. A bug doesn't
care who uses it; the proper equipment is all that's needed." Then Cowley
straightened, frowning. "Take it as a warning, lads. I didn't have the
car, or your flat bugged, but that doesn't mean it wasn't done. Willis and
his lot don't care who is on what side, don't know the meaning of allies,
friends. Discretion--if the two of you know the meaning of the word at
all--can serve you well. And better, it will serve *me*." He waved them
towards the door, as if impatient to get them gone.

"Yes, sir. We'll keep it in mind," Doyle assured him, hustling Bodie out
of the room. They went down the stairs at a more sedate pace than usual,
both silent. Once out into the brisk dawn air, Doyle spoke again. "You
were right. He does know."

"And he wants us to keep a low profile. If we do, he'll say nothing more
about it."

"He's struck a bargain," Doyle said. "But I'll not watch my tongue
completely in my own place. I want to be able to say...things...to you."

"We could keep on top of that, become experts in it. Electronics, and all
the new technology. Can't be in the field forever, and we can have
something to fall back on that way. Can get our own equipment, do our own
checks of the flats." He considered, and amended it. "Flat." Bodie stopped
suddenly. "Have we got a ride home?"

"No," Doyle realized. They had sent even their keys to HQ with their
clothing the day before. "Taxi?"

The alternative would take them a half hour, for they would have to go
back, down to the garage, and sign out. But then they'd have to mind their
tongues and sit on their hands, and there was the matter of getting to
work tomorrow as well. "No," Bodie decided. "We need wheels." So they
turned and trudged back, silent until they were finally on the street and
heading towards Bodie's flat.

"Funny," Doyle yawned as Bodie pulled into the early morning traffic, "I
thought this was about a man being sent to trial for war crimes, but
Aubrey was just a cog in Cowley's machine. Means to the end. Sent hundreds
to their deaths, but today--last night--the man was--nothing. Just a
footnote in an old chapter."

"Oh, too elegant," Bodie yawned, catching it from his partner. He
increased his speed, wanting nothing except to get home and into bed. It
would be to sleep, too, he thought with mild irritation. He was in no
shape for anything else. No doubt they'd sleep the day away in each
other's arms. Pleasant thought. "I'm glad the bastard's going to get his,"
Bodie said. He meant Willis, but it applied to Aubrey, too.

"Nice to have had a hand in it," Doyle agreed, and Bodie could see by the
look in his eye that Doyle was aware of the two meanings to his own
answer. Bodie let his gaze linger fondly on his lover. Handy, that they
could say so much with so few words. If they took Cowley's advice to
heart, they would seldom be talking about things important to them,
personal things. But that was okay. He knew Doyle understood without
words, and the words he really needed to say, he could whisper directly
into Doyle's ear. The important things didn't have to be said loudly. As
long as they were said.

-- THE END --

*Originally published in *To Friends*, Chained to the Typewriter Press,
1993*

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