![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
bistokidsfan77.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
discoveredinaljPosting here under the wire for 11-12-2010! Follow the fake LJ link Enfilade-Defilade to my website.
Edited to post for real. Sorry, the html gremlins got me. Please enjoy and happy holidays to all.
Title: Enfilade-Defilade
***
Part 1 – Not the beginning, not the end, but perhaps the start of the middle
***
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
-Lord Byron
The more we work, the more we may,
It makes no difference to our pay.
-We are the Royal Sappers - War Song (1915)
***
1 June 1982 - 19.30
Sultry evening air that heralded an early start on summer clung with heavy moisture to Bodie’s skin as he finished yet another negative threat assessment. He came round the southwest corner of the portico and glanced over the drive to see Doyle standing by a pillar, looking at him. Ray’s suit and tie made him look grim and uncomfortable, yet oddly compelling in a rumpled, grumpy sort of way. Bodie tilted his head slightly in inquiry and Doyle nodded justly as slightly. All was as well as could be expected.
“Could think of a lot of better ways to spend my time than hanging about a car-park in Mayfair,” he grumbled to himself. It was as hot as hell, and even he was getting tired of wearing a suit and tie every bloody day that HE Shlomo Argov, Israeli Ambassador to the UK, attended low-key diplomatic meetings in the charming and air-conditioned rooms of the stately Dorchester Hotel.
“Cheer up, Sunshine,” Doyle sauntered up, but was as twitchy as a wet cat. “We’ve only got three more days of this choice assignment.” Ray’s tone was acid, “Then, we’ll have to give up all this luxury.”
“Be still me heart.” Bodie suddenly looked up and sighted on a location across the road from the portico where a small delivery van was parked over the kerb that blocked the view of the building. The perpetual road works had half the block dug up, caution flags everywhere. LIke a dog on point he concentrated fiercely; the movement had been sudden, as if someone had noticed them and pulled back in alarm.
Doyle knew better then to bother his partner, just slid to his side and slightly to the left, pulling out his weapon. Bodie’s skills bordered on the omniscient sometimes. He’d learnt to trust them, regardless of how unlikely they seemed.
On Bodie’s nod they moved in concert cross Deanery Street and at an oblique angle to the delivery van, using it for cover as its low profile would not give away their movement. Checking his corner, Bodie went high and Doyle low round the back of the van. The torn up walkway yielded only more barriers and a narrow dusty path that allowed any pedestrians foolish enough to attempt to walk on that side of the street.
Doyle twitched a shoulder, and they retreated back round the van rather than be caught in the bottleneck that the temporary path presented. The pair moved toward the narrow grass strip on Park Lane. The evening was stretching into twilight, and the trees cast long shadows. They approached with care, even as cars on the motorway streamed by ignorant of their tension. Hyde Park’s distant patrons moved languidly in the hot summer’s night. Casting about for a few more minutes with no threat presenting itself, they finally stood down from full alert to merely just paying a great deal of attention to everything.
“What’d you see,” Doyle asked as they made their way back across to the hotel entrance way.
“Caught something in the corner of my eye,” muttered Bodie. “Could’ve sworn it was there,” he shook his head, irritated with himself. Getting jumpy he was. Still, the hairs on the back of his neck were raised. You didn’t ignore this kind of feeling. Sort of stuff that’d get you killed in the wrong environment.
“You say it was there - it was there, mate,” Doyle affirmed as they rounded the corner to the rear southwest entrance. “And where’s Willis’ lot in all this, I ask you?”
“Taking their leisure in the bar, I’m thinking,” Bodie smirked in concert with Doyle at MI-6’s expense. He was chuffed about the utter trust Doyle displayed though, and it showed in his swagger.
They continued their desultory nonsense as they carefully walked the perimeter and then checked in with Morecroft and Denton, who were not, as they had speculated, in the hotel bar, but in the hallway near the doorway to the suite where the meetings were being held.
“Status update,” Moorecroft snapped, with his usual smell of bad fish expression at dealing with two of Cowley’s finest.
“All quiet round the perimeter,” Doyle replied civilly enough. He added, “Bodie picked up on something near the Park, but we couldn’t get a line on it. Be worth keeping an eye out.”
Moorecroft sighed; Denton looked utterly disinterested. “Do you have a description? A hint of what was happening?” Moorecroft asked patronizingly.
“No description as yet,” Doyle replied, staring at Denton’s stony face.
“Well, until you’ve got something concrete, you should just continue with your assigned position,” and quit wasting my time was more than implied by Moorecroft.
“I did see something or someone out of place,” Bodie insisted. “It’s been too easy. There has to be something in the works.”
“The whole conference will go off without a hitch. We’ll ensure that it does,” the unneeded predicate was that CI-5 wouldn’t have anything to do with the success of the mission. In as much as Willis had been forced by the PM to allow CI-5 in on this matter, it wasn’t a surprising attitude.
“You don’t speak much, do you?” Doyle marveled at Denton, eyes wide. Their dismissal evident, the partners turned and made their way back out into the heavy evening.
“Bloody Cowley,” muttered Bodie. “Why are we here? Even MI-6 can handle this detail.” Pre-conferences, hammering out details for the larger summit to come. Busy, important detail work, with no showy immediate payoff, and no press hounding for photo ops and sound bites. And yet, that feeling.
“Beats me, mate,” Doyle shook his head, also still bothered by their earlier futile search. His alarms were going off. It had been too easy. Anything the Israeli Ambassador did was news and there were all too many groups that would be happy to take him out. At the very least, there should have been some sort of demonstration.
“The old man’s playing this one so close to the vest, it’s getting a bit crowded,” Bodie sighed. He was hungry, and it was a long time ‘til they were off at midnight.
“Here,” nudged Doyle, digging into his pocket and handing him a sausage roll wrapped in a napkin from their quick pub lunch before they’d started their shift at noon.
“Thanks,” beamed Bodie, stuffing half of it in his mouth. Then, looking thoughtfully at the roll, he handed the other half back to Doyle. Ray smiled up at Bodie, who was fascinated at the fading sun caught in his hair, making it glow with red and gold.
Ray nibbled on his half of the roll contentedly, and they existed together in easy silence.
Then, the sun dipped down finally, the roll was gone, and they went back to their endless perimeter in the gracious boundaries of the Mayfair. Bloody Cowley.
***
A bag which was left and not only taken but turned away was not found.
The place was shown to be very like the last time.
A piece was not exchanged, not a bit of it, a piece was left over.
The rest was mismanaged.
-Gertrude Stein
For it’s Tommy this an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck ’im out, the brute!”
But it’s “Savior of ’is country,” when the guns begin to shoot.
-Rudyard Kipling
***
3 June 1982 – 12.00
Bodie and Doyle had finished their pre-shift recce, still on an edge that hadn’t dulled in the past two days. They met up with Tommy and Jax at the east end of the portico for the shift exchange.
“Got a change up,” Tommy mentioned mildly, scanning the traffic intently.
“What’s the do?” Doyle nodded to Jax.
“Some cable’s come from the home country,” Jax replied, his own eyes scanning endlessly. “The Ambassador’s going to have to reschedule several meetings. He’s off in about five - back to the Embassy.”
“It’s got their knickers in a twist,” added Tommy, no guesses as to who they were.
“No more than that?” Doyle was puzzled. “Bit extreme, don’t you think?”
“One would suppose it would depend on the contents of the cable,” Tommy’s calm was sublime, but a fine edge of tension shone burnished by the stress of the assignment.
“Very short odds on the powder keg that they live in going up,” Bodie grimly offered. “It doesn’t take much to get to the tipping point from where they are now.”
The CI-5 men acknowledged the former merc’s experience in such situations as well as their own analysis of the Middle East. It was going to get ugly. It was a given. The when, not the if, was in question. That, and who was going to have to clean up the mess that would inevitably follow. They all felt it was highly likely that they’d be receiving the short end of that stick.
It was the nature of their job, and St. George the Cowley, to have them ever battling dragons in an attempt to put right, or at least patch up, the wrongs. Even if their armor was a little tarnished and their standard tattered, the need to keep trying kept them plodding along, tending the lavender and roses along the way.
“Well, I suppose that just makes this afternoon perfect,” sighed Doyle. They’d have to split up, and they didn’t like that. Not any more. They stuck together like glue these days, and felt better for it. The lack of response on this op was ratcheting up their tension higher than ever. Something had to give, but when?
“We could stay on,” offered Jax.
“Nah, you’re all done in,” said Doyle. “Need to go home and get your beauty sleep, you do.”
“You’re just cheesed off ‘cause I’m prettier than you are,” Jax shot back. They’d been back-to-back twelve hours on and twelve hours off for over a week now, and they all were feeling it.
“Now, now, lads,” Tommy admonished gently. “You know Bodie’s prettier than the lot of you. You mustn’t upset his delicate constitution. Liable to get the vapours he is.”
Bodie’s pout was legion, and he was just about to let go with a riposte that would wipe the grin off that bugger Tommy’s face, when the ornate double-doors opened. Cassiday and Fowler, the current MI-6 team on duty, motioned to the CI-5 agents.
The lads immediately went on alert and fanned out. Doyle and Bodie were off to the right, scanning the entrance from Park Lane, while Jax and Tommy slid over to the corner off Deanery.
The stately Mercedes saloon that was the Ambassador’s transport idled near the entrance of the curved drive, but didn't move. The MI-6 agents paused just outside the hotel doorway, flanking the Ambassador. Bodie saw Cassiday give Fowler an odd look, who then motioned impatiently for the driver to pull up. The Ambassador was anxious at the delay as he was needed immediately back at the embassy to decode a top-level cable that had just arrived.
The heat wavered in the air, and the sound of an air-hammer stuttering on pavement a few blocks over reverberated down the narrow street as the powerful car accelerated very slowly up the drive. Breaths felt like feats of strength against the pushing mash of humid air, and the sun glazed everything with aching brightness.
The gunman popped up from behind the bonnet of the car, like some bizarre arcade game figure. The steady stream of bullets from his H&K VP70 sprayed endless three round bursts from its extended mag toward the group by the doorway. First Fowler, then Cassiday went down, leaving the Ambassador looking on in stupefied horror as he slid down to sprawl on the tarmac, hand pressed to his bleeding abdomen.
Split seconds after the gunman opened up on his target, all four CI-5 agents had their weapons out, returning fire. The assassin fell back behind the angled bonnet of the saloon, dropping his extended mag and slamming home another. He sprinted round the rear of the car, rolling over the boot to come up firing at the agents bearing down on them, causing them to have to duck out of the line of fire.
The driver of the saloon crawled out of his door and fell back to where the gunman was, firing his own machine pistol. The driver singled out Bodie and Doyle, while the assassin concentrated on Tommy and Jax. The odor of gunpowder drifted between the factions as they returned fire, seconds seeming to stretch out endlessly.
Jax and Tommy were firing from behind the south pillar when rounds from the driver's gun struck the marble, spraying ricocheting chips straight into Jax’ face. Tommy growled and reached around to his fallen partner and drug him round behind the pillar. Dropping his clip, he reloaded with a snap to the base of the magazine and opened up again. He was tempted just to leave the relative safety of the pillar and get closer to where the driver was hiding, but remembered all too well his extended stay in hospital a few years ago for failing to utilize available cover. Just not giving a damn didn't seem to be a good enough reason any more. At long last, Tommy McKay had decided to live.
“Well, I might just make it,” he acknowledged to himself wryly, as he dodged another burst of fire. He sighted carefully down the drive, and when the driver popped out again, he fired, striking the other man's arm and torso. The driver was down.
Doyle and Bodie had dodged behind two parked cars for cover, while the gunman targeted them almost continuously. Taking turns firing, they assessed the situation. They had good cover, but the gunman had the upper hand, as they couldn't get a clear line on him, due to the oblique angle of the car. The heavy Mercedes was like a tank and absorbed their shots.
Bodie raised his eyebrows and Doyle shrugged, finishing off his clip. “Reload,” called Bodie, taking his turn. They were going to run out of ammunition before the gunmen, who'd apparently packed enough rounds for a small bush war.
“I'm out after this,” Doyle called out.
“So'm I,” Bodie replied, trying to sight down the side of a Cortina to get a bead on the gunman. Just then, the telltale wail of multiple panda cars' hi-low's sounded sweetly in the distance. Doyle fired his last shot, Bodie a few minutes after. Then, strange silence from the gunmen. Doyle edged around and saw Tommy standing over the driver's body, kicking away his weapon. The assassin was nowhere to be seen.
“Clear?” called Bodie out to Tommy as he came round the other side of their cover.
“Clear,” Tommy replied, picking up the driver's VP70. “Driver's had it,” he added, reaching into the assailant's jacket and fishing out another magazine. He dropped the empty and reloaded, handing the weapon to Doyle. “Take my spare,” giving Bodie his backup. “I'll tend to Jax and that lot,” he jerked his head to the awkward sprawl of bodies on the tarmac.
“Cheers,” Bodie called back as they sped toward the park. There was only one way he could have gone, down Park Lane. Running full out, weapons drawn, got no little attention at noon in the middle of Mayfair.
“Cowley's gonna do his nut for this,” thought Doyle, sweat running down his face as they sprinted around the corner to South Street. The gunman was visible about half a block ahead of them, weaving in and out of traffic. Ignoring the screams of the pedestrians and the screech of brakes, the pair pursued their black-clad target, highly visible in the midst of summer weight suits and printed frocks.
The partners gained on their target, who was slowed by the volume of lunchtime traffic. They careened around the corner to Park Street, when they were suddenly confronted by the gunman turning on them, screaming and firing wildly. Bodie saw a round of Doyle’s hit the gunman in his off arm, which served to enrage him even further, but not disable him.
The partners had split, one to each side of the narrow street, seeking what small cover was available. Doyle crouched behind a parked motorcycle, while Bodie nipped into a shallow doorway. The gunman continued to scream and fire, first at Bodie, then switched to Doyle. He moved forward slightly, seemingly ignoring Bodie. One of his bullets made it through the motorcycle and struck Doyle. Bodie’s position was slightly ahead of Ray’s, but he saw Doyle fall back toward the pavement.
Tommy’s back up bucked in Bodie’s hand as he fired, dropped the empty clip, reloaded and fired with precision accuracy. He lost count of how many rounds hit the gunman as he walked across the street, firing and firing. Ray had not moved and there was nothing else.
No sounds permeated Bodie’s awareness as he stared down at the crumpled, motionless figure in front of him, who still had the machine pistol grasped in his bloody hand. He reached down, and with difficulty, tugged the weapon from the dead man’s hand. Something was burrowing an aching hollow through him; the hole growing so quickly, he knew he would tumble into it at any moment. Vaguely aware that he was drenched in sweat, he stood gasping. All he felt was cold, cold.
A gentle tugging pulled him somewhere, took the weapon from his hands, and helped him down to the pavement. Black and white shapes milled around, distorted noises bleeding through the cotton wool he seemed to be wrapped in. A steady voice murmured to him over and over, one that felt familiar.
“C’mon, Sunshine,” Ray called to Bodie softly, “I’m right here.” He shifted in front of Bodie, completely blocking the view of his partner from the street. Bracing one shaky hand on the doorway, he cupped the other around Bodie’s face, tilting his chin up to meet the other man’s blank gaze. “Come on back, Bodie,” he crooned, stroking his thumb down a smooth cheek, petting gently over and over. “I’m right here.”
“Ray?” Bodie blinked, his voice wavered a little. “Ray?” he continued, puzzled. “But, you’re not dead.”
“Not me, mate,” Ray replied, smiling slightly, totally ignoring the slow slide of blood down the arm and hand that cradled his partner’s face. “Just a bit winded,” he added, likewise ignoring the contusion on his head from where it struck the pavement.
“Gotta get in better shape,” Bodie tilted his head, rubbing against Ray’s hand. It seemed real. It was also better than before. His sense of reality really began and ended with this man these days. He supposed that was a bit barmy, but having been alone so long, felt this state of affairs was infinitely superior.
“Yeah, or we’ll get sent down to Macklin,” Ray chuckled, shaking his head ruefully, then found himself slowly sliding down as his strength gave out. He ended up in Bodie’s lap, his partner’s arms curling automatically around him.
“Ray?” Bodie called in alarm.
“Still here,” Ray replied, his face pressed to Bodie’s shoulder. “A little dizzy,” he added, his voice trailing off. His arm hurt and Bodie felt so good. “Tired.”
Bodie cradled Ray even closer, ignoring the smears of transferred blood. He was vaguely aware of Tommy applying a quick dressing to Ray’s arm and head, but mostly ignored him as he favored his partner with his attentions.
A Scots voice demanding a report filtered through, and he looked up to see Cowley talking with Tommy. Realizing he was next, he gave passing thought to disentangling himself from Doyle, but found he really couldn’t give a fuck. Let Cowley think what he wanted.
“Lad, we need to get him to Casualty,” Cowley’s voice was rough and low as he knelt down next to the partners.
“I’m not leaving him,” Bodie affirmed flatly.
“No, lad,” Cowley replied in agreement. “You’ll not be leaving him. I’ll ensure it.” The unforgiving pavement caused his bad leg to ache, but he ignored it with long practice. “But let the ambulance men do their jobs, Bodie.”
Cowley watched as Bodie allowed the men to detach Doyle from his grasp and place him on a stretcher. The agent’s gaze never wavered from his partner. Bodie made to follow into the ambulance, and protested when the attendant barred him from entering.
“Hold up, Bodie,” Cowley called over from the doorway, still shaky on his legs after rising from the pavement. “We’ll follow in my car,” his ruddy face had gone white with pain.
“Sir,” Bodie protested, fully ready to storm the ambulance, but seeing Cowley in difficulty, was conflicted.
“He’ll be all right, lad,” Cowley shuffled away from the wall. “He’s a strong one, that,” the Controller tried a small step, grimaced, and felt himself going down as his bad leg seized and locked up. Bodie sprang forward to steady the older man. “Ach, bollocks,” exclaimed Cowley.
“Just lean on me, sir,” Bodie said quietly, and gave his support as unobtrusively as he could as they may their way to the Controller’s Granada. As he opened the passenger door, Tommy appeared from the milling crowd of DI’s and plods.
Cowley took a seat, gingerly rubbing his gamey knee. “Well, man, get on with it!” he barked.
“Ambassador Argov’s in critical condition at St. Thomas’s,” Tommy replied. “Willis is here, spitting mad and looking for blood. Currently, he’s handling the cleanup at the Dorchester with his lot. The local plods have cordoned off Park and South Streets and are redirecting traffic off of Park Lane.”
“How’s Jax?” Cowley asked, glancing at Bodie, who’d remained silent, but obviously wanted to be gone from there.
“He’s was taken to Casualty at the same time as the Ambassador,” Tommy replied. “He regained consciousness before they carted him off.” He barked a laugh, “Mad as hell for missing out on all the fun.”
Cowley chuckled slightly and nodded, “You’ll handle this here, then, Tommy. Keep me posted, and don’t let Willis know where I’ve gone.” The Controller expression hardened, “I’ll deal with his cock-up later.”
“Yes, sir.” Tommy didn’t have to ask where he was going. Bodie looked about done in, holding himself together with sheer will. Cowley would look after his lads, especially Bodie.
“Let’s go, Bodie,” Cowley directed, dialing the Minister on his phone, already mentally composing his report.
“Running all the way, sir,” Bodie replied in a whisper to himself as he floored the accelerator.
***
Part 2 – How to get from there to here – Interregnum
***
Constant use had not worn ragged the fabric of their friendship.
-Dorothy Parker
What the world really needs is more love and less paperwork.
-Pearl Bailey
***
As epiphanies went, theirs fell somewhere between the discovery of fire and that orange jelly was smashing between two layers of sponge and choccy.
The summer pushed on. Peace was waged in Lebanon. Bombs went off in parks. Two men fell a bit more in love than they were expecting. It was life shattering for them, and not of much note to most.
Uncle George had them pegged from the outset. He didn’t speak of it, but ceased sending them on solo assignments. Tommy knew, of course, but he kept his own counsel. If the others noted a difference in their behavior, none spoke of it.
It was baking hot going into autumn. The heat had already pulled most of the moisture out of the air by the end of August. September crushed all hope of relief. October bought fog and drizzle. By Guy Fawkes Day, the whole country had gone cold, wet, and dreary in an endless series of storm fronts come across from the North Sea.
Most of Bodie and Doyle’s assignments that followed the debacle with the Israeli Ambassador were routine ops. Obbos of crime figures for gathering intel; vetting of government figures and their circle of friends; the odd low level operative getting caught red-handed and returned, slightly used, to the Soviet Embassy on a return to sender order.
The partners didn’t mind. After Doyle had been released from a short stay in hospital, they shifted together, closer than ever. Living in each other’s pockets as never before, unwilling to even separate overnight.
The conflicts between the work they were compelled to do and the need they had for each other gradually balanced out as they learnt the merits of compromise and communication. Mostly. Some days they just bitched at each other, themselves, and anyone standing still long enough to listen. Darby and Joan they were not. All this, and no sex.
Individually, they felt it wasn’t satisfactory, but still were leery of approaching it head on with each other. Mechanics they could do. Feelings were much more difficult, and they were chary of disturbing their comfortable, albeit frustrating, status quo.
It all changed on Tuesday, November 17th, at approximately 21.42 hours. The previous 9 hours and 18 minutes had been spent in a mostly vain attempt to sort through and make sense of the 37 cartons of accounts records they’d seized earlier that day when they’d nicked a Rt Hon dipping his hand in the charity trust funds of which he was administrator. Apparently Death Duties on the family estate and a taste for the finer things had depleted his principal.
It had all lead down a very messy trail to a firm of chartered accountants who appeared to be a front for all sorts of laundering of funds intended for various nasty international terrorist organizations.
As a result, endless reams of papers and red leather covered accounts books were spread about the Restroom. Doyle was sorting papers into stacks; Bodie sat and puzzled through a large accounts book, pausing now and then to make notations in a small spiral bound book. The detritus of empty biscuit packets, stale crusts and half-drunk cups of tea were strewn over any flat service not already occupied with records.
Doyle had finished his current stack and was rooting around the next carton for a new set. The box was stacked next to the table where Bodie sat, and Ray tugged it closer and knelt down to lift out the unruly stack of paper. He paused a moment when he noticed his nose was about 2 inches from Bodie’s left knee. There was a spot of raspberry jam on his corduroys, and Ray had an inexplicable urge to lick it. More to the point, to lick Bodie.
Startled, Ray looked up to see Bodie staring down at him, his expression ruthlessly neutral, except for his eyes. They were pleading and commanding at the same time. His eyes made Ray ache in his throat and in his cock.
“Got it bad, huh, Sunshine,” Ray murmured as he slid one hand up Bodie’s thigh, then gripped the muscular leg. He noted almost clinically that his partner was hard. Constricted in those tight cords, it couldn’t be comfortable. He moved his hand over and stroked the bulge gently, soothing the ache.
Looking up, Ray could see the conflict in Bodie’s face, the want warring with the fear, and he felt remorse. He never wanted this man to feel that way. The need to care for him, cherish him hit him like a 10 tonne lorry. Utter sap. Like breathing, necessary.
“Let’s go home, Bodie,” Ray said, taking hold of both of his partner’s knees and looking up at him. “This lot’ll keep.”
Bodie gazed down at his partner and nodded. The trust that was their bedrock served them well. Doyle leaned back and he helped him to his feet.
Tugging Doyle close to him, he looked him directly in the eyes, “No more waiting, Ray.”
“No,” Ray breathed, feeling vaguely giddy with relief.
“Not gonna faint on me are you, Flower?” Bodie jibed gently and he shepherded his partner to the door and into the hallway.
“Maybe,” gulp Ray. Definitely giddy, maybe even gay, like a Maypole. In May.
Bodie’s warm chuckle broke through his haze, and Ray realized he’d been saying all that aloud as they made their way out to the car park to Bodie’s silver Capri. Rain drizzled and there were enormous puddles everywhere. Opening his passenger door, he gently pushed Ray in.
Letting the motor warm, he turned to his partner, who was huddled in the passenger seat, shivering. Bodie realized they hadn’t stopped for their jackets when they left. He was wearing a rollneck, but Ray for some reason had opted for just a t-shirt that day. Now, he was shivering, partly from shock and partly from the cold.
“I’ve got the heater on full stop, mate,” Bodie reached back and found his cardie on the back seat where he’d abandoned it months ago, back when the weather had been trying to imitate a convection oven. “Here,” he handed it over.
“Ta,” Doyle managed to get out reasonably well. The sweater, an ugly brown, was warm and smelled faintly of his partner. He pulled it close. It felt marvelous.
The drive home was quick as Bodie could make it; that is to say it was slightly longer that the Pleistocene Epoch. Eventually, they were stumbling up the walk to Ray’s garden flat.
From there on, it went a bit hazy, like an art house film. Bodie definitely remembered reaching Doyle’s bed. Ray likewise recalled pulling off damp clothing. All else was a mesh of touching and climax, followed by content and cuddling. Huh. Maybe they were Darby and Joan.
***
Part 3 – Lights, camera, action
***
How it pours, pours, pours,
In a never-ending sheet!
How it drives beneath the doors!
How it soaks the passer's feet!
How it rattles on the shutter!
How it rumples up the lawn!
How 'twill sigh, and moan, and mutter,
From darkness until dawn.
-Rossiter Johnson
We have all passed a lot of water since then.
-Samuel Goldwyn
***
December 25, 1982 – 16.00
Rain fell. It drizzled. It stormed. It was wet. The wettest December on record, or since they started keeping records. High Streets were flooded; department store Santa's costumes were soaked by damp children; you could not go out without a brolly or anorak lest you arrive considerably damper than when you left. Day 40 approached. It was not unreasonable to assume that Ark building was going to become a popular trade again.
Cooling their heels at Heathrow, Bodie and Doyle sat with over-priced cups of bad tea in the arrival lounge of El Al. Deputy Ambassador Benesh Strauss' flight was late. Due to rain squalls, his flight had been diverted to Costa Brava airport in Spain for several hours. He was due any minute.
“You never,” Doyle scoffed.
“Strewth,” Bodie assured him. “All day long sometimes, when it got boring.”
“Prove it,” his partner shot back.
“Try me,” was the smug reply.
Looking round for inspiration, Ray spied a sign, “Gate,” he challenged.
Bodie thought for a moment, then began, “It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.” [1]
Unbowed, Doyle continued, “Space.”
His partner grinned and immediately replied, “A panting syllable through time and space, Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark.” [2]
“Love,” Ray finally said quietly, after a short pause.
Bodie visibly softened and spoke in a low undertone, “Mein Herz ich will dich fragen, Was ist denn Liebe, sag? Zwei Seelen und ein Gedanke, Zwei Herzen und ein Schlag.” [3]
“A lovely sentiment,” spoke a lightly accented voice. The partners looked up to find Dep. Ambassador Strauss smiling slightly, the bodyguards behind him not at all.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Bodie stood immediately. Doyle a little slower, taking in Strauss' entourage.
“They only sent two guards with you?” Ray queried sharply.
Strauss shrugged, “I only allowed two to be sent. I cannot do my job while be surrounded by a division of men.”
“A squad at best, sir,” Bodie admonished.
“Indeed, Mr. Bodie,” Strauss allowed. “Nevertheless, two is how many I have, and yet they are doubled and now I have four. Surely, it is enough to take me to the Embassy.”
“Yes, sir,” Bodie replied. “If you'll come with us, sir.” The group made their way to the special exits gate that lead to a secure parking covered car park.
“Still raining, I see,” sighed Strauss, looking out at the downpour.
“Hasn't stopped since you left, sir,” Ray replied wryly.
“You'll forgive the reference, gentlemen, but it's positively Biblical,” the Dep. Ambassador groused, as he sat in the rear flanked by his guards.
“Or an Epic Inundation,” offered Bodie cheekily as he slid into the driver's seat. Ray grinned from the passenger side as they made their way out of the airport.
“Indeed,” chuckled Strauss good-naturedly. “And, how is your Mr. Cowley?”
“He's fine, sir” Doyle replied. “He sends his regrets that he couldn't meet you in person today. There's a matter at the Ministry that he has to attend to personally.”
Bodie looked at Doyle incredulously; butter wouldn't melt in Ray's mouth, he'd spoke so prettily. The Old Man was locked in an epic battle of budgetary concerns, the preliminary security planning meetings for the January summit regarding the war in Lebanon were dead locked by infighting between no less than five agencies, and there was a huge flap on regarding the weather crisis.
“I trust you will be able to go home after you've seen me delivered to the Embassy,” Strauss declared, rummaging through his large leather briefcase. He pulled from it a bottle of wine and handed it to Doyle.
“Sauvignon Blanc from Shomron,” Doyle approved. “Thank you, sir.”
“Just a token of my government's and my appreciation, gentlemen,” Strauss replied. “Happy Christmas.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bodie offered, then added, “Motorway's flooded out, we'll have to take the A30 through Hounslow, but we should just make it on time.”
“With you driving, Mr. Bodie, I have no doubts,” Strauss said dryly.
***
Not safe and peaceful only, waves rous’d and ominous too,
Out of the depths the storm’s abysmic waves, who knows whence?
Raging over the vast, with many a broken spar and tatter’d sail.
-Walt Whitman
A man should never put on his best trousers when he goes out to battle for freedom and truth.
-Henrik Ibsen
***
December 26, 1982 – 01.30
The excellent bottle of wine stood empty on Doyle's living room table. The partners sat on his lounge, unmoving. Their day had begun before dawn, and the small Christmas celebration they'd had for themselves had wound down to another cuddling session on the lounge, their exhaustion evident.
Four agents out due to injuries and one to an attack of appendicitis. Cowley was tied ever tightly to his meetings, even on Christmas Eve. It left them overseeing just about everything CI-5 had on, which was a lot, considering how many one man jobs were currently being worked. Add to that Cowley's inherent reluctance to tell anything to anyone, and they were hampered by the left hand sometimes not having any idea that there was a bloody right hand, let alone what it was doing.
Bodie felt himself falling asleep and looked over at Doyle, whose head had dropped to his shoulder. Too far to the bedroom. Letting himself slide down, he snagged a pillow for under his head, tugged Doyle closer, and pulled down an afghan from the back lounge for warmth. Bliss.
Persistent telephone ringing finally dredged the pair out of slumber around dawn. Doyle stumbled to the blower, rubbing his face, scratching his stubble. “Lo,” he rumbled blearily.
“You're due Ministry of Defense in one hour, Doyle,” Cowley's voice snapped. “You and Bodie are back on duty.”
“We're supposed to be coordinating with Israeli Embassy on security for the summit,” Doyle protested. “McCabe and Lucas work with the MOD plods for security updates.”
“There's been a new threat sent to the Embassy,” Cowley informed him. “I've pulled all available teams for assignment there. Tommy's coordinating security there; I need you two to work with the MOD.”
Bodie had come up behind Doyle and was listening on the conversation. He now took the receiver, “But, sir, shouldn't we be helping with the security if there's a new threat on?”
“You'll go where I assign you, 3.7,” scolded the Old Man.
“Yes, sir,” replied Bodie, somewhat chastened. Doyle put a hand on his arm and squeezed as he moved closer to the receiver to hear Cowley continue.
“There' something afoot,” his Scots intonation stronger as he was very tired. “I cannae get a direct line on it, but I”ve been pulling a great many threads. The American intelligence community has been sharing some very interesting pieces of information concerning Abu Nidal.” The silence on the line was deafening.
“We tied in those ABO operatives, but we could never get a whiff of the instigator of the assassination plot,” Cowley finally continued. “Until now.”
“Ali Farra's in Britain?” Bodie bit out.
“Aye, that's the whisper,” Cowley replied. “On yer bikes, lads. Find out what the MOD knows and find him,” he barked and hung up.
“Merry Fucking Christmas,” Bodie closed his eyes and dropped his head on Doyle's shoulders.
***
Anguis sub viridi herba.[4]
-Francis Bacon
The search for truth was hindered by the desire to do damage control.
-Melvin Whitley
***
December 26, 1982 - 07.30
The MOD plods did not like sharing intel. They did not like civilian oversight. They most especially did not like George Cowley's lads stomping all over in an attempt to circumvent procedure.
“Look,” Doyle began again. “Did you, or did you not arrest one,” he paused to reference his notebook, “Khalil al Fayiz yesterday at Marchwood Military Port?”
Sgt-Maj. Fitzroy stood even further at attention and replied stiffly, “I cannot comment on an on-going investigation due to the high clearance level and in the interests of National Security. Sir.”
“As you well know, CI-5's brief and our own security clearance makes us a privy to that level of information,” Doyle replied, exasperated beyond belief.
“Leave off, Ray,” Bodie said evenly and walked up to the soldier. “Sgt-Major's just doing his job, isn't he? Can't be arsed to think outside his Army box to make a genuine threat assessment.”
At a low sound from Fitzroy, Bodie stopped moving around him, “Something to say Sgt-Major?”
“Don't take that shite from some Sneaky Beaky,” he sneered breaking attention and looking at the agent.
“Wrong, you knacker,” Bodie snarled back. “I walked the Banner two years. You will come to attention Sgt-Major,” the command in his voice very evident.
“Yes, sir,” Fitzroy's surprise quickly overcome by his at attention face as he snapped to.
“Khalil al Fayiz, Sgt-Major Fitzroy. No detail too small – tell us everything,” Bodie ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the Sgt-Major replied, glancing periodically at Bodie and imagining him in a 2 Para uniform.
***
December 26, 1982 – 16.00
“That's right, luv, all the chatter, Dec 18 through today, inclusive,” Doyle scribbled hastily some data in his notebook. “No, I'll need them transcribed immediately. No, it can't wait,” he sighed and added, “I'll have a courier round in two hours.” He paused, then replied, “Well, you'll just have to make due, won't you?” and rang off.
“That's Willis' lot,” Doyle checked his list. “How're the MOD plods contribution coming?”
“Fitzroy's an arse, but he got the files,” Bodie replied, waving a manilla folder. “Not much to go on, but I think al Fayiz is the key.” Bodie pulled out a page, “He makes reference to 'waves of retribution' that will overcome the Infidel in their own Kingdom.” He flung the page down, “That and some other religious tripe.” He groaned and rubbed his eyes.
“Here,” Doyle handed him a cuppa and snagged the paper from the desk. “He's off his trolley, this one,” Doyle commented after reading portions of an extremely long transcript.
“Completely crackers,” Bodie agreed, tipped his mug at Doyle in thanks and drained it in one go. “He was captured at the Military Port. Possibly scouting locations. He had a camera and a detailed map. But, here,” he put his mug down and pointed toward the bottom on the third page. “This is the most important part. He speaks of 'eekhfa'a' and 'thabaan'”
“What does that mean?” Doyle asked.
“A hidden snake,” Bodie looked soberly at his partner.
“Oh, God,” Ray breathed. “A mole.”
***
Wide is the gate and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction.
-Matthew vii. 13.
I don't mind if you don't like my manners. They're pretty bad.
I grieve over them during the long winter nights.
-Raymond Chandler
***
December 27, 1982 – 07.45
Betty informed them that Mr. Cowley was on his way for 8.00 am meeting with the PM and would not be available until further notice. Tommy reported the usual unrest and demos around the Israeli Embassy. Stuart called in a tip from grass that said something “epic” was going down Christmas week, but was still trying to get hold on more details. Oh, and it rained. The Met Service reported still more rain in the forecast, and that a large storm was forming in the North Sea. Flooding in London was a serious risk.
“Now, we're getting weather reports?” Doyle shoved at the mass of paperwork that had found its way onto the desks they were using during the current crisis.
“North Sea hurricane's something to watch out for,” Bodie said seriously. “Seen a freighter break in two when it got hit by wave and turned over.”
“Yeah, but we're far enough inland, don't you think,” Doyle replied wryly.
“The Thames flooded London in '53 – was almost completely impassible in parts,” Bodie offered.
“Yeah, but I thought that fancy gate project fixed all that,” Doyle knit his brow in an attempt to ease his headache.
“Hope so,” Bodie began reviewing the latest chatter reports. Al Farra was here, he could feel it. There was too much activity. They just couldn't pin him down. Orders were going out, but he was no where to be found.
“All these operative,” Doyle spoke slowly. “They're going all over the world. Where are they getting the funds for them? It's expensive getting fake passports, airplane tickets. It's like there's a bloody clearinghouse going on, right under our noses.”
“Clearinghouse,” Bodie looked up at Doyle suddenly. He sprang up and ran out of the room. Doyle, utterly mystified, followed him.
Down to the basement, into the secured file room. Digging into the files from the lot seized in November, Bodie triumphantly crowed as he pulled out a battered red leather-covered ledger. “Chatswick, Burley, and Lorring, CA!”
Doyle finally got it – follow the money. “We were on the trail already. The Rt. Hon. Arthur Wetherby Dewhurst.”
Bodie consulted his notes, “He's in Wormwood Scrubs, awaiting trial. Flight risk.”
“Not surprising,” Doyle said and their climbed the stairs and packed away their notes. Grabbing their anoraks, they dashed out into the rain for the drive to the Scrubs.
***
December 26, 1982 – 14.30
The Scrubs were as dreary as always. They grilled Dewhurst for only two hours before they got a break. The interrogation room was damp and cold, and the prisoner looked ill when he came in. Owing to his love of good food and willing young girls, he'd been ill-prepared for life as a screw.
“It's only beginning, Arty,” Doyle sat in a backwards facing chair. “You're not a bad looking bloke. I'm sure you'll find companionship soon. No more cold, lonely nights for you.”
“You've got to get me out of here. I don't belong here,” Dewhurst whined.
“No,” Bodie replied. “You don't belong here, do you? Your daddy was a member of the Pitt Club. Got you in to, right? Only the best people. What would they say,” he tsked, shaking his head.
“I've got connections,” Dewhurst offered desperately. “I can get you anything.”
“Now you're talking, Arty,” Doyle's smile was pure evil. “Tell me all about your accountants.”
“My...my accountants?” Dewhurst stuttered.
“Yeah, we find them just fascinating,” Bodie trilled.
***
December 29, 1982 – 21.00
Cowley returned from his meetings, the conferences at the Israeli embassy continued, and more rain fell. The Met. reported a hurricane had formed in the North Sea and was headed straight for the eastern counties. It was due to hit landfall sometime between the 29th and the 30th.
Bodie and Doyle dug into the accounting records to find the money trail. Murphy and Ruth lent a hand when they weren't actively engaged elsewhere. Jax returned from his Midlands assignment and helped also. They dug for three days. Stuart's grass came up trumps and said that a large quantity of Semtex had been diverted from a demolitions company in Scotland, and that the goods had made it into Town. No further pressure could come up with a location.
The linkage of the Semtex caused Ruth to tie in an entry that hadn't previously made sense. “They invested in a company called 'Modutech Demolitions',” she exclaimed excitedly.
“What's that then?” Bodie asked.
“A company that specializes in, and I quote, 'a remote detonation system wherein a plurality of underwater explosives are detonated simultaneously by command signals sent from a remote control station',” Ruth looked up at the group of agents.
“We got the means,” Doyle said. “We need the target.”
“And who's going to hit it,” Bodie added. “We've got to find the damn mole. They'll know.”
“What mole?” Jax asked.
“al Fayiz spoke of a mole,” Bodie explained. “Someone hidden who could rise up like a snake and strike their enemies.”
“You mean like who could have given inside information to set up the hit on the Israeli Ambassador?” Jax offered.
“Oh, God, we are so stupid,” Doyle shook his head. “Exactly.”
“All right,” Murphy said. “Who was in a position to know exactly where the Ambassador was leaving? It wasn't on the schedule.”
“Only people who knew were the Embassy staff, Willis' mob and us,” Bodie listed.
“I'm willing to take a pass on the embassy staff,” Ruth said, and they all agreed.
“We didn't get news of the change until just before,” Jax offered.
“That leaves the MI-6 agents,” Murphy said sourly.
“But the on-duty agents were killed in the hit,” Ruth protested.
“On-duty agents,” Doyle exclaimed.
“What were the names of the two agents on duty previously?” Ruth inquired.
“Morecroft and Denton,” Bodie replied.
Ruth pawed through some papers and consulted a sheet. “Morecroft's dead – auto smash three weeks ago.” She looked up, “Denton's the only one left.”
“Get as many of the agents you can and head down to the Embassy,” called Bodie and they all ran for the door.
“Murphy, you brief the old man, and get him to corral Willis on this,” Doyle called back.
They headed at a dead run for the car park. The wind howled.
***
A bridge a very small bridge in a location and thunder, any thunder, this is the capture of reversible sizing and more indeed more can be cautious. This which makes monotony careless makes it likely that there is an exchange in principle and more than that, change in organization.
-Gertrude Stein
Do not needlessly endanger your lives until ordered to do so.
-Dwight D. Eisenhower
***
December 30, 1982 – 02.00
Agent Denton was not to be found. Checks of all his haunts were negative. His bank accounts were found to be in keeping with his salary, but his flat was crammed with expensive art and jewelry. Judas liked Cezanne and Pouilly-Fumé.
The final link came when they reviewed the purchasing records for the accounting firm. They found a Zodiac boat amongst the purchases. Not something your average chartered account uses. Helpfully, there was a receipt for a slip rental in North Woolwich.
They drove as far as they could, but the storm had caused flooding in the streets. The government authority had decided to raise the recently completed Thames River barrier in an effort to avoid floods like those of 1953. Traffic was at a standstill. They abandoned their car and ran that last blocks to the docks. Knocking on the door of the manager office, they could raise no one. With one great kick, the door burst open and they were digging in the file cabinets. Denton’s name and signature were scrawled on the bottom on the agreement for slip 9. They ran out of the office into the driving rain.
The lights on the docks were hazily visible and they made their way down the the car park. A newer model Aston Martin matching the license tag of Fenton’s car was parked next to the dock ramp. It’s engine was still warm. Drawing their guns, they made their way down the slippery ramp.
The choppy waves of the Thames swirled around the timbers of the pier, the water dangerously close to going over its banks. Bodie and Doyle worked their way down to the far end of the dock, moving as fast in the dim light as they could. Under a sputtering sodium light, they caught sight of Denton holding a metal box with an antenna extended out.
“Denton!” screamed Bodie over the roar of the wind and water. “Give it up!”
Denton snarled at the agents and fired at the CI-5 agents, causing them to dodge behind some barrels stacked on the dock. At the same time he flipped a switch on the box. When nothing happened he flipped it again. Again, nothing happened. With a hoarse cry, he threw the box into the boat, and still periodically firing at the agents got into the Zodiac boat and roared off into the night.
“Fuck,” Bodie cradled one bleeding arm where Denton had winged him.
“Gimme that, mate,” Doyle tied it off with his handkerchief.
“There’s gotta be a boat around here somewhere,” Bodie yelled.
They looked around and found a small cruiser tied up a couple of slips up from Denton’s. “There were keys in the office,” Doyle called as he lit out up the ramp. He grabbed the keys for several slips and made his way back down. Conscious of every second that Denton put between them, they tried sets of keys. The third set started the boat and they roared off.
Their cruiser was more powerful that the small Zodiac that Denton was in, but they’d wasted precious minutes gaining their transport.
“Upstream or down?” shouted Bodie.
“What’s up?” Doyle yelled back.
“Uh, Thamesmead,” Bodie thought hard. “What’s down?”
The two men looked at each other in the dim light of the running lamp next to the wheel. “The Barrier,” they called out to one another in horror, and Bodie directed the cruiser downstream, the small boat listing heavily in the swell. They each were thinking - wave of retribution.
They approached the Barrier, which was lit up like it was still Christmas. Its shiny domes slick with the endless rain. They stretched like shells across the width of the river, and the heave swell pushed against the raised barriers, the water roiling heavily around their bases. The full moon ensured a heavy spring tide, and the hurricane had cause a tidal swell in excess of four metres.
“Which one?” Doyle cried out. There were so many of them.
“I see him,” called Bodie, gesturing to the gate on the far left, near the stationary gates, where the back up water was slightly less violent. They headed their cruiser to the cement gatehouse.
Denton’s Zodiac had reached the barrier, bobbing up and down like a cork. They watched him catch hold of an embedded metal ladder and climb up. Minutes later they abandoned their boat to the mercy of the battering water as they scaled the same ladder.
The roar of the water was deafening and they couldn't talk, could barely see one another. The narrow path on the outside of the gate was slippery as they shuffled around to one of the long sides of the oval shaped gatehouse. An access door was open and the sounds of machinery periodically were audible in the cacophony.
They carefully enetered the access door and began searching for Denton. They found him finishing up wiring a detonator to a lenth of fusing.
“Denton,” yelled Doyle. “Stop, or we’ll shoot.”
Denton’s eyes were glittering in the harsh utility lights, and he snarled as he made to twist the detonator. A bullet to his head and center mass, fired simultaneously by Bodie and Doyle, stopped him cold.
Bodie gingerly disconnected the detonator from the wire and removed it to a safe distance. Doyle examined the wires and followed them to where they were embedded in a section of the housing of the hydraulic engine that controlled the river barrier. The housing was painted a rusty red, but the wires went straight into it. Poking at it, he felt it give. Backing away he cursed roundly. He’d found the missing Semtex.
The roar of the water was reduced as Bodie got the access door shut. He made his way over to where Doyle stared at the plastic explosive, shivering in his damp clothes.
“How long you thing this’s been in the works?” Doyle motioned to the Semtex, safely inert without a detonator, but still making him uncomfortable.
“Months, maybe years,” Bodie replied, looking round the engine room. “It was installed with the rest of this lot.”
“God, that means another mole,” Doyle sighed tiredly.
“Maybe more,” Bodie agreed, now shuddering from the cold himself. “Maybe there’s a comm system of a radio we call out to the main gate.”
“The storm’s due to peak sometime today,” Doyle said. There’s no way we’re going to get out of here now, even if we could communicate with somebody.” They looked about, but the fully-automated gatehouse had no comm system that they could find.
“We’re gonna freeze to death if we don’t get out of these wet things,” Bodie sniffed.
“Ah,” Doyle called in triumph, tugging on a sliding door that opened up room the size of a large closet. A first aid kit was mounted on the wall, as well as a small set of emergency supplies - including blankets and rations and water.
“Well done, Sunshine,” Bodie nudged his partner.
Later, ensconced in scratchy wool blankets and eating awful, stale ration biscuits, they pondered their fate.
“Cowley’s gonna go spare when he can’t find us, you know,” Doyle asserted.
“Let ‘em,” Bodie scoffed. “S’only way we’ll ever get New Year’s off. We’ll just tell ‘im we were ‘unavoidably detained’.”
“You think we’ll be here until tomorrow?” Doyle didn’t sound too unhappy.
“The way that wind’s blowing, I doubt they’ll be lowering the gates anytime before Saturday,” Bodie asserted.
“In that case - Happy New Year, Bodie,” Ray said huskily, and tugged him down, rolling on top of him.
“Happy New...,” Bodie’s reply was interrupted by Ray’s mouth on his. He didn’t mind.
FIN
[1] William Ernest Henley
[2] William Cowper
[3] My heart I fain would thee
What then is Love? Say on.
Two souls and on thought only
Two hearts that throb as one
-EFJ von Munch Bellinghausen
[4] There's a snake in the grass
Title: Enfilade-Defilade
Author: bistokidsfan
Genre: Action/Adventure, Romance, AU
Characters: Bodie/Doyle, Cowley, Tommy
Summary: Hell, high water, and holidays
Advisory: Violent Content, Slash
Status: Complete
Rating: Adult
Finished: December 2010
Disclaimer: No lawyer’s gonna make a monkey outta me. The Professionals are owned by Brian Clemens et al, Bodie is owned by Doyle, & I wouldn’t mind being owned by Tommy!
Feedback: bistokidsfan@gmail.com
Posting: For the Discovered in the Fairy Lights festival on DinLJ comm on Live Journal. After release at my website http://bistokidsfan.com. OK to post on The Circuit, The Hatstand, and Proslib. Anywhere else just let me know.
A/N: For Nora and Kenn who ever and always are my life. Thanks for all the help.
A/N2: It should be noted that the lovely Tommy McKay survived his trauma in Heroes in my Prosverse. Please note there treacly romantic interludes included because I rather like them. For Pros canonists, the setting date has been pulled out of a hat(stand) to suit my plot. It’s not meant to fit anything more than a nebulous timeline of sometime after the series leaves off. If I’ve got it all wrong, I wouldn’t be too surprised...
A/N3: As per my usual, fact, fiction and fancy are all mixed up. The basics are sound, but the plot is a faradiddle dreamt up by yours truly. Places, names, public figures, etc. altered or created to suit my needs and story. Sadly, flooding, terrorism and global warming are all too true. Would that Bodie and Doyle could save us for real.
bistokidsfan
december 2010
Edited to post for real. Sorry, the html gremlins got me. Please enjoy and happy holidays to all.
Title: Enfilade-Defilade
***
Part 1 – Not the beginning, not the end, but perhaps the start of the middle
***
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
-Lord Byron
The more we work, the more we may,
It makes no difference to our pay.
-We are the Royal Sappers - War Song (1915)
***
1 June 1982 - 19.30
Sultry evening air that heralded an early start on summer clung with heavy moisture to Bodie’s skin as he finished yet another negative threat assessment. He came round the southwest corner of the portico and glanced over the drive to see Doyle standing by a pillar, looking at him. Ray’s suit and tie made him look grim and uncomfortable, yet oddly compelling in a rumpled, grumpy sort of way. Bodie tilted his head slightly in inquiry and Doyle nodded justly as slightly. All was as well as could be expected.
“Could think of a lot of better ways to spend my time than hanging about a car-park in Mayfair,” he grumbled to himself. It was as hot as hell, and even he was getting tired of wearing a suit and tie every bloody day that HE Shlomo Argov, Israeli Ambassador to the UK, attended low-key diplomatic meetings in the charming and air-conditioned rooms of the stately Dorchester Hotel.
“Cheer up, Sunshine,” Doyle sauntered up, but was as twitchy as a wet cat. “We’ve only got three more days of this choice assignment.” Ray’s tone was acid, “Then, we’ll have to give up all this luxury.”
“Be still me heart.” Bodie suddenly looked up and sighted on a location across the road from the portico where a small delivery van was parked over the kerb that blocked the view of the building. The perpetual road works had half the block dug up, caution flags everywhere. LIke a dog on point he concentrated fiercely; the movement had been sudden, as if someone had noticed them and pulled back in alarm.
Doyle knew better then to bother his partner, just slid to his side and slightly to the left, pulling out his weapon. Bodie’s skills bordered on the omniscient sometimes. He’d learnt to trust them, regardless of how unlikely they seemed.
On Bodie’s nod they moved in concert cross Deanery Street and at an oblique angle to the delivery van, using it for cover as its low profile would not give away their movement. Checking his corner, Bodie went high and Doyle low round the back of the van. The torn up walkway yielded only more barriers and a narrow dusty path that allowed any pedestrians foolish enough to attempt to walk on that side of the street.
Doyle twitched a shoulder, and they retreated back round the van rather than be caught in the bottleneck that the temporary path presented. The pair moved toward the narrow grass strip on Park Lane. The evening was stretching into twilight, and the trees cast long shadows. They approached with care, even as cars on the motorway streamed by ignorant of their tension. Hyde Park’s distant patrons moved languidly in the hot summer’s night. Casting about for a few more minutes with no threat presenting itself, they finally stood down from full alert to merely just paying a great deal of attention to everything.
“What’d you see,” Doyle asked as they made their way back across to the hotel entrance way.
“Caught something in the corner of my eye,” muttered Bodie. “Could’ve sworn it was there,” he shook his head, irritated with himself. Getting jumpy he was. Still, the hairs on the back of his neck were raised. You didn’t ignore this kind of feeling. Sort of stuff that’d get you killed in the wrong environment.
“You say it was there - it was there, mate,” Doyle affirmed as they rounded the corner to the rear southwest entrance. “And where’s Willis’ lot in all this, I ask you?”
“Taking their leisure in the bar, I’m thinking,” Bodie smirked in concert with Doyle at MI-6’s expense. He was chuffed about the utter trust Doyle displayed though, and it showed in his swagger.
They continued their desultory nonsense as they carefully walked the perimeter and then checked in with Morecroft and Denton, who were not, as they had speculated, in the hotel bar, but in the hallway near the doorway to the suite where the meetings were being held.
“Status update,” Moorecroft snapped, with his usual smell of bad fish expression at dealing with two of Cowley’s finest.
“All quiet round the perimeter,” Doyle replied civilly enough. He added, “Bodie picked up on something near the Park, but we couldn’t get a line on it. Be worth keeping an eye out.”
Moorecroft sighed; Denton looked utterly disinterested. “Do you have a description? A hint of what was happening?” Moorecroft asked patronizingly.
“No description as yet,” Doyle replied, staring at Denton’s stony face.
“Well, until you’ve got something concrete, you should just continue with your assigned position,” and quit wasting my time was more than implied by Moorecroft.
“I did see something or someone out of place,” Bodie insisted. “It’s been too easy. There has to be something in the works.”
“The whole conference will go off without a hitch. We’ll ensure that it does,” the unneeded predicate was that CI-5 wouldn’t have anything to do with the success of the mission. In as much as Willis had been forced by the PM to allow CI-5 in on this matter, it wasn’t a surprising attitude.
“You don’t speak much, do you?” Doyle marveled at Denton, eyes wide. Their dismissal evident, the partners turned and made their way back out into the heavy evening.
“Bloody Cowley,” muttered Bodie. “Why are we here? Even MI-6 can handle this detail.” Pre-conferences, hammering out details for the larger summit to come. Busy, important detail work, with no showy immediate payoff, and no press hounding for photo ops and sound bites. And yet, that feeling.
“Beats me, mate,” Doyle shook his head, also still bothered by their earlier futile search. His alarms were going off. It had been too easy. Anything the Israeli Ambassador did was news and there were all too many groups that would be happy to take him out. At the very least, there should have been some sort of demonstration.
“The old man’s playing this one so close to the vest, it’s getting a bit crowded,” Bodie sighed. He was hungry, and it was a long time ‘til they were off at midnight.
“Here,” nudged Doyle, digging into his pocket and handing him a sausage roll wrapped in a napkin from their quick pub lunch before they’d started their shift at noon.
“Thanks,” beamed Bodie, stuffing half of it in his mouth. Then, looking thoughtfully at the roll, he handed the other half back to Doyle. Ray smiled up at Bodie, who was fascinated at the fading sun caught in his hair, making it glow with red and gold.
Ray nibbled on his half of the roll contentedly, and they existed together in easy silence.
Then, the sun dipped down finally, the roll was gone, and they went back to their endless perimeter in the gracious boundaries of the Mayfair. Bloody Cowley.
***
A bag which was left and not only taken but turned away was not found.
The place was shown to be very like the last time.
A piece was not exchanged, not a bit of it, a piece was left over.
The rest was mismanaged.
-Gertrude Stein
For it’s Tommy this an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck ’im out, the brute!”
But it’s “Savior of ’is country,” when the guns begin to shoot.
-Rudyard Kipling
***
3 June 1982 – 12.00
Bodie and Doyle had finished their pre-shift recce, still on an edge that hadn’t dulled in the past two days. They met up with Tommy and Jax at the east end of the portico for the shift exchange.
“Got a change up,” Tommy mentioned mildly, scanning the traffic intently.
“What’s the do?” Doyle nodded to Jax.
“Some cable’s come from the home country,” Jax replied, his own eyes scanning endlessly. “The Ambassador’s going to have to reschedule several meetings. He’s off in about five - back to the Embassy.”
“It’s got their knickers in a twist,” added Tommy, no guesses as to who they were.
“No more than that?” Doyle was puzzled. “Bit extreme, don’t you think?”
“One would suppose it would depend on the contents of the cable,” Tommy’s calm was sublime, but a fine edge of tension shone burnished by the stress of the assignment.
“Very short odds on the powder keg that they live in going up,” Bodie grimly offered. “It doesn’t take much to get to the tipping point from where they are now.”
The CI-5 men acknowledged the former merc’s experience in such situations as well as their own analysis of the Middle East. It was going to get ugly. It was a given. The when, not the if, was in question. That, and who was going to have to clean up the mess that would inevitably follow. They all felt it was highly likely that they’d be receiving the short end of that stick.
It was the nature of their job, and St. George the Cowley, to have them ever battling dragons in an attempt to put right, or at least patch up, the wrongs. Even if their armor was a little tarnished and their standard tattered, the need to keep trying kept them plodding along, tending the lavender and roses along the way.
“Well, I suppose that just makes this afternoon perfect,” sighed Doyle. They’d have to split up, and they didn’t like that. Not any more. They stuck together like glue these days, and felt better for it. The lack of response on this op was ratcheting up their tension higher than ever. Something had to give, but when?
“We could stay on,” offered Jax.
“Nah, you’re all done in,” said Doyle. “Need to go home and get your beauty sleep, you do.”
“You’re just cheesed off ‘cause I’m prettier than you are,” Jax shot back. They’d been back-to-back twelve hours on and twelve hours off for over a week now, and they all were feeling it.
“Now, now, lads,” Tommy admonished gently. “You know Bodie’s prettier than the lot of you. You mustn’t upset his delicate constitution. Liable to get the vapours he is.”
Bodie’s pout was legion, and he was just about to let go with a riposte that would wipe the grin off that bugger Tommy’s face, when the ornate double-doors opened. Cassiday and Fowler, the current MI-6 team on duty, motioned to the CI-5 agents.
The lads immediately went on alert and fanned out. Doyle and Bodie were off to the right, scanning the entrance from Park Lane, while Jax and Tommy slid over to the corner off Deanery.
The stately Mercedes saloon that was the Ambassador’s transport idled near the entrance of the curved drive, but didn't move. The MI-6 agents paused just outside the hotel doorway, flanking the Ambassador. Bodie saw Cassiday give Fowler an odd look, who then motioned impatiently for the driver to pull up. The Ambassador was anxious at the delay as he was needed immediately back at the embassy to decode a top-level cable that had just arrived.
The heat wavered in the air, and the sound of an air-hammer stuttering on pavement a few blocks over reverberated down the narrow street as the powerful car accelerated very slowly up the drive. Breaths felt like feats of strength against the pushing mash of humid air, and the sun glazed everything with aching brightness.
The gunman popped up from behind the bonnet of the car, like some bizarre arcade game figure. The steady stream of bullets from his H&K VP70 sprayed endless three round bursts from its extended mag toward the group by the doorway. First Fowler, then Cassiday went down, leaving the Ambassador looking on in stupefied horror as he slid down to sprawl on the tarmac, hand pressed to his bleeding abdomen.
Split seconds after the gunman opened up on his target, all four CI-5 agents had their weapons out, returning fire. The assassin fell back behind the angled bonnet of the saloon, dropping his extended mag and slamming home another. He sprinted round the rear of the car, rolling over the boot to come up firing at the agents bearing down on them, causing them to have to duck out of the line of fire.
The driver of the saloon crawled out of his door and fell back to where the gunman was, firing his own machine pistol. The driver singled out Bodie and Doyle, while the assassin concentrated on Tommy and Jax. The odor of gunpowder drifted between the factions as they returned fire, seconds seeming to stretch out endlessly.
Jax and Tommy were firing from behind the south pillar when rounds from the driver's gun struck the marble, spraying ricocheting chips straight into Jax’ face. Tommy growled and reached around to his fallen partner and drug him round behind the pillar. Dropping his clip, he reloaded with a snap to the base of the magazine and opened up again. He was tempted just to leave the relative safety of the pillar and get closer to where the driver was hiding, but remembered all too well his extended stay in hospital a few years ago for failing to utilize available cover. Just not giving a damn didn't seem to be a good enough reason any more. At long last, Tommy McKay had decided to live.
“Well, I might just make it,” he acknowledged to himself wryly, as he dodged another burst of fire. He sighted carefully down the drive, and when the driver popped out again, he fired, striking the other man's arm and torso. The driver was down.
Doyle and Bodie had dodged behind two parked cars for cover, while the gunman targeted them almost continuously. Taking turns firing, they assessed the situation. They had good cover, but the gunman had the upper hand, as they couldn't get a clear line on him, due to the oblique angle of the car. The heavy Mercedes was like a tank and absorbed their shots.
Bodie raised his eyebrows and Doyle shrugged, finishing off his clip. “Reload,” called Bodie, taking his turn. They were going to run out of ammunition before the gunmen, who'd apparently packed enough rounds for a small bush war.
“I'm out after this,” Doyle called out.
“So'm I,” Bodie replied, trying to sight down the side of a Cortina to get a bead on the gunman. Just then, the telltale wail of multiple panda cars' hi-low's sounded sweetly in the distance. Doyle fired his last shot, Bodie a few minutes after. Then, strange silence from the gunmen. Doyle edged around and saw Tommy standing over the driver's body, kicking away his weapon. The assassin was nowhere to be seen.
“Clear?” called Bodie out to Tommy as he came round the other side of their cover.
“Clear,” Tommy replied, picking up the driver's VP70. “Driver's had it,” he added, reaching into the assailant's jacket and fishing out another magazine. He dropped the empty and reloaded, handing the weapon to Doyle. “Take my spare,” giving Bodie his backup. “I'll tend to Jax and that lot,” he jerked his head to the awkward sprawl of bodies on the tarmac.
“Cheers,” Bodie called back as they sped toward the park. There was only one way he could have gone, down Park Lane. Running full out, weapons drawn, got no little attention at noon in the middle of Mayfair.
“Cowley's gonna do his nut for this,” thought Doyle, sweat running down his face as they sprinted around the corner to South Street. The gunman was visible about half a block ahead of them, weaving in and out of traffic. Ignoring the screams of the pedestrians and the screech of brakes, the pair pursued their black-clad target, highly visible in the midst of summer weight suits and printed frocks.
The partners gained on their target, who was slowed by the volume of lunchtime traffic. They careened around the corner to Park Street, when they were suddenly confronted by the gunman turning on them, screaming and firing wildly. Bodie saw a round of Doyle’s hit the gunman in his off arm, which served to enrage him even further, but not disable him.
The partners had split, one to each side of the narrow street, seeking what small cover was available. Doyle crouched behind a parked motorcycle, while Bodie nipped into a shallow doorway. The gunman continued to scream and fire, first at Bodie, then switched to Doyle. He moved forward slightly, seemingly ignoring Bodie. One of his bullets made it through the motorcycle and struck Doyle. Bodie’s position was slightly ahead of Ray’s, but he saw Doyle fall back toward the pavement.
Tommy’s back up bucked in Bodie’s hand as he fired, dropped the empty clip, reloaded and fired with precision accuracy. He lost count of how many rounds hit the gunman as he walked across the street, firing and firing. Ray had not moved and there was nothing else.
No sounds permeated Bodie’s awareness as he stared down at the crumpled, motionless figure in front of him, who still had the machine pistol grasped in his bloody hand. He reached down, and with difficulty, tugged the weapon from the dead man’s hand. Something was burrowing an aching hollow through him; the hole growing so quickly, he knew he would tumble into it at any moment. Vaguely aware that he was drenched in sweat, he stood gasping. All he felt was cold, cold.
A gentle tugging pulled him somewhere, took the weapon from his hands, and helped him down to the pavement. Black and white shapes milled around, distorted noises bleeding through the cotton wool he seemed to be wrapped in. A steady voice murmured to him over and over, one that felt familiar.
“C’mon, Sunshine,” Ray called to Bodie softly, “I’m right here.” He shifted in front of Bodie, completely blocking the view of his partner from the street. Bracing one shaky hand on the doorway, he cupped the other around Bodie’s face, tilting his chin up to meet the other man’s blank gaze. “Come on back, Bodie,” he crooned, stroking his thumb down a smooth cheek, petting gently over and over. “I’m right here.”
“Ray?” Bodie blinked, his voice wavered a little. “Ray?” he continued, puzzled. “But, you’re not dead.”
“Not me, mate,” Ray replied, smiling slightly, totally ignoring the slow slide of blood down the arm and hand that cradled his partner’s face. “Just a bit winded,” he added, likewise ignoring the contusion on his head from where it struck the pavement.
“Gotta get in better shape,” Bodie tilted his head, rubbing against Ray’s hand. It seemed real. It was also better than before. His sense of reality really began and ended with this man these days. He supposed that was a bit barmy, but having been alone so long, felt this state of affairs was infinitely superior.
“Yeah, or we’ll get sent down to Macklin,” Ray chuckled, shaking his head ruefully, then found himself slowly sliding down as his strength gave out. He ended up in Bodie’s lap, his partner’s arms curling automatically around him.
“Ray?” Bodie called in alarm.
“Still here,” Ray replied, his face pressed to Bodie’s shoulder. “A little dizzy,” he added, his voice trailing off. His arm hurt and Bodie felt so good. “Tired.”
Bodie cradled Ray even closer, ignoring the smears of transferred blood. He was vaguely aware of Tommy applying a quick dressing to Ray’s arm and head, but mostly ignored him as he favored his partner with his attentions.
A Scots voice demanding a report filtered through, and he looked up to see Cowley talking with Tommy. Realizing he was next, he gave passing thought to disentangling himself from Doyle, but found he really couldn’t give a fuck. Let Cowley think what he wanted.
“Lad, we need to get him to Casualty,” Cowley’s voice was rough and low as he knelt down next to the partners.
“I’m not leaving him,” Bodie affirmed flatly.
“No, lad,” Cowley replied in agreement. “You’ll not be leaving him. I’ll ensure it.” The unforgiving pavement caused his bad leg to ache, but he ignored it with long practice. “But let the ambulance men do their jobs, Bodie.”
Cowley watched as Bodie allowed the men to detach Doyle from his grasp and place him on a stretcher. The agent’s gaze never wavered from his partner. Bodie made to follow into the ambulance, and protested when the attendant barred him from entering.
“Hold up, Bodie,” Cowley called over from the doorway, still shaky on his legs after rising from the pavement. “We’ll follow in my car,” his ruddy face had gone white with pain.
“Sir,” Bodie protested, fully ready to storm the ambulance, but seeing Cowley in difficulty, was conflicted.
“He’ll be all right, lad,” Cowley shuffled away from the wall. “He’s a strong one, that,” the Controller tried a small step, grimaced, and felt himself going down as his bad leg seized and locked up. Bodie sprang forward to steady the older man. “Ach, bollocks,” exclaimed Cowley.
“Just lean on me, sir,” Bodie said quietly, and gave his support as unobtrusively as he could as they may their way to the Controller’s Granada. As he opened the passenger door, Tommy appeared from the milling crowd of DI’s and plods.
Cowley took a seat, gingerly rubbing his gamey knee. “Well, man, get on with it!” he barked.
“Ambassador Argov’s in critical condition at St. Thomas’s,” Tommy replied. “Willis is here, spitting mad and looking for blood. Currently, he’s handling the cleanup at the Dorchester with his lot. The local plods have cordoned off Park and South Streets and are redirecting traffic off of Park Lane.”
“How’s Jax?” Cowley asked, glancing at Bodie, who’d remained silent, but obviously wanted to be gone from there.
“He’s was taken to Casualty at the same time as the Ambassador,” Tommy replied. “He regained consciousness before they carted him off.” He barked a laugh, “Mad as hell for missing out on all the fun.”
Cowley chuckled slightly and nodded, “You’ll handle this here, then, Tommy. Keep me posted, and don’t let Willis know where I’ve gone.” The Controller expression hardened, “I’ll deal with his cock-up later.”
“Yes, sir.” Tommy didn’t have to ask where he was going. Bodie looked about done in, holding himself together with sheer will. Cowley would look after his lads, especially Bodie.
“Let’s go, Bodie,” Cowley directed, dialing the Minister on his phone, already mentally composing his report.
“Running all the way, sir,” Bodie replied in a whisper to himself as he floored the accelerator.
***
Part 2 – How to get from there to here – Interregnum
***
Constant use had not worn ragged the fabric of their friendship.
-Dorothy Parker
What the world really needs is more love and less paperwork.
-Pearl Bailey
***
As epiphanies went, theirs fell somewhere between the discovery of fire and that orange jelly was smashing between two layers of sponge and choccy.
The summer pushed on. Peace was waged in Lebanon. Bombs went off in parks. Two men fell a bit more in love than they were expecting. It was life shattering for them, and not of much note to most.
Uncle George had them pegged from the outset. He didn’t speak of it, but ceased sending them on solo assignments. Tommy knew, of course, but he kept his own counsel. If the others noted a difference in their behavior, none spoke of it.
It was baking hot going into autumn. The heat had already pulled most of the moisture out of the air by the end of August. September crushed all hope of relief. October bought fog and drizzle. By Guy Fawkes Day, the whole country had gone cold, wet, and dreary in an endless series of storm fronts come across from the North Sea.
Most of Bodie and Doyle’s assignments that followed the debacle with the Israeli Ambassador were routine ops. Obbos of crime figures for gathering intel; vetting of government figures and their circle of friends; the odd low level operative getting caught red-handed and returned, slightly used, to the Soviet Embassy on a return to sender order.
The partners didn’t mind. After Doyle had been released from a short stay in hospital, they shifted together, closer than ever. Living in each other’s pockets as never before, unwilling to even separate overnight.
The conflicts between the work they were compelled to do and the need they had for each other gradually balanced out as they learnt the merits of compromise and communication. Mostly. Some days they just bitched at each other, themselves, and anyone standing still long enough to listen. Darby and Joan they were not. All this, and no sex.
Individually, they felt it wasn’t satisfactory, but still were leery of approaching it head on with each other. Mechanics they could do. Feelings were much more difficult, and they were chary of disturbing their comfortable, albeit frustrating, status quo.
It all changed on Tuesday, November 17th, at approximately 21.42 hours. The previous 9 hours and 18 minutes had been spent in a mostly vain attempt to sort through and make sense of the 37 cartons of accounts records they’d seized earlier that day when they’d nicked a Rt Hon dipping his hand in the charity trust funds of which he was administrator. Apparently Death Duties on the family estate and a taste for the finer things had depleted his principal.
It had all lead down a very messy trail to a firm of chartered accountants who appeared to be a front for all sorts of laundering of funds intended for various nasty international terrorist organizations.
As a result, endless reams of papers and red leather covered accounts books were spread about the Restroom. Doyle was sorting papers into stacks; Bodie sat and puzzled through a large accounts book, pausing now and then to make notations in a small spiral bound book. The detritus of empty biscuit packets, stale crusts and half-drunk cups of tea were strewn over any flat service not already occupied with records.
Doyle had finished his current stack and was rooting around the next carton for a new set. The box was stacked next to the table where Bodie sat, and Ray tugged it closer and knelt down to lift out the unruly stack of paper. He paused a moment when he noticed his nose was about 2 inches from Bodie’s left knee. There was a spot of raspberry jam on his corduroys, and Ray had an inexplicable urge to lick it. More to the point, to lick Bodie.
Startled, Ray looked up to see Bodie staring down at him, his expression ruthlessly neutral, except for his eyes. They were pleading and commanding at the same time. His eyes made Ray ache in his throat and in his cock.
“Got it bad, huh, Sunshine,” Ray murmured as he slid one hand up Bodie’s thigh, then gripped the muscular leg. He noted almost clinically that his partner was hard. Constricted in those tight cords, it couldn’t be comfortable. He moved his hand over and stroked the bulge gently, soothing the ache.
Looking up, Ray could see the conflict in Bodie’s face, the want warring with the fear, and he felt remorse. He never wanted this man to feel that way. The need to care for him, cherish him hit him like a 10 tonne lorry. Utter sap. Like breathing, necessary.
“Let’s go home, Bodie,” Ray said, taking hold of both of his partner’s knees and looking up at him. “This lot’ll keep.”
Bodie gazed down at his partner and nodded. The trust that was their bedrock served them well. Doyle leaned back and he helped him to his feet.
Tugging Doyle close to him, he looked him directly in the eyes, “No more waiting, Ray.”
“No,” Ray breathed, feeling vaguely giddy with relief.
“Not gonna faint on me are you, Flower?” Bodie jibed gently and he shepherded his partner to the door and into the hallway.
“Maybe,” gulp Ray. Definitely giddy, maybe even gay, like a Maypole. In May.
Bodie’s warm chuckle broke through his haze, and Ray realized he’d been saying all that aloud as they made their way out to the car park to Bodie’s silver Capri. Rain drizzled and there were enormous puddles everywhere. Opening his passenger door, he gently pushed Ray in.
Letting the motor warm, he turned to his partner, who was huddled in the passenger seat, shivering. Bodie realized they hadn’t stopped for their jackets when they left. He was wearing a rollneck, but Ray for some reason had opted for just a t-shirt that day. Now, he was shivering, partly from shock and partly from the cold.
“I’ve got the heater on full stop, mate,” Bodie reached back and found his cardie on the back seat where he’d abandoned it months ago, back when the weather had been trying to imitate a convection oven. “Here,” he handed it over.
“Ta,” Doyle managed to get out reasonably well. The sweater, an ugly brown, was warm and smelled faintly of his partner. He pulled it close. It felt marvelous.
The drive home was quick as Bodie could make it; that is to say it was slightly longer that the Pleistocene Epoch. Eventually, they were stumbling up the walk to Ray’s garden flat.
From there on, it went a bit hazy, like an art house film. Bodie definitely remembered reaching Doyle’s bed. Ray likewise recalled pulling off damp clothing. All else was a mesh of touching and climax, followed by content and cuddling. Huh. Maybe they were Darby and Joan.
***
Part 3 – Lights, camera, action
***
How it pours, pours, pours,
In a never-ending sheet!
How it drives beneath the doors!
How it soaks the passer's feet!
How it rattles on the shutter!
How it rumples up the lawn!
How 'twill sigh, and moan, and mutter,
From darkness until dawn.
-Rossiter Johnson
We have all passed a lot of water since then.
-Samuel Goldwyn
***
December 25, 1982 – 16.00
Rain fell. It drizzled. It stormed. It was wet. The wettest December on record, or since they started keeping records. High Streets were flooded; department store Santa's costumes were soaked by damp children; you could not go out without a brolly or anorak lest you arrive considerably damper than when you left. Day 40 approached. It was not unreasonable to assume that Ark building was going to become a popular trade again.
Cooling their heels at Heathrow, Bodie and Doyle sat with over-priced cups of bad tea in the arrival lounge of El Al. Deputy Ambassador Benesh Strauss' flight was late. Due to rain squalls, his flight had been diverted to Costa Brava airport in Spain for several hours. He was due any minute.
“You never,” Doyle scoffed.
“Strewth,” Bodie assured him. “All day long sometimes, when it got boring.”
“Prove it,” his partner shot back.
“Try me,” was the smug reply.
Looking round for inspiration, Ray spied a sign, “Gate,” he challenged.
Bodie thought for a moment, then began, “It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.” [1]
Unbowed, Doyle continued, “Space.”
His partner grinned and immediately replied, “A panting syllable through time and space, Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark.” [2]
“Love,” Ray finally said quietly, after a short pause.
Bodie visibly softened and spoke in a low undertone, “Mein Herz ich will dich fragen, Was ist denn Liebe, sag? Zwei Seelen und ein Gedanke, Zwei Herzen und ein Schlag.” [3]
“A lovely sentiment,” spoke a lightly accented voice. The partners looked up to find Dep. Ambassador Strauss smiling slightly, the bodyguards behind him not at all.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Bodie stood immediately. Doyle a little slower, taking in Strauss' entourage.
“They only sent two guards with you?” Ray queried sharply.
Strauss shrugged, “I only allowed two to be sent. I cannot do my job while be surrounded by a division of men.”
“A squad at best, sir,” Bodie admonished.
“Indeed, Mr. Bodie,” Strauss allowed. “Nevertheless, two is how many I have, and yet they are doubled and now I have four. Surely, it is enough to take me to the Embassy.”
“Yes, sir,” Bodie replied. “If you'll come with us, sir.” The group made their way to the special exits gate that lead to a secure parking covered car park.
“Still raining, I see,” sighed Strauss, looking out at the downpour.
“Hasn't stopped since you left, sir,” Ray replied wryly.
“You'll forgive the reference, gentlemen, but it's positively Biblical,” the Dep. Ambassador groused, as he sat in the rear flanked by his guards.
“Or an Epic Inundation,” offered Bodie cheekily as he slid into the driver's seat. Ray grinned from the passenger side as they made their way out of the airport.
“Indeed,” chuckled Strauss good-naturedly. “And, how is your Mr. Cowley?”
“He's fine, sir” Doyle replied. “He sends his regrets that he couldn't meet you in person today. There's a matter at the Ministry that he has to attend to personally.”
Bodie looked at Doyle incredulously; butter wouldn't melt in Ray's mouth, he'd spoke so prettily. The Old Man was locked in an epic battle of budgetary concerns, the preliminary security planning meetings for the January summit regarding the war in Lebanon were dead locked by infighting between no less than five agencies, and there was a huge flap on regarding the weather crisis.
“I trust you will be able to go home after you've seen me delivered to the Embassy,” Strauss declared, rummaging through his large leather briefcase. He pulled from it a bottle of wine and handed it to Doyle.
“Sauvignon Blanc from Shomron,” Doyle approved. “Thank you, sir.”
“Just a token of my government's and my appreciation, gentlemen,” Strauss replied. “Happy Christmas.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bodie offered, then added, “Motorway's flooded out, we'll have to take the A30 through Hounslow, but we should just make it on time.”
“With you driving, Mr. Bodie, I have no doubts,” Strauss said dryly.
***
Not safe and peaceful only, waves rous’d and ominous too,
Out of the depths the storm’s abysmic waves, who knows whence?
Raging over the vast, with many a broken spar and tatter’d sail.
-Walt Whitman
A man should never put on his best trousers when he goes out to battle for freedom and truth.
-Henrik Ibsen
***
December 26, 1982 – 01.30
The excellent bottle of wine stood empty on Doyle's living room table. The partners sat on his lounge, unmoving. Their day had begun before dawn, and the small Christmas celebration they'd had for themselves had wound down to another cuddling session on the lounge, their exhaustion evident.
Four agents out due to injuries and one to an attack of appendicitis. Cowley was tied ever tightly to his meetings, even on Christmas Eve. It left them overseeing just about everything CI-5 had on, which was a lot, considering how many one man jobs were currently being worked. Add to that Cowley's inherent reluctance to tell anything to anyone, and they were hampered by the left hand sometimes not having any idea that there was a bloody right hand, let alone what it was doing.
Bodie felt himself falling asleep and looked over at Doyle, whose head had dropped to his shoulder. Too far to the bedroom. Letting himself slide down, he snagged a pillow for under his head, tugged Doyle closer, and pulled down an afghan from the back lounge for warmth. Bliss.
Persistent telephone ringing finally dredged the pair out of slumber around dawn. Doyle stumbled to the blower, rubbing his face, scratching his stubble. “Lo,” he rumbled blearily.
“You're due Ministry of Defense in one hour, Doyle,” Cowley's voice snapped. “You and Bodie are back on duty.”
“We're supposed to be coordinating with Israeli Embassy on security for the summit,” Doyle protested. “McCabe and Lucas work with the MOD plods for security updates.”
“There's been a new threat sent to the Embassy,” Cowley informed him. “I've pulled all available teams for assignment there. Tommy's coordinating security there; I need you two to work with the MOD.”
Bodie had come up behind Doyle and was listening on the conversation. He now took the receiver, “But, sir, shouldn't we be helping with the security if there's a new threat on?”
“You'll go where I assign you, 3.7,” scolded the Old Man.
“Yes, sir,” replied Bodie, somewhat chastened. Doyle put a hand on his arm and squeezed as he moved closer to the receiver to hear Cowley continue.
“There' something afoot,” his Scots intonation stronger as he was very tired. “I cannae get a direct line on it, but I”ve been pulling a great many threads. The American intelligence community has been sharing some very interesting pieces of information concerning Abu Nidal.” The silence on the line was deafening.
“We tied in those ABO operatives, but we could never get a whiff of the instigator of the assassination plot,” Cowley finally continued. “Until now.”
“Ali Farra's in Britain?” Bodie bit out.
“Aye, that's the whisper,” Cowley replied. “On yer bikes, lads. Find out what the MOD knows and find him,” he barked and hung up.
“Merry Fucking Christmas,” Bodie closed his eyes and dropped his head on Doyle's shoulders.
***
Anguis sub viridi herba.[4]
-Francis Bacon
The search for truth was hindered by the desire to do damage control.
-Melvin Whitley
***
December 26, 1982 - 07.30
The MOD plods did not like sharing intel. They did not like civilian oversight. They most especially did not like George Cowley's lads stomping all over in an attempt to circumvent procedure.
“Look,” Doyle began again. “Did you, or did you not arrest one,” he paused to reference his notebook, “Khalil al Fayiz yesterday at Marchwood Military Port?”
Sgt-Maj. Fitzroy stood even further at attention and replied stiffly, “I cannot comment on an on-going investigation due to the high clearance level and in the interests of National Security. Sir.”
“As you well know, CI-5's brief and our own security clearance makes us a privy to that level of information,” Doyle replied, exasperated beyond belief.
“Leave off, Ray,” Bodie said evenly and walked up to the soldier. “Sgt-Major's just doing his job, isn't he? Can't be arsed to think outside his Army box to make a genuine threat assessment.”
At a low sound from Fitzroy, Bodie stopped moving around him, “Something to say Sgt-Major?”
“Don't take that shite from some Sneaky Beaky,” he sneered breaking attention and looking at the agent.
“Wrong, you knacker,” Bodie snarled back. “I walked the Banner two years. You will come to attention Sgt-Major,” the command in his voice very evident.
“Yes, sir,” Fitzroy's surprise quickly overcome by his at attention face as he snapped to.
“Khalil al Fayiz, Sgt-Major Fitzroy. No detail too small – tell us everything,” Bodie ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the Sgt-Major replied, glancing periodically at Bodie and imagining him in a 2 Para uniform.
***
December 26, 1982 – 16.00
“That's right, luv, all the chatter, Dec 18 through today, inclusive,” Doyle scribbled hastily some data in his notebook. “No, I'll need them transcribed immediately. No, it can't wait,” he sighed and added, “I'll have a courier round in two hours.” He paused, then replied, “Well, you'll just have to make due, won't you?” and rang off.
“That's Willis' lot,” Doyle checked his list. “How're the MOD plods contribution coming?”
“Fitzroy's an arse, but he got the files,” Bodie replied, waving a manilla folder. “Not much to go on, but I think al Fayiz is the key.” Bodie pulled out a page, “He makes reference to 'waves of retribution' that will overcome the Infidel in their own Kingdom.” He flung the page down, “That and some other religious tripe.” He groaned and rubbed his eyes.
“Here,” Doyle handed him a cuppa and snagged the paper from the desk. “He's off his trolley, this one,” Doyle commented after reading portions of an extremely long transcript.
“Completely crackers,” Bodie agreed, tipped his mug at Doyle in thanks and drained it in one go. “He was captured at the Military Port. Possibly scouting locations. He had a camera and a detailed map. But, here,” he put his mug down and pointed toward the bottom on the third page. “This is the most important part. He speaks of 'eekhfa'a' and 'thabaan'”
“What does that mean?” Doyle asked.
“A hidden snake,” Bodie looked soberly at his partner.
“Oh, God,” Ray breathed. “A mole.”
***
Wide is the gate and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction.
-Matthew vii. 13.
I don't mind if you don't like my manners. They're pretty bad.
I grieve over them during the long winter nights.
-Raymond Chandler
***
December 27, 1982 – 07.45
Betty informed them that Mr. Cowley was on his way for 8.00 am meeting with the PM and would not be available until further notice. Tommy reported the usual unrest and demos around the Israeli Embassy. Stuart called in a tip from grass that said something “epic” was going down Christmas week, but was still trying to get hold on more details. Oh, and it rained. The Met Service reported still more rain in the forecast, and that a large storm was forming in the North Sea. Flooding in London was a serious risk.
“Now, we're getting weather reports?” Doyle shoved at the mass of paperwork that had found its way onto the desks they were using during the current crisis.
“North Sea hurricane's something to watch out for,” Bodie said seriously. “Seen a freighter break in two when it got hit by wave and turned over.”
“Yeah, but we're far enough inland, don't you think,” Doyle replied wryly.
“The Thames flooded London in '53 – was almost completely impassible in parts,” Bodie offered.
“Yeah, but I thought that fancy gate project fixed all that,” Doyle knit his brow in an attempt to ease his headache.
“Hope so,” Bodie began reviewing the latest chatter reports. Al Farra was here, he could feel it. There was too much activity. They just couldn't pin him down. Orders were going out, but he was no where to be found.
“All these operative,” Doyle spoke slowly. “They're going all over the world. Where are they getting the funds for them? It's expensive getting fake passports, airplane tickets. It's like there's a bloody clearinghouse going on, right under our noses.”
“Clearinghouse,” Bodie looked up at Doyle suddenly. He sprang up and ran out of the room. Doyle, utterly mystified, followed him.
Down to the basement, into the secured file room. Digging into the files from the lot seized in November, Bodie triumphantly crowed as he pulled out a battered red leather-covered ledger. “Chatswick, Burley, and Lorring, CA!”
Doyle finally got it – follow the money. “We were on the trail already. The Rt. Hon. Arthur Wetherby Dewhurst.”
Bodie consulted his notes, “He's in Wormwood Scrubs, awaiting trial. Flight risk.”
“Not surprising,” Doyle said and their climbed the stairs and packed away their notes. Grabbing their anoraks, they dashed out into the rain for the drive to the Scrubs.
***
December 26, 1982 – 14.30
The Scrubs were as dreary as always. They grilled Dewhurst for only two hours before they got a break. The interrogation room was damp and cold, and the prisoner looked ill when he came in. Owing to his love of good food and willing young girls, he'd been ill-prepared for life as a screw.
“It's only beginning, Arty,” Doyle sat in a backwards facing chair. “You're not a bad looking bloke. I'm sure you'll find companionship soon. No more cold, lonely nights for you.”
“You've got to get me out of here. I don't belong here,” Dewhurst whined.
“No,” Bodie replied. “You don't belong here, do you? Your daddy was a member of the Pitt Club. Got you in to, right? Only the best people. What would they say,” he tsked, shaking his head.
“I've got connections,” Dewhurst offered desperately. “I can get you anything.”
“Now you're talking, Arty,” Doyle's smile was pure evil. “Tell me all about your accountants.”
“My...my accountants?” Dewhurst stuttered.
“Yeah, we find them just fascinating,” Bodie trilled.
***
December 29, 1982 – 21.00
Cowley returned from his meetings, the conferences at the Israeli embassy continued, and more rain fell. The Met. reported a hurricane had formed in the North Sea and was headed straight for the eastern counties. It was due to hit landfall sometime between the 29th and the 30th.
Bodie and Doyle dug into the accounting records to find the money trail. Murphy and Ruth lent a hand when they weren't actively engaged elsewhere. Jax returned from his Midlands assignment and helped also. They dug for three days. Stuart's grass came up trumps and said that a large quantity of Semtex had been diverted from a demolitions company in Scotland, and that the goods had made it into Town. No further pressure could come up with a location.
The linkage of the Semtex caused Ruth to tie in an entry that hadn't previously made sense. “They invested in a company called 'Modutech Demolitions',” she exclaimed excitedly.
“What's that then?” Bodie asked.
“A company that specializes in, and I quote, 'a remote detonation system wherein a plurality of underwater explosives are detonated simultaneously by command signals sent from a remote control station',” Ruth looked up at the group of agents.
“We got the means,” Doyle said. “We need the target.”
“And who's going to hit it,” Bodie added. “We've got to find the damn mole. They'll know.”
“What mole?” Jax asked.
“al Fayiz spoke of a mole,” Bodie explained. “Someone hidden who could rise up like a snake and strike their enemies.”
“You mean like who could have given inside information to set up the hit on the Israeli Ambassador?” Jax offered.
“Oh, God, we are so stupid,” Doyle shook his head. “Exactly.”
“All right,” Murphy said. “Who was in a position to know exactly where the Ambassador was leaving? It wasn't on the schedule.”
“Only people who knew were the Embassy staff, Willis' mob and us,” Bodie listed.
“I'm willing to take a pass on the embassy staff,” Ruth said, and they all agreed.
“We didn't get news of the change until just before,” Jax offered.
“That leaves the MI-6 agents,” Murphy said sourly.
“But the on-duty agents were killed in the hit,” Ruth protested.
“On-duty agents,” Doyle exclaimed.
“What were the names of the two agents on duty previously?” Ruth inquired.
“Morecroft and Denton,” Bodie replied.
Ruth pawed through some papers and consulted a sheet. “Morecroft's dead – auto smash three weeks ago.” She looked up, “Denton's the only one left.”
“Get as many of the agents you can and head down to the Embassy,” called Bodie and they all ran for the door.
“Murphy, you brief the old man, and get him to corral Willis on this,” Doyle called back.
They headed at a dead run for the car park. The wind howled.
***
A bridge a very small bridge in a location and thunder, any thunder, this is the capture of reversible sizing and more indeed more can be cautious. This which makes monotony careless makes it likely that there is an exchange in principle and more than that, change in organization.
-Gertrude Stein
Do not needlessly endanger your lives until ordered to do so.
-Dwight D. Eisenhower
***
December 30, 1982 – 02.00
Agent Denton was not to be found. Checks of all his haunts were negative. His bank accounts were found to be in keeping with his salary, but his flat was crammed with expensive art and jewelry. Judas liked Cezanne and Pouilly-Fumé.
The final link came when they reviewed the purchasing records for the accounting firm. They found a Zodiac boat amongst the purchases. Not something your average chartered account uses. Helpfully, there was a receipt for a slip rental in North Woolwich.
They drove as far as they could, but the storm had caused flooding in the streets. The government authority had decided to raise the recently completed Thames River barrier in an effort to avoid floods like those of 1953. Traffic was at a standstill. They abandoned their car and ran that last blocks to the docks. Knocking on the door of the manager office, they could raise no one. With one great kick, the door burst open and they were digging in the file cabinets. Denton’s name and signature were scrawled on the bottom on the agreement for slip 9. They ran out of the office into the driving rain.
The lights on the docks were hazily visible and they made their way down the the car park. A newer model Aston Martin matching the license tag of Fenton’s car was parked next to the dock ramp. It’s engine was still warm. Drawing their guns, they made their way down the slippery ramp.
The choppy waves of the Thames swirled around the timbers of the pier, the water dangerously close to going over its banks. Bodie and Doyle worked their way down to the far end of the dock, moving as fast in the dim light as they could. Under a sputtering sodium light, they caught sight of Denton holding a metal box with an antenna extended out.
“Denton!” screamed Bodie over the roar of the wind and water. “Give it up!”
Denton snarled at the agents and fired at the CI-5 agents, causing them to dodge behind some barrels stacked on the dock. At the same time he flipped a switch on the box. When nothing happened he flipped it again. Again, nothing happened. With a hoarse cry, he threw the box into the boat, and still periodically firing at the agents got into the Zodiac boat and roared off into the night.
“Fuck,” Bodie cradled one bleeding arm where Denton had winged him.
“Gimme that, mate,” Doyle tied it off with his handkerchief.
“There’s gotta be a boat around here somewhere,” Bodie yelled.
They looked around and found a small cruiser tied up a couple of slips up from Denton’s. “There were keys in the office,” Doyle called as he lit out up the ramp. He grabbed the keys for several slips and made his way back down. Conscious of every second that Denton put between them, they tried sets of keys. The third set started the boat and they roared off.
Their cruiser was more powerful that the small Zodiac that Denton was in, but they’d wasted precious minutes gaining their transport.
“Upstream or down?” shouted Bodie.
“What’s up?” Doyle yelled back.
“Uh, Thamesmead,” Bodie thought hard. “What’s down?”
The two men looked at each other in the dim light of the running lamp next to the wheel. “The Barrier,” they called out to one another in horror, and Bodie directed the cruiser downstream, the small boat listing heavily in the swell. They each were thinking - wave of retribution.
They approached the Barrier, which was lit up like it was still Christmas. Its shiny domes slick with the endless rain. They stretched like shells across the width of the river, and the heave swell pushed against the raised barriers, the water roiling heavily around their bases. The full moon ensured a heavy spring tide, and the hurricane had cause a tidal swell in excess of four metres.
“Which one?” Doyle cried out. There were so many of them.
“I see him,” called Bodie, gesturing to the gate on the far left, near the stationary gates, where the back up water was slightly less violent. They headed their cruiser to the cement gatehouse.
Denton’s Zodiac had reached the barrier, bobbing up and down like a cork. They watched him catch hold of an embedded metal ladder and climb up. Minutes later they abandoned their boat to the mercy of the battering water as they scaled the same ladder.
The roar of the water was deafening and they couldn't talk, could barely see one another. The narrow path on the outside of the gate was slippery as they shuffled around to one of the long sides of the oval shaped gatehouse. An access door was open and the sounds of machinery periodically were audible in the cacophony.
They carefully enetered the access door and began searching for Denton. They found him finishing up wiring a detonator to a lenth of fusing.
“Denton,” yelled Doyle. “Stop, or we’ll shoot.”
Denton’s eyes were glittering in the harsh utility lights, and he snarled as he made to twist the detonator. A bullet to his head and center mass, fired simultaneously by Bodie and Doyle, stopped him cold.
Bodie gingerly disconnected the detonator from the wire and removed it to a safe distance. Doyle examined the wires and followed them to where they were embedded in a section of the housing of the hydraulic engine that controlled the river barrier. The housing was painted a rusty red, but the wires went straight into it. Poking at it, he felt it give. Backing away he cursed roundly. He’d found the missing Semtex.
The roar of the water was reduced as Bodie got the access door shut. He made his way over to where Doyle stared at the plastic explosive, shivering in his damp clothes.
“How long you thing this’s been in the works?” Doyle motioned to the Semtex, safely inert without a detonator, but still making him uncomfortable.
“Months, maybe years,” Bodie replied, looking round the engine room. “It was installed with the rest of this lot.”
“God, that means another mole,” Doyle sighed tiredly.
“Maybe more,” Bodie agreed, now shuddering from the cold himself. “Maybe there’s a comm system of a radio we call out to the main gate.”
“The storm’s due to peak sometime today,” Doyle said. There’s no way we’re going to get out of here now, even if we could communicate with somebody.” They looked about, but the fully-automated gatehouse had no comm system that they could find.
“We’re gonna freeze to death if we don’t get out of these wet things,” Bodie sniffed.
“Ah,” Doyle called in triumph, tugging on a sliding door that opened up room the size of a large closet. A first aid kit was mounted on the wall, as well as a small set of emergency supplies - including blankets and rations and water.
“Well done, Sunshine,” Bodie nudged his partner.
Later, ensconced in scratchy wool blankets and eating awful, stale ration biscuits, they pondered their fate.
“Cowley’s gonna go spare when he can’t find us, you know,” Doyle asserted.
“Let ‘em,” Bodie scoffed. “S’only way we’ll ever get New Year’s off. We’ll just tell ‘im we were ‘unavoidably detained’.”
“You think we’ll be here until tomorrow?” Doyle didn’t sound too unhappy.
“The way that wind’s blowing, I doubt they’ll be lowering the gates anytime before Saturday,” Bodie asserted.
“In that case - Happy New Year, Bodie,” Ray said huskily, and tugged him down, rolling on top of him.
“Happy New...,” Bodie’s reply was interrupted by Ray’s mouth on his. He didn’t mind.
FIN
[1] William Ernest Henley
[2] William Cowper
[3] My heart I fain would thee
What then is Love? Say on.
Two souls and on thought only
Two hearts that throb as one
-EFJ von Munch Bellinghausen
[4] There's a snake in the grass
Title: Enfilade-Defilade
Author: bistokidsfan
Genre: Action/Adventure, Romance, AU
Characters: Bodie/Doyle, Cowley, Tommy
Summary: Hell, high water, and holidays
Advisory: Violent Content, Slash
Status: Complete
Rating: Adult
Finished: December 2010
Disclaimer: No lawyer’s gonna make a monkey outta me. The Professionals are owned by Brian Clemens et al, Bodie is owned by Doyle, & I wouldn’t mind being owned by Tommy!
Feedback: bistokidsfan@gmail.com
Posting: For the Discovered in the Fairy Lights festival on DinLJ comm on Live Journal. After release at my website http://bistokidsfan.com. OK to post on The Circuit, The Hatstand, and Proslib. Anywhere else just let me know.
A/N: For Nora and Kenn who ever and always are my life. Thanks for all the help.
A/N2: It should be noted that the lovely Tommy McKay survived his trauma in Heroes in my Prosverse. Please note there treacly romantic interludes included because I rather like them. For Pros canonists, the setting date has been pulled out of a hat(stand) to suit my plot. It’s not meant to fit anything more than a nebulous timeline of sometime after the series leaves off. If I’ve got it all wrong, I wouldn’t be too surprised...
A/N3: As per my usual, fact, fiction and fancy are all mixed up. The basics are sound, but the plot is a faradiddle dreamt up by yours truly. Places, names, public figures, etc. altered or created to suit my needs and story. Sadly, flooding, terrorism and global warming are all too true. Would that Bodie and Doyle could save us for real.
bistokidsfan
december 2010
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-12-12 08:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-13 04:27 pm (UTC)