The Professionals Circuit Archive - Incident in a Stairwell	   
Incident in a Stairwell

 

by Debra Hicks

  
 "Recruitment?"

"Yes, sir." Murphy put the file down. "The Minister approved it."

"He would," Cowley said sarcastically.

"Said it would show our support for their organization."

Cowley looked up at the new agent. "Take care of your own doorstep before
trying to clean someone else's." He sighed. "Who do they wait to see?"

"Macklin, for their survival school, McNeer for their computer section and
four field agents: Ledoux and Bennett, Bodie and Doyle."

Cowley scowled. "Macklin will never leave England. Neither will Bennett or
Ledoux, they've got families here. McNeer maybe." He looked thoughtful.
"Maybe Doyle."

"Doyle?" Murphy questioned. "I would have put money on Bodie."

"Bodie's done his adventuring. But Doyle, Doyle's never been further than
Paris. They can offer excitement, exotic places, important work." He stood
and paced to the window. "And where goes Doyle, goes Bodie."

Murphy didn't comment. You didn't argue a fact. "Shall I clear him, sir?"

"Very well, tell the desk officer to send him to the briefing room. He can
start with Ledoux. I'll be up to offer official greetings after I've
briefed Bodie and Doyle."

The tall, dark agent held out a new stack of papers. "Last item, sir.
Prisoner transfer. MI6 is here to claim Hoffman."

"And good riddance." Cowley sat down, pushed his glasses up and hastily
scribbled what passed for his signature. "Anything else?"

"No, sir."

Cowley stared down at his desk, hiding his faint smile. Murphy had been an
outstanding constable, would be an even better field agent. All he needed
was the right partner. Murphy was being patient, waiting for Cowley to
make his choice, trusting in the man's talent for teaming men.

"Dismissed, Murphy."

"Yes, sir." The other man gathered the scattering of papers, closed the
door quietly behind him.

Cowley stood to stretch his bad leg, glanced out the window. It was still
raining, cold and hard, lightning flashing in the dark clouds. Directly
below a red Capri whipped in close to the curb and Ray Doyle hopped out.
The car, with Bodie at the wheel, zipped away toward the underground car
park. The CI5 controller smiled. Sometimes his instincts for teamings
worked out even better than he would have hoped.

A slender blonde man, well dressed, and dry under a large umbrella,
politely held the door for Doyle as he darted in. Doyle shook the water
off his curls.

"Thanks." He headed for the stairs. The other man went toward the lift.

"No good," Doyle called, "it doesn't work."

"Thank you." The voice held a slight accent. "Perhaps you could tell me
where to find Mr. George Cowley?"

"You'll have to check in first but then you can follow me," Doyle
suggested.

Doyle waited as the man went to the desk and spoke briefly to the guard.
The man rejoined him and Doyle lead the way up. As they reached the second
landing Doyle heard the main door open. The blonde took the first few
steps up the next section as Doyle turned to wait for his partner.

The world exploded in the thunder of gunshots. Cold pain hit Doyle in the
side, the impact throwing him against the wall. The blonde slammed into
him and they went down in a tangle of limbs, blood spotting the walls
around them.

From somewhere far away Doyle heard Bodie shouting his name, then
footsteps on the wood stairs. More shots thudded into the walls. He fought
for breath, desperately wanting to yell a warning to his partner, tell him
to get the hell off the stairs. But consciousness wavered and all his
effort went into clinging to the edges of light. The shots stopped and for
one fleeting moment Doyle wondered if Bodie were down as well. Then the
reassuring sound of Bodie barking orders carried up to him.

Doyle could feel blood pooling under him, his body trembling, waited for
the pain to start. He was facing the wall, on his side, with the other man
partially covering him from the waist down. Very slowly, fighting the
darkness and the fear of bringing down more shots, he inched his hand
toward his inside jacket, got a hold on his R/T. He eased it close to his
lips, locked the transmission button down.

"Bodie?" he whispered.

"Ray?" Relief was strong in Bodie's voice. "Are you okay?"

"Gunman?"

"Still up there."

Doyle felt a cold wind on his exposed back, the helplessness chilling each
nerve. "I'm hit." There was a hiss of breath from Bodie. "So's the man
with me."

"Lay still, Ray, we'll get you." The door behind him creaked open.

"Bodie." Cowley limped out of the emergency stairs, followed by Murphy.
"Over here."

Bodie took an anxious glance up at the landing, straightened from where he
was crouched, gun out, and moved over to join his boss and the tall,
dark-haired agent. Cowley was rubbing his leg with his right hand, had an
R/T in his left. "And Taggert?" he demanded into the remote.

Jax's voice sounded back, "Down, near the rest room door."

Cowley scowled, "Get me Chanber."

Bodie's worry wore through, transformed into anger. "What the hell is
going on? What happened to our security?"

"Be quiet, Bodie," Cowley said calmly. "We're still finding out what
happened. It would seem that MI6 lost this one. That's Hoffman up there."

Bodie's lips tightened. Hoffman was a terrorist, a killer willing to
eliminate anyone to get what he was after. "Bloody hell. What...."

"Cowley!" A sharp voice echoed down the stairwell.

The three men moved to the bottom of the stairs. "This is Cowley. You've
got no place to go, Hoffman. Give it up."

Two shots blew holes in the plaster inches above Doyle's curls. Bodie
lunged, tried to get up the stairs. Murphy grabbed him, threw him against
the wall. Bodie glared, his grip on the Browning tightened.

"Bodie." Murphy said resaonably, "What good will that do?"

Before Bodie could reply the voice continued, "Don't think about talking
me down, Cowley. Think about the easiest way to get me out. I want a
helicopter, tanked and with a legitimate passport in the seat."

The emergency door opened. A solid built man in an off the rack suit
joined them. Cowley looked levelly at him. "Chanber." Cowley's tone was
calm but left no room for evasion. "What happened?"

Chanber straightened, stood a head above Cowley, fists clenched at his
sides. "We don't know yet."

"You don't know," Cowley restated in a voice that would cut plate steel,
carrying easily over the thunder. "I have one man dead, another wounded,
held hostage and you don't know."

The MI6 officer cringed, then got angry. "Need I remind you that I have
also lost a man."

The CI5 controller didn't even blink. "Then I suggest you find out what
happened."

"What the bloody hell difference does it make?" Bodie exploded. "What do
we do now? Doyle'll bleed to death if...."

"Bodie!" Cowley started to reprimand him for shouting, stopped when he saw
the barely concealed fear in the blue eyes. "Aye, what now?" He moved past
Bodie, spoke into the R/T. "Jax, we need his position. Can we get a shot
at him?" He clinked off. "Chanber, we need to know how he's armed. Did he
get an extra clip or just the loaded weapon? Murphy, check with the desk
and find out who the man with Doyle is."

"His name's Illya Kuryakin," a smooth American voice said from behind
them. "He's with me."

Bodie turned to find himself facing a man about his height, older, dark
hair going gray, but fit and muscled under an expensively tailored suit.
The man came forward, dried his hand on the gray slacks.

"I'm Napoleon Solo. We're with UNCLE." He extended his hand, shook briefly
with Cowley.

"Cowley. CI5," the controller answered tersely.

A muttered comment escaped Bodie's lips. Solo glanced over his shoulder,
brown eyes scanning the younger man in one sweep. He smiled, seemed to
know what the British agent was thinking. "Don't worry, I'm not going to
get in the way. I just want my partner back."

Since Bodie's objective was the same thing he only frowned at the American
and remained silent.

"Murphy, get upstairs with Jax, see if you can pull Taggert's body in
without getting yourselves shot." Cowley glared at the other men still
standing around him. "Go," he commanded. They did.

"Cowley!" Hoffman yelled again. "I want answers. Or I start playing target
with Curly down there."

"These things take time, Hoffman," Cowley answered, the voices echoing up
and down the narrow stairs. "You can't just walk out of here and into
Heathrow. You know that."

"Not Heathrow, two blocks from here in the empty lot. And you'd better get
on with it. I'm not waiting long."

"Nice guy," Solo commented, standing next to Bodie at the edge of the
stairs. He squinted up at the two completely still bodies on the stairs.

"Yeh," Bodie replied without thinking. "A real nutter."

"Bodie?" A weak voice sounded from the R/T Bodie still had out.
"What's...."

"Hang on, sunshine. We're working on it."

There was a light tap on his shoulder. Bodie turned to snap a hasty reply,
but the concern in the dark brown eyes mirrored his own, stopped him
short.

"My partner?" Solo asked, voice almost casual.

Bodie frowned, asked softly, "Ray, the other bloke, can you tell if he's
alive?"

There was a long, long pause. Bodie wasn't sure Doyle was still conscious
to have heard the question but just before he could repeat it there was a
very slight groan from the communication unit.

"He's breathing." Doyle's voice was slurred, the pain overriding his
control.

Behind them Cowley was speaking quietly to Jax over the R/T. He cut off,
leaned over Bodie's shoulder. "Doyle?"

"Sir?"

"Can you move enough to get a fix on Hoffman?"

"Sir!" Bodie protested. "If he moves Hoffman will...."

"Jax can't see his position," Cowley explained patiently. "We need to know
exactly where he is."

"Can't move without shifting the other man." Doyle's voice drifted back.
There was a pause, a sharp breath that made Bodie wince. "I'm not up to
it."

Cowley's stern features softened the tiniest bit. "Okay, lad. Lay still,
we'll have you both out soon." He went silent, thoughtful. "We have to
keep him busy."

"Keep them talking, keep them interested," Bodie quoted the manual
sharply.

"Hoffman!" Cowley shouted. "I won't trade for dead hostages. I'm sending a
medic up to check them."

"Do that and you'll have a dead medic."

"I have the Minister working on your demands, but I want proof those men
are alive. They bleed to death and it's over for you." Cowley refused to
give in. "I'm sending a medic up. One move against him and the whole deal
is off."

The three men at the bottom of the stairs waited, tense, hopeful. Finally
a condescending voice drifted down. "Letting them bleed to death would be
a waste. I don't like waste. Send up the medic."

Solo started stripping off his jacket. Bodie and Cowley turned toward him.
He proceeded to the tie. "I'll go."

"Why you?" Bodie demanded.

"He doesn't know me. And the fact that I'm older makes me look harmless."
Moving the .38 from under his arm to behind his back as he said it gave a
certain ironic note to the statement.

Two older pairs of eyes met. Whatever Cowley saw there he trusted. Nodding
to the American agent he raised the R/T again. "Jax, get the aid kit down
here, and a white coat from the lab. Fast."

"What do you know about gunshot wounds?" Bodie asked lowly.

Napoleon cocked an eyebrow at him. "More than I care to." He meet the blue
eyes. "I'll take care of them."

"Get Doyle into a sitting position, if you can," Cowley told him. Jax
emerged from the stairs, joined them, passing over the large medical kit.

Slipping the coat on Napoleon opened the kit and checked it. "What about a
weapon?"

The Scot frowned. "If you think either of them can handle it, and if you
can get it to them...."

"Unseen," Napoleon finished. He snapped the case closed. "Ready."

"Hoffman, he's coming up," Cowley shouted.

Bodie touched the other man's arm as he started past. "Luck, mate."

The smile that answered him was feral, for the first time showing the cold
agent lurking under the smooth exterior. "Luck is my specialty."

Solo took the steps warily, keeping his hands always in the clear. There
was no reaction from the man with the gun. Solo sighed as he looked down
at the two wounded agents. Carefully he shifted Illya off Doyle. The
blonde remained silent but the sudden shift of weight elicited a moan from
the British agent. As much as he wanted to check his partner first
Napoleon forced himself to attend to Doyle. If they were to improve the
odds of getting them out alive it was Doyle who would make the difference.

The CI5 agent was resting on his uninjured side and Solo left him that way
as he knelt next to him. Pushing the rain spotted leather coat aside he
eased the bloody shirt out of the tight jeans and wiped what he could of
the gore away. The bullet had gone in at an angle just below Doyle's ribs
and exited in front just above his hip. The blood was dark, seeping
slowly. Doyle was breathing hard but there was no rasp, no ominous gurgle
of a bleeding lung. Napoleon breathed a little easier, it wasn't nearly as
bad as it could have been.

"Can you sit up?" he asked Doyle softly.

The curls bobbed as Doyle nodded. As gently as possible Solo shifted him
up so that his back rested against the wall facing down the stairs. It
seemed to the American the safest way of letting Doyle watch the terrorist
without being too obvious. With careful maneuvering the R/T stayed tucked
just inside the leather jacket, near Doyle's shoulder.

As he leaned back hazy green eyes met with deep brown for the first time.
Doyle stared, confused and too dizzy to think straight.

Napoleon smiled at him. "Well," he said in a low voice that didn't carry
to any further than the wounded agent. "It would seem that London
stairways aren't much safer than London alleys."

Doyle's confusion cleared. He tried to smile but had it destroyed by a
sharp cough. "Lisbon alleys still as bad?" he managed to whisper.

"I wouldn't know. I haven't been in one lately." Quickly and efficiently
Napoleon stuffed gauze into the wound, ignoring Doyle's whimper of pain.
"The big one downstairs belong to you?" Doyle nodded. "Nice that you trade
hospital visits."

Trying to get his breathing under control, Doyle gestured toward the
slender body next to him. "Yours?" Napoleon nodded. "His turn again, was
it?"

A fond, exasperated sigh escaped Napoleon, a frown deepening the lines
around his eyes. "Seems like it's always his turn."

"Napoleon," a weak voice scolded, "don't exaggerate."

The older man smiled. "I never exaggerate, Illya."

"Pulled you...out many times," the Russian accented voice continued.

"True," Napoleon admitted, moving to his partner. "But I tend to be in one
piece when you do, tovarich."

Doyle smiled. When he or Bodie used the word tovarich it seemed to come
out in the same tone as bastard. The way Solo used it was like when Bodie
called him sunshine, warm and comforting. He leaned his head back, let his
eyes close.

Around Doyle the world faded out a little, the soft American voice beside
him becoming a vague mumble. He had no idea how long it was before he felt
a slight touch to his arm. Prying his eyes open he met the same concerned
look he remembered from a cold hospital waiting area long ago. There was
no need to ask the Russian's condition. The look in the older man's face
said it all.

"Doyle," Napoleon said slowly, hoping the CI5 agent was coherent enough to
understand. "I need your help."

"Yeh?"

"lllya's been hit twice, chest, and shoulder. It's the shoulder I'm
worried about. I can't get the bleeding stopped. I need you to keep
pressure on it."

Doyle looked down the stairs, could feel the fear in the midnight blue
eyes that never left him. "Good partners are hard to find." He returned
Napoleon's words to him. "Watch yours...if you'll watch mine?"

"Deal," Napoleon agreed. He looked down at the fair Russian. Illya had
drifted off again. "I think you have the easier job."

"Know I do." Doyle smiled.

"That's enough!" a hard voice demanded from above. "It shouldn't take that
long to see if they're alive."

Before Cowley could answer Napoleon said levelly, "They're alive. I'm
making sure they stay that way."

He leaned over Doyle, ignoring the threat of the gun at his back. In a
single move he pressed a gun under Doyle's leg. Green eyes controlled
their surprise. Doyle had missed seeing the American palm the gun.
Napoleon flicked him one quick glance then proceeded to move his partner
closer to Doyle.

"Put him up here." Doyle motioned to his lap. "Warmth, should help."

Smiling his thanks Napoleon shifted the blonde head up onto Doyle's thigh.
He moved Doyle's hand to the bandage over the blood soaked shirt. "Keep it
as tight as you can." Doyle complied and Napoleon sat back to survey his
work. He shook his head. "You two look like forty miles of bad road."

With a reassuring pat on Doyle's arm Napoleon laid spare bandages within
reach, packed the kit and went back down the stairs. Before he could
report to the two impatient CI5 men Hoffman's voice carried loud in the
still lobby.

"Cowley! You've had your demand. Now, here's mine. One hour. One hour or
the blonde plays target."

Bodie glanced automatically at Napoleon. The concern was carefully hidden
behind years of training, years of Lisbon and London alleys.

"Hoffman..." Cowley started.

"One hour," Hoffman commanded.

"How are they?" Bodie asked, as Napoleon stripped off the soiled white
coat.

"Not good," Napoleon said shortly. "Illya has one in the shoulder that's
nicked an artery, and one in the chest. Your partner took one in the side,
may have hit a rib on the way in but it missed his lung and there doesn't
seem to be much bleeding."

The report relieved some of the tension in the small hall. Cowley looked
thoughtfully up the stairs. "He'll take one with him, I'm willing to bet
on it. Promise to release him at the pickup." He looked at Solo. "Would
Doyle be able to move if he had to?"

"No." Napoleon shook his head. "Hoffman could probably drag him to his
feet, but he's on the verge of passing out right now." The agent smiled
slyly. "He does however have an open radio and a loaded gun."

"Good," Cowley said. "He may need it."

There was a movement behind them and the MI6 commander was beside them
again. "Hoffman only got the one weapon," he informed the other three
quietly. "No reloads."

"He's fired eight or nine," Bodie said calmly. "That leaves more than I
want to think about running up against."

Cowley frowned, pressed the switch on the R/T that seemed to have become
part of his arm. "Doyle?"

"Sir?" The reply was faint.

"Can you see Hoffman?"

"Just." There was a pause, then very softly, "In the corner...watching us
from up the stairs."

Jax choose that moment to appear from the main desk. "Mr. Cowley, the PM
is on the line for you."

Cowley nodded. "Hoffman. I'm going to talk to the PM right now."

"You've got fifty-five minutes," Hoffman shouted down.

The CI5 commander, followed by Chanber left. Bodie barely noticed, his
eyes continually being drawn back to the two men on the stairs. Napoleon
sighed beside him, crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. The
silence closed in around them.

"I've met your partner before," the UNCLE agent said suddenly, to ease the
tension.

"Yeh?" Bodie glanced over at him.

"A year ago. At St. Paul's. In the waiting room." He watched Bodie's
reaction to this, waiting to see if he remembered the incident.

The dark head nodded. "I remember." Bodie's expression was neutral,
carefully blank. Outside the wind picked up, whistled around the door.
Thunder rumbled over the old streets.

Napoleon frowned, wondering if the smaller agent had said anything to his
partner after their little discussion. He knew better than to ask. "Glad
to see everything turned out okay."

"Same here," Bodie said sincerely.

On the landing Doyle blurrily watched the two temporarily matched
partners. He hoped that Bodie would have his usual partner back soon. The
warm weight on his leg shifted. He glanced down at the fair head resting
in his lap, sky blue eyes looked back.

"'lo," Doyle said softly.

"You and Napoleon...have met." It was a comment, not a question.

"When you and Bodie were in hospital," Doyle explained. "Met in the
waiting area."

"Oh, yes. Last trip to London." The accented voice was very faint, laced
with pain. "Napoleon mentioned it."

"Bit old for this, you and him, aren't you?" Doyle asked.

A flicker of arrogance went through the dulled blue. "Not field agents,"
Illya said. "Recruitment."

Doyle laughed, grimaced. "Who you going to recruit?"

A very slight smile curled the pale lips. "You two."

Pleased surprise lit the jade green eyes. UNCLE was a very elite
organization. "Yeh?" He was silent for a minute. "I don't know, mate.
Seems kind of dangerous."

The blue eyes slid closed. "They're your stairs."

There was not much Doyle could say to that.

Minutes crept by as Napoleon and Bodie waited for Cowley to return with
official word. He came back with a grim expression. Bodie and Solo knew
the situation even before he spoke, had known before he left. They hadn't
expected anything different.

"No helicopter, no visa," Cowley confirmed.

"We let him get away with this?" Bodie snapped.

"You know better than that," Cowley reminded him sharply. "If we can't
take him out here, we get him out of the building and take him out at the
pickup."

"Sir," Bodie spoke up again, "a hostage that could move would simplify
things."

"You?" Napoleon questioned.

Bodie nodded. "Get him to take me, instead of Doyle. I can get out of the
way when the time comes."

"Doyle won't like it," Napoleon commented.

Bodie looked at him, fire in the blue. "He's not in much of a position to
protest, is he?"

"No," Napoleon agreed. "That's why he asked me to do it."

Outrage colored Bodie's face. "He did, did he? And what makes you...."

Napoleon gestured toward the stairs. "He's looking after mine, I'm looking
after his."

Lips pursed tight, Bodie stared at him for a moment before turning away.
An agreement like that was not something any half of a team would take
lightly. It meant that Doyle trusted the American and would want him to do
the same.

"Enough," Cowley commanded. "Hoffman's no fool. He'd never agree to
switching a helpless hostage for a lively one."

"How about a helpless medic?" Napoleon suggested.

"No," Bodie said firmly.

Napoleon glared at him. Then smiled, accepting the desperation born
stupidity of the suggestion.

Cowley looked over at the American agent. "How long can they hold out?
What kind of time limit are we on?"

"Doyle should be fine for two-three hours. But Illya?" He looked
thoughtful. "An hour would be pushing it, hour and a half will be too
late."

Two pair of older eyes locked. Gently Cowley said, "That doesn't give us
much time."

They all heard the real warning in the simple statement. Napoleon looked
steadily at the CI5 commander. "It's taken me twenty years to get Illya
trained. I'd hate to lose him now."

Cowley flicked the R/T, "Jax?"

"Sir," the young agent's voice answered instantly.

"Get me a floor plan." He clicked off, glanced at the other two agents.
"Let's find out his plans." He raised him voice. "Hoffman?"

"This better be good news, Cowley."

"You have a deal," Cowley lied easily. "You'll have a helicopter here in
forty-five minutes."

A faintly nervous laugh carried down to them. "Then in half an hour Curly
and I will expect a car by the front door."

"The man can't be moved," Cowley said firmly. "He's seriously wounded."

"I'll worry about that! You just have a car waiting by the front door in
thirty minutes."

For the first time since the shots had sounded Cowley smiled. "Good," he
said to himself. "He hasn't thought it out. That's to our advantage. And
Doyle being wounded will slow him down."

"Could do more than that," Bodie said. It was his turn to smile, coldly.
"Doyle's armed. If Hoffman goes to haul him up Doyle can stick that pistol
in his ribs and empty the bloody clip."

"Chancy," Solo commented. "He may not be conscious enough to know what's
happening."

"It's a possibilty," Cowley reluctantly admitted. "For now though we'll
concentrate on getting a shot at him while he's still our guest."

He moved away, leaving Bodie and Solo at the bottom of the stairs.
Napoleon slid slowly down the wall to sit with his legs crossed in front
of him. After a minute Bodie joined him, his tension evident in the lines
around his mouth and the white knuckled grip on his gun. Napoleon watched,
thought about the differences between the waiting here and the waiting in
a small, too bright hospital room.

"Well," Napoleon stated, "at least you don't pace."

"What?" Bodie glanced over at him, then smiled slightly. "Yeh. Forgot
you've been through this before." He looked steadily at the older agent.
"How does this compare to Lisbon alleys?"

"Ah, I wondered if Doyle had said anything about our conversation."

"Said more than I ever expected to hear," Bodie conceded. Rolling thunder
almost covered his quiet addition. "Almost more than I wanted to hear."

Napoleon understood. "That much responsibility can be overwhelming."

"Wasn't the responsibility." The slightest color highlighted the pale
face. "Was...having someone care." A smile touched the tight lips. "Took
me two days to recover enough to say anything coherent to him."

"Well," Napoleon said lightly, remembering his own shock of discovery,
"that's better than I did. It took me five years before I admitted what
having a partner meant."

Bodie snorted. "Even I'm not that stubborn, mate."

On the landing Doyle listened to the distant voice of his partner, wished
he could hear what he was saying. The R/T crackled near his arm, but there
was nothing coming over it. A barely contained moan alerted him to his
charge's return to consciousness. He tightened his hand over the already
soaked bandage.

"Back among the living?" he questioned.

"Optimist."

"Not much like your partner, are you?" Blue eyes forced themselves open to
look at him in confusion. "Be giving me the recruitment sale by now,
wouldn't he?"

A soft smile answered him. "Very probably." A deep, shaky breath. "I don't
do recruitment talks."

"What do you do then?" Doyle swallowed hard. The smell of blood was making
him nauseous.

"Moral support."

Downstairs it was Bodie's turn to worry over the so far, so near voice of
his wounded partner. "Least they're both still conscious," he said
quietly.

Napoleon stood a little stiffly, rubbed his back. "I could do with some
coffee, or tea, or something." He looked down at Bodie. "Which way?"

Bodie stood. "I'll get it."

"That's okay." Napoleon knew it took a lot of effort for him to volunteer
to leave. "I'm used to being far away from things."

"No, I'll get it." Bodie turned his charming smile on the dark haired
American. "Have to look after my partner, don't I?"

As he moved away Napoleon checked his watch. He was shocked to see that
less then forty minutes had passed since he had come in to find disaster
instead of the simple days recruitment. And only five minutes since Cowley
had moved upstairs to try and find a way to get a shot at Hoffman. On the
stairs he bit back a curse as he saw Doyle change the pad on his wounded
partner.

"Easy," Doyle muttered to Illya. "Moving won't help."

"What will they try?" Illya whispered.

Doyle shrugged as much as he could without causing himself pain. "Get a
shot at him. If not here, at the helicopter."

"He'll take...one of us...along," Illya stated. "You."

"Yeh." Doyle felt the world do a quick spin around him. "Pass right out on
him, I will."

Concerned blue eyes studied him through their own pain. "Better...get a
shot at him from here."

"Not much chance of that," Doyle replied. He glanced down to see Illya
staring off at something he couldn't see. "You okay, mate?"

The blue eyes focused on him, the light dimming in them as consciousness
faded. "Elevator doesn't work," Illya told him clearly before he passed
out.

Doyle blinked, wondering which of them was delirious. Then comprehension
dawned. Concealing his smile Doyle let his head drop toward his shoulder.
"Bodie?" he whispered urgently into his R/T. "Cowley?"

Bodie thrust the two coffee cups at Napoleon and yanked his R/T free.
"Ray? You okay?"

"The elevator isn't working," the faint voice said.

Bleak glances went between the two agents at the bottom of the stairs. If
Doyle were getting delirious.... "What?" Bodie asked into the R/T.

"The elevator isn't working," a Scottish voice said from behind them.
Bodie and Solo looked at Cowley then at the elevator. Napoleon saw it in
the same instant that Bodie elbowed his arm and pointed to the top of the
ancient mechanism.

"It'll be tricky," Cowley continued. "One shot. Miss the first time and
he'll have you."

Bodie nodded, smile gone, face set, determined. "Have to be a hand gun,
too tight for a rifle." He looked over a Napoleon. "Are you going to try
to volunteer for this too?"

"No." Solo shook his head. "Gave up rope tricks for Lent." Seriously he
added, "You'll have to be on your knees when you shoot. What you need is a
distraction."

Cowley looked at him, nodded. "Doyle?"

"Maybe he could use another visit from a medic," Napoleon suggested.

"Hoffman may not allow that," Bodie agrued. "The storm is getting worse.
What about switching the lights off? Blame it on the storm."

"No." Cowley frowned. "He might panic and start shooting. We'll go with
the medic. If he doesn't allow it the argument alone should be enough to
cover your landing."

Bodie looked at Cowley. They had a plan. The waiting was over.

"On your bike, lad," Cowley commanded.

With a quick wink at Napoleon Bodie disappeared up the emergency stairs.
Cowley turned toward Solo, spoke into the R/T. "Doyle?"

"Sir?"

"Bodie's coming down. Understand?"

"Yeh."

"But he needs help. On my word I want you to start yelling to Hoffman that
you need the medic back. Understand?"

"On your word," came the slightly stronger reply.

"Bodie?" Cowley switched over to the other half of his best team.

"Murphy, sir. Bodie's getting a vest." There was a muttering in the
background. "Says that way if he is hit he'll still have a chance at
Hoffman."

"The lad's actually showing some intelligence at last," Cowley commented
dryily over his shoulder to Solo. "Tell him to give...."

"Cowley!" Hoffman shouted. "I'm coming down."

American and British exchanged panic looks. It was too soon.

"That wasn't our agreement!" Cowley yelled. "The helicopter's not ready.
The storm has it slowed down."

"Now, Cowley!" There was movement on the stairs.

"Bodie!" Cowley whispered harshly into the radio. "Go!"

From above there was the whisper of cloth against rope then the faint but
telling thud of boots on metal. Hoffman was three steps from Doyle, he
spun, gun coming up. From his new angle the whole top of the elevator was
open to him.

Doyle saw Bodie land, watched Hoffman spin, weapon lining on his partner.
Doyle willed his arm up, moving as fast as his shocked system would let
him, knowing it would be too late. He cried out, a harsh sound of pain and
fear for Bodie.

"No!"

Shots rang out, bullets from downstairs striking the wall next to Hoffman.
Hoffman threw himself to one side. Bodie had him. The first shot took him
in the chest, another followed, struck the same place, slammed him
spreadeagle against the wall. The terrorist was dead on his feet, slipping
slowly to land face down on the stairs.

Time held for long minutes before being broken by chests rising again,
deep long breaths to calm the nerves. Bodie looked over the edge of the
decorative, ancient elevator. Napoleon, still in shooting stance, looked
up at him and smiled charmingly.

"You missed," Bodie said flatly.

"Ah, yes, well, didn't have a chance of hitting him from here, did I?"
Napoleon answered in his worst British accent.

Bodie checked the angles again. "I reckon not," he countered in a fair
imitation of John Wayne.

Before Bodie could get back up the rope the stairs were swarming with
ambulancemen.

******

"They still look like forty miles of bad road," a smooth voice said from
the door way.

"Cat wouldn't touch either of them," another voice agreed.

Both Doyle and Illya looked over at the door, noting with disgust their
respective partner's expensive dress and glowing good health. Doyle was
closest, propped up on two pillows with a closed motorcross magazine on
his lap. Illya was flat on his back in the next bed, having only been
taken out of ICU that morning.

"What are you two dressed for?" Doyle questioned. "Seeing the Queen this
evening, are we?"

"No," Bodie answered. "Having found someone who appreciates the finer
things in life, unlike some people, we are going...."

"To Che Cheval's for a seven course meal..." Napoleon picked up.

"An expensive bottle of wine...."

"Then a few drinks at Bodie's local."

Doyle and Illya listened in silent ill-concealed amusement. Doyle caught
his smile, frowned instead, pointing at Bodie. "Well, just you remember
who to blame when the funds run out before the pay comes in."

"My treat," Napoleon said with a winning smile. "After all what are
partners for?" He and Bodie nodded to each other.

"He'll pay," Illya said flatly. All three looked over at him. He looked at
Bodie. "You'll have to listen to his stories."

Napoleon looked at Doyle. "I understand he's heard the one about Lisbon
alleys."

The warm green eyes went to familiar midnight blue. "Yeh. Told him that
one. In small words, so I think he even understood it." Bodie only smiled
fondly at the insult.

Next to them sky blue and deep brown connected. Napoleon said softly,
"There are some stories that only partners understand."

-- THE END --

*Originally published in *Chalk and Cheese 3*, Agent with Style, 1989*

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