![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
kiwisue.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
discoveredinaljPart 1 of the story is here
There was more work to do when they got back to London, of course. Get the keys to the Capri back from Williams, who had forgotten to turn them over to the transport office. A session in the armoury to check the guns, never mind that no-one had fired a single shot. A debrief in the evening that added nothing new to their knowledge of the case.
They had a day off on Monday. On recent form they should have spent it together, a morning in bed, then out somewhere for lunch, maybe a pint, maybe a run followed by takeaway and TV, or a movie in the evening. Not this time. Whether they were being watched or not they decided by mutual agreement to play it safe.
Doyle cleaned his flat and went for a long solitary walk through the theatre district, catching up on the latest marquee posters. He almost bought two tickets to Educating Rita at the Piccadilly, thinking that Bodie might like to go with him, before realising his foolishness at the last minute. He’d be better off asking a female friend to accompany him, but whatever day he picked the chances were that he’d be working and the tickets would go to waste. So he walked on.
Bodie did some laundry and borrowed a vacuum cleaner from Mrs Briggs downstairs so he could hoover the carpets. He went for a run, arriving back tired and sweaty and wishing he’d saved the laundry until later so he could add his workout clothes to the wash. He made do with chucking them in the shower with a bit of soap and footwork, hanging the hand-wrung items over the shower rail to drip dry.
He rang headquarters in the early evening to see if Pemberton had made contact, but there was no news. Then he thought about calling Sandra and seeing if she would like to meet for a drink, but it didn’t appeal. He stayed in.
Pemberton did call, but not until after nine o’clock. Control reported the call to Doyle, who was Pemberton’s main contact. Doyle went out to a phone booth that wasn’t the one across the street from his flat, and called Pemberton back. The location for the meeting was set – outside a disused warehouse in Southwark at eight the next evening.
Doyle decided the news couldn’t wait. He drove around to Bodie’s flat. There was still a light on, not that its absence would have prevented Doyle from pressing the buzzer, three long rings before the occupant answered.
“Let me in, I’ve got news,” he said in response to Bodie’s terse greeting. The door opened and he bounded upstairs. Bodie opened the flat door for him. He moved inside, passing Bodie before there was a chance of more than a perfunctory greeting. As soon as the door closed, he turned to business.
“Have you checked the place since you got back?”
Bodie nodded. “Went over it this morning while I was hoovering. It’s okay for now.”
Doyle relaxed. “Right, pull out your A to Z. We need to start planning this obbo tomorrow.”
“Map’s not going to help with building heights and trees.”
“No, but I think you’ll know the place. It’s down by Chambers Wharf. We can send a van around early tomorrow to double-check the terrain.
So Bodie got the maps out, several of them, and a sketch pad. They spent a good hour or two discussing the options which they would have to put to Cowley in the morning. At the end of it Doyle left, without exchanging a kiss, or even a touch, despite a longing for both of these things that clawed at him the entire time he was there.
*****
Next day the set-up for the meeting was decided easily enough. Bodie would act as Pemberton’s driver – there would be another man accompanying Khalid, who Bodie would be required to cover.
Pemberton would wear a wire. The buggy-boo would be parked in a nearby street, as it was deemed too risky to leave it any closer to the warehouse gates where it might arouse suspicion. The operator and Doyle would be in the back, listening and waiting. An agent with a rifle and night scope would be in place on a nearby roof, and a second team in a vehicle on the main approach road.
“It’ll have to do. Although we’re a bit thin on the ground for my liking.” Doyle worried.
“Those streets are narrow and twisty and mostly dead ends. Too many men on the ground at that time of night and you’ll spook Khalid. We need to draw him in, not scare him off.”
Privately Bodie agreed with Doyle. If he’d had his way they would have had a third team on foot, dressed in dark clothes and keeping out of sight, rather than the man on the roof who, it had to be said, had horribly limited sightlines over the road. But at the end of the day it was Cowley’s call.
**********
As Bodie approached the turn-off he called Doyle on the car radio.
“3.7 to 4.5.”
“Receiving you loud and clear.” There was a short pause, then, “and 9.3’s receiving you as well.”
“Roger. Now we’re supposed to let Pemberton do the talking, okay?”
“Yes. We’ll record it all. Leave it as long as possible before we move in. I’ll buzz you.”
“Except if I call for back-up before then.”
“You do that.”
“Don’t worry. As long as Khalid’s on time we’ll be home before the test signal.”
The meeting place was in a dead end street, a brick wall surrounding warehouses on one side with a secured delivery gate blocking entry to a wharf area at the end, and a row of lock-ups along the other side of the road. He parked the car next to one of the lock-ups and waited with his passenger, who sat there, looking worried.
“Almost time, Pemberton. You okay about this?”
Pemberton nodded uncertainly. “His driver will also park on this road. We’ll meet between the cars. The drivers will stay with the vehicles.”
“Good enough. And if it all goes to pot you tug your ear and say the magic words. We’ll come running.”
A black executive-model Rover entered the cul-de-sac, went to the end, turned around, cruised slowly back until level with Bodie’s vehicle, and then stopped. Bodie felt for the Browning in its holster under his jacket. A man of Middle-Eastern appearance emerged, and walked to the centre of the road. Stood there, waiting.
“That’s Khalid,” Pemberton ventured.
“There’s your cue, then sunshine. Best of British.” Bodie reached across and opened the passenger door.
Pemberton got out and walked slowly to meet Khalid. They shook hands, and started to converse. Bodie kept his hand inside his jacket and one eye on the two men while sneaking a sideways look at the other car. The driver looked like any other white chauffeur or taxi driver in London, which meant he could have been hired for the job. Khalid probably didn’t trust his associates at the consulate.
Khalid gestured and he and Pemberton walked away, down the street towards the gates. This wasn’t planned – Bodie felt a prickling of unease. He saw his counterpart in the other car looked more alert as well.
The men reached the gates, then Khalid did something to the lock, and it opened. They walked through onto the wharf yard. Bodie decided it was time to let the others know. He pressed the switch on the radio.
“4.5.”
“3.7. Listen, I’m not sure what you can hear, but Khalid and Pemberton have gone for a stroll into the yard. That wasn’t on the plan.” He kept his voice low and his face turned away from the street.
“Nothing odd on the wire. Do you need back-up?”
Good question. He watched the wharf. The gate was partly open. No change in Pemberton’s body language. “Not yet. Maybe Khalid just wanted a bit more privacy. Stand by.”
When something happened it came upon them with terrible swiftness.
From the dark water beyond the wharf three figures arose and ran swiftly over to the standing duo. A shot was fired, and Pemberton fell. Bodie buzzed three times on the radio, an alert signal that would trigger a response at Doyle’s end. Without waiting for an answer he left the car and started running towards the yard. He heard the other driver start his engine, wondered if he was about to make a run for it.
Something hit him around the legs and he stumbled, almost fell, Before he could recover, another blow struck him behind the ear and he went down. Multiple hands turned him over. He was dazed, but struggled anyway. There was a pressure on his chest, it felt like someone was sitting on it. His arm was wrenched roughly outwards, held down with brutal force. He felt his sleeve being pulled up, then the prick of a needle. More hands then, pulling at him, lifting him.
Whatever he’d been injected with started to take effect. His vision blurred, he felt as though he was floating outside his body, which refused to obey the simplest commands.
And then blackness.
*****
When he finally emerged into something like consciousness the first thing he noticed was that his mouth tasted like an afternoon spent cleaning a dusty stable, and his head not only hurt, but his brain felt like so much leftover porridge, a dull mass, incapable of thought. The next thing was the rope tied around his wrists. His ankles were shackled and the shackles were fixed to a bolt or something on the surface he was lying on. He moved experimentally and found he could move a few inches in any direction around a point of fixture – there was a noise, but muffled, as though he was on carpet – he stretched, felt – yes, carpet.
His eyes were still closed, but he could tell it was dark. Apart from a whiff of odour from the carpet, which was not new, but not old either, the air was fresh and dry, which meant he hadn’t been cast into a dungeon or even a cellar. But he had no idea where he was or how long he’d been unconscious.
He drifted for a while, half-unconscious still. There were traffic sounds outside, maybe not so far away, but muffled. Wherever he was, whatever room he’d been secured in, was well soundproofed.
Later, light began to intrude through closed eyelids, signifying day and a somewhat improved state of awareness. When he opened his eyes he found himself in a middling-sized room, roughly rectangular in shape, with a door at each end. It was old, perhaps Victorian or earlier, and he was lying on a rug at its centre. The rest of the floor was wood, well-polished, but the room was otherwise almost bare.
Almost bare: he was lying opposite a big old fireplace, cracked marble and brick surround and two andirons standing proud amid the remains of the last fire, ash and charcoal piled in soft heaps, suggesting it had been alight recently. When he made himself think he began to make sense of it - a room for occasional use, an annex or drawing room, like a lady’s solar in a great old house, but of little use now.
He rolled and curled sideways and tried lifting his head, which now hurt only slightly more than the last time he’d had a hangover, to see how his feet were fastened. His shoes had been removed and his earlier perception of shackles was correct: each ankle was encased in a leather cuff, reinforced by a metal strap that went around the outside of the cuff and was padlocked to a chain welded to a fixed bolt on the outside wall. The whole arrangement had a purpose-built look about it – and as he examined the room in detail he noticed more out-of-place elements: additional bolts at intervals along the wall, a couple of rings in the ceiling beams, and others attached to pairs of vertical beams at either end, in the space alongside the doors.
It was mostly impression rather than logic that told him he was still in London. He’d woken once, when the drugs started to wear off, and he was already lying here. Then he’d slept, which was partly the drugs and partly his body’s need. Whatever they injected him with, they hadn’t risked an overdose. Ketamine, perhaps? It was day, and there were street sounds. So, London. Only where?
Going by the state of the room and furnishings he thought he was either being held in a private residence, one catering very much to the whims of the owner, or it was some sort of club. Where else would such a room exist? In earlier days Bodie had learned some parts of London very well indeed, including some of its seamier venues, and was inclined to think the latter explanation more likely. But he didn’t know this one.
So far he could see no immediate means of escape. Fortunately his captors had tied his hands in front of him, and with a bit of effort and teeth-clenching he managed to sit up and shuffle over to the wall, which he used as a support while he examined the shackles. The hinge pins were burred over to prevent removal, leaving the padlock as the weakest part of the fixture. Before he could look for a tool, the door opened and someone entered.
“Hello, Bodie. It’s been a while.” The French-accented voice was mild enough but carried an undertone of menace. The speaker wore black and a patch over his left eye.
“Hello, Franky.” Franky. François Leparge. French national and mercenary, jobs taken anywhere from Cairo to Rio and beyond. “I heard your time in gaol was shortened unexpectedly. Didn’t expect to see you in London again.”
“What can I say, mon ami. I liked the food?” Lips curling at his own joke, he went on. “I’m here on business, that’s all.”
Bodie thought quickly. Franky was one of the most professional hired killers he knew. His favoured weapon was a blade, and he would be carrying several – Bodie could see the bulge of one holster at Franky’s waist, but there were bound to be more concealed beneath his clothes.
“As long as you aren’t working for Krivas this time,” he ventured. He needed to find out what Franky’s ‘business’ was. There was no point in trying to needle him into making a mistake – Franky was too cool for that.
Franky shrugged. “I’m not. I thought you would understand. Krivas had a plan. It was a good plan. You stopped us, you won. That’s how it goes.”
“I didn’t like finding those coppers you murdered!” Bodie exclaimed. “I didn’t like you bringing the jungle here!”
“Oh? Was it the jungle you feared, or the savagery of men.” Franky moved closer. “Let me ask you something, Bodie. Why are you so concerned for your countrymen? The Bodie I remember had fewer scruples.”
“Yeah, well let’s just say I found some, okay.” Easy, Bodie. Now who was needling who?
“And it’s different, isn’t it, when they share your blood, your history.” Franky moved closer. “I don’t remember you grieving over the men we left to die when we took the last chopper out of Élisabethville.” He crouched down, within arm’s length. Bodie threw himself forward but Franky dodged easily.
Score one for Franky. It didn’t matter that he had been young and single-minded then, or that they had fulfilled their contract and staying would have meant certain death.
Damn, but Franky had got to him. He winced and slumped sideways, a partial pretence to give himself time to gather his thoughts.
Franky grasped him by his arms and pulled him back into a sitting position.
“Bodie, listen. I’m here on business again. That’s all this is. But you are going to die.”
Bodie caught the look in his eyes for the briefest moment and remembered that Franky had been a good comrade. It was Krivas who was the fanatic, the one with the grand plans and the paranoia. Franky had always been a reliable ally – until the game changed and you became the target
“Are you going to do it?”
Franky shook his head slightly. “No. If I was we would not be talking now. I told you it was business. But someone wants you dead, and now you are where he wants you. And that’s all I can tell you.”
He let Bodie lie back against the wall, and stepped away. Bodie watched him. Franky had strong features that did not show emotion readily, especially with one eye covered. So Bodie only guessed that Franky was not entirely happy with the plan to off one William Andrew Phillip Bodie. That might yet work in his favour. Because the answer was now plain.
“Willis. He wants me dead.”
Franky’s lip twitched again.
“Break your contract… help me put Willis away. I’ll see you get a clean start if you do.”
“And then what? All I have is my reputation and that would be ruined if I abandoned a job before the end.”
Bodie understood this. The mercenary game was getting tougher, and someone like Franky was known in those circles – which meant that while he was highly employable because of his skills, his name and distinctive appearance were a handicap for any group wanting to operate covertly. His choices were constrained – which probably explained why he was here. That and their shared history.
“We’ve known each other for a long time, so I won’t play games. I’m speaking from experience here – you cannot trust Willis. He’s going to destroy you along with me. Don’t be fooled, man.”
Franky didn’t reply. He looked Bodie up and down. Bodie tried for calm, but it was difficult.
Eventually Franky said, “I will bear this in mind. And for you this may matter – I expect he will be here this afternoon. So we have a few hours. I take it you don’t want to play poker.”
Unable to restrain himself, Bodie laughed. “No. But if you’re of a mind to grant requests I’d love a drink, and some food. And then you can tell me what you’ve been doing since you got away from the police judiciaire.”
Franky thought about this, briefly, then agreed. “I will get you something. Don’t go away.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bodie agreed, not looking at the padlock.
*****
“No! I don’t know where they took him! There was only one way out of that street and that’s where the car went – but they could have gone anywhere after those idiots lost them.” Doyle was furious, pacing the floor in Cowley’s office. “Find the car, that’s the key. What’re the police doing, they should have it by now!”
Under the storming and the anger Doyle was deeply afraid. He’d only caught a glimpse of the occupants as Khalid’s car came barrelling out of the cul-de-sac, before Doyle reached it. One of the men inside had looked like someone Doyle knew, or had met before. Which added to the feeling that the entire set-up had been a trap, and that Bodie had been the prey – and what that entailed, Doyle dreaded to think.
“Every available man is scouring the city for Bodie. I’ve got men in the air, listening to the police radio…, we’ll find him,” Cowley said.
“Yeah, well…,” Doyle began, and then shut up. Cowley was right, damn it. But it might take too much time, every minute counted - he had to do something. He rubbed his eyes and tried to think about it all again.
“Pemberton is dead, shot at point blank range. That makes it deliberate – a clean-up?”
“The gun was in Khalid’s hand. Perhaps he’d outlived his usefulness.” Cowley looked doubtful.
“But Khalid was shot in the back as he tried to run, although he was left alive. There’s no sign of his driver though, presumably he was in on it.”
“Pemberton didn’t shoot Khalid. It must have been the others. The ones who took Bodie.”
“Khalid has a fifty percent chance, or so I’m told. Even so, he’s still in surgery and won’t wake up for hours. Even if he does survive, it’ll be too late.” Too late for Bodie, anyway. The feeling in his gut told him so. No soft option, no ransom or exchange of prisoners in the offing.
He should be out searching, only he wanted to stay here, where news would reach him faster. He needed something to go on, a lead, no matter how slender. He reached for a report from the small pile that already filled Cowley’s in tray, scanned it quickly, and discarded it. Then he picked up another one.
Betty came into the room. “Mr Cowley, Susan just called from MI6. She used the emergency code. And she asked if Doyle was available.”
“Ah, that’s wonderful news. Thank you, Betty!” Cowley said, animatedly. “Doyle, she’ll meet you outside Century House. If she runs into trouble use your judgement, but crack heads if you need to. She must have news of Bodie, it’s the only reason for breaking cover now.”
The revelation was a surprise, but Doyle barely took it in as he raced out to his car. It was twenty minutes to Lambeth on a normal day – he was aiming to get there in fewer than fifteen.
**********
“That was stupid of you, Bodie.” Franky held up Bodie’s watch, now probably wrecked after being hurled through the glass window in a vain attempt to draw attention. “Luckily I saw what you did as I was coming back. I don’t think anyone noticed.”
“Can’t blame a man for trying.”
“Of course not. What would you like first, drink or food.”
“Drink, please.”
Franky dropped the watch and the plastic-wrapped sandwich on the ground and brought the orange juice over. Bodie managed the plastic bottle one-handed, despite being tied up. It was cool, rather than chilled, but it tasted fine.
When he finished he put the bottle down. “Thanks. I’ll have the food now.”
Franky unwrapped the sandwich and brought it over. When he bent down to pick up the empty bottle Bodie surged up. His head connected sickeningly with Franky’s nose. He hoped he’d broken it. He tried to grapple with Franky, pull him down and disable him before he could draw a knife.
He almost made it, but Franky was tougher than he’d anticipated. He also had boots on, and full use of his limbs, and he punched Bodie hard and rolled away from him, blood streaming from his nose. He had a murderous look in his one eye. Bodie knew that he’d gone too far when the kicking started.
Bodie curled in on himself, protecting his softer parts from the rain of blows and kicks that Franky dealt him. Each time he tried to anticipate the next strike and roll with it, even a little, and each time the force of being struck, by fists or feet, made him grunt with pain and wish the beating would end. One blow made his head ring, another kick felt like it had broken a few ribs. But it wasn’t long before Franky stopped, only to detach the padlock from the wall, reattaching it immediately to the ankle cuffs while Bodie was still dazed.
He was dragged by his feet to the end wall, where Franky again opened the padlock, this time to fasten his ankles to the rings at the base of the wall. Then Franky ordered Bodie to his feet.
“Stand up… unless you want a knife somewhere painful!”
Bodie stood awkwardly, his feet slipping a little on the polished floor, but Franky was right behind him and kept him upright. His wrists were fastened to the rings on the upright beams so that he was spreadeagled, facing the wall.
“It was just business, Bodie. You made it into something else. Remember that, for as long as you are able.”
Franky’s knife was poised under Bodie’s jaw, pointing at his jugular vein. Then he slowly moved it to the back of his shirt collar before slicing through it, and down the full length of his shirt to the tail, leaving Bodie’s back exposed. He went for the trousers next, undoing the zipper and pulling the entire garment down. A couple of slices of the knife disposed of his underpants and Bodie was left standing practically naked from the ankles up.
“Willis doesn’t mind what condition you are in as long as you are alive. I’ll make sure he is not disappointed.”
*****
Doyle turned into Westminster Bridge Road fourteen minutes later. MI6 headquarters, a blank-faced 1960’s tower block, was near North Lambert tube. As Doyle rounded the corner and drove past the tube station entry, he saw Susan running out of the building, pursued by two men. Taking a chance he threw the wheel hard left, steering the Capri up a delivery ramp and onto the building forecourt. He threw the handbrake on, leaving the motor running, and leapt out.
Susan threw one of her pursuers over her shoulder to the ground, but he started getting up straight away, and the second man had grabbed her around the waist from behind. Doyle waded in, sending the rising man flying with a well-placed kick. A punch to the kidneys of the other and Susan was free again. She twisted around and delivered opponent a well-placed knee to her opponent’s groin. Doyle winced, but it had done the trick – they were clear. They raced for the car before anyone else arrived on the scene. Doyle jumped into the driver’s seat, barely pausing to check that Susan was safely in the other before tearing away in a squeal of tires and a smokescreen of burned rubber.
“Thanks. You made good time.”
“I’m glad they weren’t carrying guns.” Doyle commented.
“They were monitoring my calls on Willis’s orders. Apparently Willis told them if I tried to contact CI5 I wasn’t to be allowed out of the building. They weren’t expecting resistance.” Doyle caught the pleased look on her face and chuckled, but her next words filled him with dread.
“Also, they weren’t the ones who kidnapped Bodie. That lot left with Willis just before you arrived.”
“Christ… Susie, we’ve been scouring London! If you have any idea….”
“Unfortunately, only a little. I intercepted some messages from Green – he’s been one of Willis’s henchmen for a long time. They talked about taking him to “the club”, which makes it more likely to be north of the river.” She reached for the radio transmitter. “We’re headed in the right direction. I’ll call in a report.”
Susan’s call went through to Cowley himself, who promised an immediate search of records to determine the most probable locations. It was a few minutes longer before they arrived back at headquarters, and they raced inside, hoping that the computers had had enough time to spit out an answer.
Cowley was scouring printouts as they entered his office. “The first rule of haystacks… find the ones containing the needles! All MI6’s Central London properties - there’s another copy on the table. Susan, see if anything looks familiar.”
Doyle could barely stand it. The clock was ticking in his head, taking Bodie further away with every beat. He tried reading over Susan’s shoulder, but nothing he saw seemed more or less likely as a hideaway, until…
“Jermyn House! Isn’t that a club?”
“Yes, yes – in Mayfair. Very select, very private membership, or it used to have – I heard it had closed.”
They watched as Cowley, who had heard every word, picked up the phone and dialled an inside line. “Betty – ask surveillance if there’s been anything on the police radio from W1J and up. As fast as you can.” He put the handset down and looked at Doyle and Susan.
“This could be it! Get on your bikes, I’ll find you some back-up and be right behind you. Well, what are you waiting for?”
They raced out, Susan jumping back into Doyle’s Capri. The call from Betty came when they were on the road.
“The police reported a minor disturbance in Mayfair a couple of hours ago. A report from a local shopkeeper. Apparently he thought that a window had been broken from inside a neighbouring building, not from the street. He called the police because the building was supposed to be unoccupied.”
It was the same address, Jermyn House.
“Mr Cowley’s on his way with Lucas and McCabe. He wants you to wait until they arrive before doing anything.”
Doyle just hoped that they would be in time.
*****
As it turned out, Franky hadn’t done all that much damage after all, apart from the ribs which were positively, definitely broken. He’d whipped Bodie a little with his own belt, and used his knife to make superficial wounds on Bodie’s neck and torso, which bled a lot, trails of red stuff running down his back and chest, and splattering on the floor.
But Franky had given up a long while ago, and was somewhat sulkily trimming his nails with a blade when Willis arrived with his henchmen in tow. Bodie was sagging against the wall, trying to avoid moving at all, but the first thing that Willis did was wrench his head back to check that he was still breathing. That pulled on a cut on his neck which had started to congeal, making it bleed again, and the involuntary gasp that the movement caused set his ribs off. He had to hold his breath to try and splint them until the pain subsided enough to speak.
“Hello, Willis. I thought I recognised the smell of a dead rat. You never give up, do you?” Bravado wasn’t a particularly wise attitude given the position he was in, but he couldn’t help it. His contempt for this excuse for a human being was beyond measure, it vibrated through him, made him stand straighter and look his opponent in the eye.
Willis was a couple of inches taller, but it seemed not to count. He refused to return Bodie’s gaze, preferring to look down, where the bruises were forming and Bodie’s nakedness was apparent.
“I would say you are in no position to judge, Bodie. You’ll be out of the game soon, right out once it’s time. Before then, your life holds only pain.” A sneering smile crossed his features, then he turned away, grabbed the belt that Franky had been using, and laid into Bodie, this time with the buckle end. The metal hit hard and bit deep wherever it landed. Blow after blow, until Bodie’s back was a lava-hot slab of bruising and hurt. He pressed against the wall, refusing to cry out, trying to distract himself from the pain by wondering what Doyle would do after he was found, knowing more than anything that he wanted to be alive then, even if it was for a mere moment. Otherwise…
…otherwise Doyle would never forgive him,
…otherwise Doyle would do something stupid,
…otherwise he couldn’t tell Doyle he loved him.
Through the agony he heard someone call Willis’s name. It had no effect on the strength of the whipping at first, but eventually persistence won. Maybe Willis’s arms were getting tired. Bodie was too sore to move a muscle. Instead he hung there, listening to the voices behind him.
“I’ve met my part of the contract,” he heard Franky say. “Terms were half the money up front, half on delivery. It’s time for the second payment and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Of course, Mr Leparge. I do apologise. Green, pay the man his due and get him out of here.”
He didn’t know the details of what happened next until much later. What he heard was a moment of near silence, a shout of “Merde,” a scuffle and something that sounded like a body being punched and someone choking. Then the sound of feet running, out of the room and down stairs, and another pair of feet in pursuit. Willis left the room and called down the stairwell, but there was no reply.
Willis came back into the room, moved about as though looking for something, came up, bitter and twisted, against Bodie’s ear.
“I believe your time has run out,” Willis whispered viciously.
“Cutting the party short, aren’t you - what happened to your sidekicks? I take it Franky didn’t like your payment methods.” Bodie could feel the darkness approaching, but he refused to give in to it, wanting to jab at Willis one more time.
“I’ll take care of Franky later. You… right now.”
Willis moved. Bodie tensed. Then a third voice in the room, female.
“Put the gun down, Willis.”
And a fourth. One he knew very well indeed.
“Drop your weapon, or I’ll shoot you in the gut and leave you for the rats.”
A hiss, and Willis replied, “Back off, or I’ll shoot him first!”
Willis brought the gun up against Bodie’s temple. He was shaking though, on the edge. And then another voice spoke.
“From personal experience a bullet in the knee’s pretty painful too. Doyle may hesitate, but I won’t. Drop your gun, man.” Cowley, as stern as Bodie had ever heard him.
That seemed to be the final straw. Willis stepped back and laid down his gun. Bodie hung on to consciousness for a little longer, until Doyle arrived at his side. He wanted to say something, to tell Doyle he was okay, he’d stared doom in the face and won, but he couldn’t. The most he could do was persuade a few muscles to draw the corners of his mouth upward, and to look at Doyle and drink him in, even as unconsciousness claimed him.
Epilogue
“You knew, didn’t you?”
“Not for certain, Bodie.”
“Yes, but you had an idea, and you used all of us to get to Willis!” Bodie was shouting, his voice hoarse. Damned difficult to work up a head of steam from a hospital bed, especially with your partner trying to hold you back against the pillows, and a load of painkillers dulling the mind as well as the knife-edged jabbing of broken ribs.
“Aye, I did my job. And you did yours. You’ll feel better after two weeks leave. And so will he.” Cowley nodded in Doyle’s direction. He smiled grimly, and Bodie sank back against the pillows, knowing there was no point in saying anything more.
Title: The Deviousness of Wise Men
Author: KWS
Slash or Gen: Slash, extablished relationship
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes
Notes: Follows on from "The Obedience of Fools" which I wrote years ago, but stands alone. Characters included from 'Where the Jungle Ends', and 'Fall Girl'. A bit more whumpage than I usually write but no TV-permanent harm to our Lads.
There was more work to do when they got back to London, of course. Get the keys to the Capri back from Williams, who had forgotten to turn them over to the transport office. A session in the armoury to check the guns, never mind that no-one had fired a single shot. A debrief in the evening that added nothing new to their knowledge of the case.
They had a day off on Monday. On recent form they should have spent it together, a morning in bed, then out somewhere for lunch, maybe a pint, maybe a run followed by takeaway and TV, or a movie in the evening. Not this time. Whether they were being watched or not they decided by mutual agreement to play it safe.
Doyle cleaned his flat and went for a long solitary walk through the theatre district, catching up on the latest marquee posters. He almost bought two tickets to Educating Rita at the Piccadilly, thinking that Bodie might like to go with him, before realising his foolishness at the last minute. He’d be better off asking a female friend to accompany him, but whatever day he picked the chances were that he’d be working and the tickets would go to waste. So he walked on.
Bodie did some laundry and borrowed a vacuum cleaner from Mrs Briggs downstairs so he could hoover the carpets. He went for a run, arriving back tired and sweaty and wishing he’d saved the laundry until later so he could add his workout clothes to the wash. He made do with chucking them in the shower with a bit of soap and footwork, hanging the hand-wrung items over the shower rail to drip dry.
He rang headquarters in the early evening to see if Pemberton had made contact, but there was no news. Then he thought about calling Sandra and seeing if she would like to meet for a drink, but it didn’t appeal. He stayed in.
Pemberton did call, but not until after nine o’clock. Control reported the call to Doyle, who was Pemberton’s main contact. Doyle went out to a phone booth that wasn’t the one across the street from his flat, and called Pemberton back. The location for the meeting was set – outside a disused warehouse in Southwark at eight the next evening.
Doyle decided the news couldn’t wait. He drove around to Bodie’s flat. There was still a light on, not that its absence would have prevented Doyle from pressing the buzzer, three long rings before the occupant answered.
“Let me in, I’ve got news,” he said in response to Bodie’s terse greeting. The door opened and he bounded upstairs. Bodie opened the flat door for him. He moved inside, passing Bodie before there was a chance of more than a perfunctory greeting. As soon as the door closed, he turned to business.
“Have you checked the place since you got back?”
Bodie nodded. “Went over it this morning while I was hoovering. It’s okay for now.”
Doyle relaxed. “Right, pull out your A to Z. We need to start planning this obbo tomorrow.”
“Map’s not going to help with building heights and trees.”
“No, but I think you’ll know the place. It’s down by Chambers Wharf. We can send a van around early tomorrow to double-check the terrain.
So Bodie got the maps out, several of them, and a sketch pad. They spent a good hour or two discussing the options which they would have to put to Cowley in the morning. At the end of it Doyle left, without exchanging a kiss, or even a touch, despite a longing for both of these things that clawed at him the entire time he was there.
*****
Next day the set-up for the meeting was decided easily enough. Bodie would act as Pemberton’s driver – there would be another man accompanying Khalid, who Bodie would be required to cover.
Pemberton would wear a wire. The buggy-boo would be parked in a nearby street, as it was deemed too risky to leave it any closer to the warehouse gates where it might arouse suspicion. The operator and Doyle would be in the back, listening and waiting. An agent with a rifle and night scope would be in place on a nearby roof, and a second team in a vehicle on the main approach road.
“It’ll have to do. Although we’re a bit thin on the ground for my liking.” Doyle worried.
“Those streets are narrow and twisty and mostly dead ends. Too many men on the ground at that time of night and you’ll spook Khalid. We need to draw him in, not scare him off.”
Privately Bodie agreed with Doyle. If he’d had his way they would have had a third team on foot, dressed in dark clothes and keeping out of sight, rather than the man on the roof who, it had to be said, had horribly limited sightlines over the road. But at the end of the day it was Cowley’s call.
**********
As Bodie approached the turn-off he called Doyle on the car radio.
“3.7 to 4.5.”
“Receiving you loud and clear.” There was a short pause, then, “and 9.3’s receiving you as well.”
“Roger. Now we’re supposed to let Pemberton do the talking, okay?”
“Yes. We’ll record it all. Leave it as long as possible before we move in. I’ll buzz you.”
“Except if I call for back-up before then.”
“You do that.”
“Don’t worry. As long as Khalid’s on time we’ll be home before the test signal.”
The meeting place was in a dead end street, a brick wall surrounding warehouses on one side with a secured delivery gate blocking entry to a wharf area at the end, and a row of lock-ups along the other side of the road. He parked the car next to one of the lock-ups and waited with his passenger, who sat there, looking worried.
“Almost time, Pemberton. You okay about this?”
Pemberton nodded uncertainly. “His driver will also park on this road. We’ll meet between the cars. The drivers will stay with the vehicles.”
“Good enough. And if it all goes to pot you tug your ear and say the magic words. We’ll come running.”
A black executive-model Rover entered the cul-de-sac, went to the end, turned around, cruised slowly back until level with Bodie’s vehicle, and then stopped. Bodie felt for the Browning in its holster under his jacket. A man of Middle-Eastern appearance emerged, and walked to the centre of the road. Stood there, waiting.
“That’s Khalid,” Pemberton ventured.
“There’s your cue, then sunshine. Best of British.” Bodie reached across and opened the passenger door.
Pemberton got out and walked slowly to meet Khalid. They shook hands, and started to converse. Bodie kept his hand inside his jacket and one eye on the two men while sneaking a sideways look at the other car. The driver looked like any other white chauffeur or taxi driver in London, which meant he could have been hired for the job. Khalid probably didn’t trust his associates at the consulate.
Khalid gestured and he and Pemberton walked away, down the street towards the gates. This wasn’t planned – Bodie felt a prickling of unease. He saw his counterpart in the other car looked more alert as well.
The men reached the gates, then Khalid did something to the lock, and it opened. They walked through onto the wharf yard. Bodie decided it was time to let the others know. He pressed the switch on the radio.
“4.5.”
“3.7. Listen, I’m not sure what you can hear, but Khalid and Pemberton have gone for a stroll into the yard. That wasn’t on the plan.” He kept his voice low and his face turned away from the street.
“Nothing odd on the wire. Do you need back-up?”
Good question. He watched the wharf. The gate was partly open. No change in Pemberton’s body language. “Not yet. Maybe Khalid just wanted a bit more privacy. Stand by.”
When something happened it came upon them with terrible swiftness.
From the dark water beyond the wharf three figures arose and ran swiftly over to the standing duo. A shot was fired, and Pemberton fell. Bodie buzzed three times on the radio, an alert signal that would trigger a response at Doyle’s end. Without waiting for an answer he left the car and started running towards the yard. He heard the other driver start his engine, wondered if he was about to make a run for it.
Something hit him around the legs and he stumbled, almost fell, Before he could recover, another blow struck him behind the ear and he went down. Multiple hands turned him over. He was dazed, but struggled anyway. There was a pressure on his chest, it felt like someone was sitting on it. His arm was wrenched roughly outwards, held down with brutal force. He felt his sleeve being pulled up, then the prick of a needle. More hands then, pulling at him, lifting him.
Whatever he’d been injected with started to take effect. His vision blurred, he felt as though he was floating outside his body, which refused to obey the simplest commands.
And then blackness.
*****
When he finally emerged into something like consciousness the first thing he noticed was that his mouth tasted like an afternoon spent cleaning a dusty stable, and his head not only hurt, but his brain felt like so much leftover porridge, a dull mass, incapable of thought. The next thing was the rope tied around his wrists. His ankles were shackled and the shackles were fixed to a bolt or something on the surface he was lying on. He moved experimentally and found he could move a few inches in any direction around a point of fixture – there was a noise, but muffled, as though he was on carpet – he stretched, felt – yes, carpet.
His eyes were still closed, but he could tell it was dark. Apart from a whiff of odour from the carpet, which was not new, but not old either, the air was fresh and dry, which meant he hadn’t been cast into a dungeon or even a cellar. But he had no idea where he was or how long he’d been unconscious.
He drifted for a while, half-unconscious still. There were traffic sounds outside, maybe not so far away, but muffled. Wherever he was, whatever room he’d been secured in, was well soundproofed.
Later, light began to intrude through closed eyelids, signifying day and a somewhat improved state of awareness. When he opened his eyes he found himself in a middling-sized room, roughly rectangular in shape, with a door at each end. It was old, perhaps Victorian or earlier, and he was lying on a rug at its centre. The rest of the floor was wood, well-polished, but the room was otherwise almost bare.
Almost bare: he was lying opposite a big old fireplace, cracked marble and brick surround and two andirons standing proud amid the remains of the last fire, ash and charcoal piled in soft heaps, suggesting it had been alight recently. When he made himself think he began to make sense of it - a room for occasional use, an annex or drawing room, like a lady’s solar in a great old house, but of little use now.
He rolled and curled sideways and tried lifting his head, which now hurt only slightly more than the last time he’d had a hangover, to see how his feet were fastened. His shoes had been removed and his earlier perception of shackles was correct: each ankle was encased in a leather cuff, reinforced by a metal strap that went around the outside of the cuff and was padlocked to a chain welded to a fixed bolt on the outside wall. The whole arrangement had a purpose-built look about it – and as he examined the room in detail he noticed more out-of-place elements: additional bolts at intervals along the wall, a couple of rings in the ceiling beams, and others attached to pairs of vertical beams at either end, in the space alongside the doors.
It was mostly impression rather than logic that told him he was still in London. He’d woken once, when the drugs started to wear off, and he was already lying here. Then he’d slept, which was partly the drugs and partly his body’s need. Whatever they injected him with, they hadn’t risked an overdose. Ketamine, perhaps? It was day, and there were street sounds. So, London. Only where?
Going by the state of the room and furnishings he thought he was either being held in a private residence, one catering very much to the whims of the owner, or it was some sort of club. Where else would such a room exist? In earlier days Bodie had learned some parts of London very well indeed, including some of its seamier venues, and was inclined to think the latter explanation more likely. But he didn’t know this one.
So far he could see no immediate means of escape. Fortunately his captors had tied his hands in front of him, and with a bit of effort and teeth-clenching he managed to sit up and shuffle over to the wall, which he used as a support while he examined the shackles. The hinge pins were burred over to prevent removal, leaving the padlock as the weakest part of the fixture. Before he could look for a tool, the door opened and someone entered.
“Hello, Bodie. It’s been a while.” The French-accented voice was mild enough but carried an undertone of menace. The speaker wore black and a patch over his left eye.
“Hello, Franky.” Franky. François Leparge. French national and mercenary, jobs taken anywhere from Cairo to Rio and beyond. “I heard your time in gaol was shortened unexpectedly. Didn’t expect to see you in London again.”
“What can I say, mon ami. I liked the food?” Lips curling at his own joke, he went on. “I’m here on business, that’s all.”
Bodie thought quickly. Franky was one of the most professional hired killers he knew. His favoured weapon was a blade, and he would be carrying several – Bodie could see the bulge of one holster at Franky’s waist, but there were bound to be more concealed beneath his clothes.
“As long as you aren’t working for Krivas this time,” he ventured. He needed to find out what Franky’s ‘business’ was. There was no point in trying to needle him into making a mistake – Franky was too cool for that.
Franky shrugged. “I’m not. I thought you would understand. Krivas had a plan. It was a good plan. You stopped us, you won. That’s how it goes.”
“I didn’t like finding those coppers you murdered!” Bodie exclaimed. “I didn’t like you bringing the jungle here!”
“Oh? Was it the jungle you feared, or the savagery of men.” Franky moved closer. “Let me ask you something, Bodie. Why are you so concerned for your countrymen? The Bodie I remember had fewer scruples.”
“Yeah, well let’s just say I found some, okay.” Easy, Bodie. Now who was needling who?
“And it’s different, isn’t it, when they share your blood, your history.” Franky moved closer. “I don’t remember you grieving over the men we left to die when we took the last chopper out of Élisabethville.” He crouched down, within arm’s length. Bodie threw himself forward but Franky dodged easily.
Score one for Franky. It didn’t matter that he had been young and single-minded then, or that they had fulfilled their contract and staying would have meant certain death.
Damn, but Franky had got to him. He winced and slumped sideways, a partial pretence to give himself time to gather his thoughts.
Franky grasped him by his arms and pulled him back into a sitting position.
“Bodie, listen. I’m here on business again. That’s all this is. But you are going to die.”
Bodie caught the look in his eyes for the briefest moment and remembered that Franky had been a good comrade. It was Krivas who was the fanatic, the one with the grand plans and the paranoia. Franky had always been a reliable ally – until the game changed and you became the target
“Are you going to do it?”
Franky shook his head slightly. “No. If I was we would not be talking now. I told you it was business. But someone wants you dead, and now you are where he wants you. And that’s all I can tell you.”
He let Bodie lie back against the wall, and stepped away. Bodie watched him. Franky had strong features that did not show emotion readily, especially with one eye covered. So Bodie only guessed that Franky was not entirely happy with the plan to off one William Andrew Phillip Bodie. That might yet work in his favour. Because the answer was now plain.
“Willis. He wants me dead.”
Franky’s lip twitched again.
“Break your contract… help me put Willis away. I’ll see you get a clean start if you do.”
“And then what? All I have is my reputation and that would be ruined if I abandoned a job before the end.”
Bodie understood this. The mercenary game was getting tougher, and someone like Franky was known in those circles – which meant that while he was highly employable because of his skills, his name and distinctive appearance were a handicap for any group wanting to operate covertly. His choices were constrained – which probably explained why he was here. That and their shared history.
“We’ve known each other for a long time, so I won’t play games. I’m speaking from experience here – you cannot trust Willis. He’s going to destroy you along with me. Don’t be fooled, man.”
Franky didn’t reply. He looked Bodie up and down. Bodie tried for calm, but it was difficult.
Eventually Franky said, “I will bear this in mind. And for you this may matter – I expect he will be here this afternoon. So we have a few hours. I take it you don’t want to play poker.”
Unable to restrain himself, Bodie laughed. “No. But if you’re of a mind to grant requests I’d love a drink, and some food. And then you can tell me what you’ve been doing since you got away from the police judiciaire.”
Franky thought about this, briefly, then agreed. “I will get you something. Don’t go away.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bodie agreed, not looking at the padlock.
*****
“No! I don’t know where they took him! There was only one way out of that street and that’s where the car went – but they could have gone anywhere after those idiots lost them.” Doyle was furious, pacing the floor in Cowley’s office. “Find the car, that’s the key. What’re the police doing, they should have it by now!”
Under the storming and the anger Doyle was deeply afraid. He’d only caught a glimpse of the occupants as Khalid’s car came barrelling out of the cul-de-sac, before Doyle reached it. One of the men inside had looked like someone Doyle knew, or had met before. Which added to the feeling that the entire set-up had been a trap, and that Bodie had been the prey – and what that entailed, Doyle dreaded to think.
“Every available man is scouring the city for Bodie. I’ve got men in the air, listening to the police radio…, we’ll find him,” Cowley said.
“Yeah, well…,” Doyle began, and then shut up. Cowley was right, damn it. But it might take too much time, every minute counted - he had to do something. He rubbed his eyes and tried to think about it all again.
“Pemberton is dead, shot at point blank range. That makes it deliberate – a clean-up?”
“The gun was in Khalid’s hand. Perhaps he’d outlived his usefulness.” Cowley looked doubtful.
“But Khalid was shot in the back as he tried to run, although he was left alive. There’s no sign of his driver though, presumably he was in on it.”
“Pemberton didn’t shoot Khalid. It must have been the others. The ones who took Bodie.”
“Khalid has a fifty percent chance, or so I’m told. Even so, he’s still in surgery and won’t wake up for hours. Even if he does survive, it’ll be too late.” Too late for Bodie, anyway. The feeling in his gut told him so. No soft option, no ransom or exchange of prisoners in the offing.
He should be out searching, only he wanted to stay here, where news would reach him faster. He needed something to go on, a lead, no matter how slender. He reached for a report from the small pile that already filled Cowley’s in tray, scanned it quickly, and discarded it. Then he picked up another one.
Betty came into the room. “Mr Cowley, Susan just called from MI6. She used the emergency code. And she asked if Doyle was available.”
“Ah, that’s wonderful news. Thank you, Betty!” Cowley said, animatedly. “Doyle, she’ll meet you outside Century House. If she runs into trouble use your judgement, but crack heads if you need to. She must have news of Bodie, it’s the only reason for breaking cover now.”
The revelation was a surprise, but Doyle barely took it in as he raced out to his car. It was twenty minutes to Lambeth on a normal day – he was aiming to get there in fewer than fifteen.
**********
“That was stupid of you, Bodie.” Franky held up Bodie’s watch, now probably wrecked after being hurled through the glass window in a vain attempt to draw attention. “Luckily I saw what you did as I was coming back. I don’t think anyone noticed.”
“Can’t blame a man for trying.”
“Of course not. What would you like first, drink or food.”
“Drink, please.”
Franky dropped the watch and the plastic-wrapped sandwich on the ground and brought the orange juice over. Bodie managed the plastic bottle one-handed, despite being tied up. It was cool, rather than chilled, but it tasted fine.
When he finished he put the bottle down. “Thanks. I’ll have the food now.”
Franky unwrapped the sandwich and brought it over. When he bent down to pick up the empty bottle Bodie surged up. His head connected sickeningly with Franky’s nose. He hoped he’d broken it. He tried to grapple with Franky, pull him down and disable him before he could draw a knife.
He almost made it, but Franky was tougher than he’d anticipated. He also had boots on, and full use of his limbs, and he punched Bodie hard and rolled away from him, blood streaming from his nose. He had a murderous look in his one eye. Bodie knew that he’d gone too far when the kicking started.
Bodie curled in on himself, protecting his softer parts from the rain of blows and kicks that Franky dealt him. Each time he tried to anticipate the next strike and roll with it, even a little, and each time the force of being struck, by fists or feet, made him grunt with pain and wish the beating would end. One blow made his head ring, another kick felt like it had broken a few ribs. But it wasn’t long before Franky stopped, only to detach the padlock from the wall, reattaching it immediately to the ankle cuffs while Bodie was still dazed.
He was dragged by his feet to the end wall, where Franky again opened the padlock, this time to fasten his ankles to the rings at the base of the wall. Then Franky ordered Bodie to his feet.
“Stand up… unless you want a knife somewhere painful!”
Bodie stood awkwardly, his feet slipping a little on the polished floor, but Franky was right behind him and kept him upright. His wrists were fastened to the rings on the upright beams so that he was spreadeagled, facing the wall.
“It was just business, Bodie. You made it into something else. Remember that, for as long as you are able.”
Franky’s knife was poised under Bodie’s jaw, pointing at his jugular vein. Then he slowly moved it to the back of his shirt collar before slicing through it, and down the full length of his shirt to the tail, leaving Bodie’s back exposed. He went for the trousers next, undoing the zipper and pulling the entire garment down. A couple of slices of the knife disposed of his underpants and Bodie was left standing practically naked from the ankles up.
“Willis doesn’t mind what condition you are in as long as you are alive. I’ll make sure he is not disappointed.”
*****
Doyle turned into Westminster Bridge Road fourteen minutes later. MI6 headquarters, a blank-faced 1960’s tower block, was near North Lambert tube. As Doyle rounded the corner and drove past the tube station entry, he saw Susan running out of the building, pursued by two men. Taking a chance he threw the wheel hard left, steering the Capri up a delivery ramp and onto the building forecourt. He threw the handbrake on, leaving the motor running, and leapt out.
Susan threw one of her pursuers over her shoulder to the ground, but he started getting up straight away, and the second man had grabbed her around the waist from behind. Doyle waded in, sending the rising man flying with a well-placed kick. A punch to the kidneys of the other and Susan was free again. She twisted around and delivered opponent a well-placed knee to her opponent’s groin. Doyle winced, but it had done the trick – they were clear. They raced for the car before anyone else arrived on the scene. Doyle jumped into the driver’s seat, barely pausing to check that Susan was safely in the other before tearing away in a squeal of tires and a smokescreen of burned rubber.
“Thanks. You made good time.”
“I’m glad they weren’t carrying guns.” Doyle commented.
“They were monitoring my calls on Willis’s orders. Apparently Willis told them if I tried to contact CI5 I wasn’t to be allowed out of the building. They weren’t expecting resistance.” Doyle caught the pleased look on her face and chuckled, but her next words filled him with dread.
“Also, they weren’t the ones who kidnapped Bodie. That lot left with Willis just before you arrived.”
“Christ… Susie, we’ve been scouring London! If you have any idea….”
“Unfortunately, only a little. I intercepted some messages from Green – he’s been one of Willis’s henchmen for a long time. They talked about taking him to “the club”, which makes it more likely to be north of the river.” She reached for the radio transmitter. “We’re headed in the right direction. I’ll call in a report.”
Susan’s call went through to Cowley himself, who promised an immediate search of records to determine the most probable locations. It was a few minutes longer before they arrived back at headquarters, and they raced inside, hoping that the computers had had enough time to spit out an answer.
Cowley was scouring printouts as they entered his office. “The first rule of haystacks… find the ones containing the needles! All MI6’s Central London properties - there’s another copy on the table. Susan, see if anything looks familiar.”
Doyle could barely stand it. The clock was ticking in his head, taking Bodie further away with every beat. He tried reading over Susan’s shoulder, but nothing he saw seemed more or less likely as a hideaway, until…
“Jermyn House! Isn’t that a club?”
“Yes, yes – in Mayfair. Very select, very private membership, or it used to have – I heard it had closed.”
They watched as Cowley, who had heard every word, picked up the phone and dialled an inside line. “Betty – ask surveillance if there’s been anything on the police radio from W1J and up. As fast as you can.” He put the handset down and looked at Doyle and Susan.
“This could be it! Get on your bikes, I’ll find you some back-up and be right behind you. Well, what are you waiting for?”
They raced out, Susan jumping back into Doyle’s Capri. The call from Betty came when they were on the road.
“The police reported a minor disturbance in Mayfair a couple of hours ago. A report from a local shopkeeper. Apparently he thought that a window had been broken from inside a neighbouring building, not from the street. He called the police because the building was supposed to be unoccupied.”
It was the same address, Jermyn House.
“Mr Cowley’s on his way with Lucas and McCabe. He wants you to wait until they arrive before doing anything.”
Doyle just hoped that they would be in time.
*****
As it turned out, Franky hadn’t done all that much damage after all, apart from the ribs which were positively, definitely broken. He’d whipped Bodie a little with his own belt, and used his knife to make superficial wounds on Bodie’s neck and torso, which bled a lot, trails of red stuff running down his back and chest, and splattering on the floor.
But Franky had given up a long while ago, and was somewhat sulkily trimming his nails with a blade when Willis arrived with his henchmen in tow. Bodie was sagging against the wall, trying to avoid moving at all, but the first thing that Willis did was wrench his head back to check that he was still breathing. That pulled on a cut on his neck which had started to congeal, making it bleed again, and the involuntary gasp that the movement caused set his ribs off. He had to hold his breath to try and splint them until the pain subsided enough to speak.
“Hello, Willis. I thought I recognised the smell of a dead rat. You never give up, do you?” Bravado wasn’t a particularly wise attitude given the position he was in, but he couldn’t help it. His contempt for this excuse for a human being was beyond measure, it vibrated through him, made him stand straighter and look his opponent in the eye.
Willis was a couple of inches taller, but it seemed not to count. He refused to return Bodie’s gaze, preferring to look down, where the bruises were forming and Bodie’s nakedness was apparent.
“I would say you are in no position to judge, Bodie. You’ll be out of the game soon, right out once it’s time. Before then, your life holds only pain.” A sneering smile crossed his features, then he turned away, grabbed the belt that Franky had been using, and laid into Bodie, this time with the buckle end. The metal hit hard and bit deep wherever it landed. Blow after blow, until Bodie’s back was a lava-hot slab of bruising and hurt. He pressed against the wall, refusing to cry out, trying to distract himself from the pain by wondering what Doyle would do after he was found, knowing more than anything that he wanted to be alive then, even if it was for a mere moment. Otherwise…
…otherwise Doyle would never forgive him,
…otherwise Doyle would do something stupid,
…otherwise he couldn’t tell Doyle he loved him.
Through the agony he heard someone call Willis’s name. It had no effect on the strength of the whipping at first, but eventually persistence won. Maybe Willis’s arms were getting tired. Bodie was too sore to move a muscle. Instead he hung there, listening to the voices behind him.
“I’ve met my part of the contract,” he heard Franky say. “Terms were half the money up front, half on delivery. It’s time for the second payment and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Of course, Mr Leparge. I do apologise. Green, pay the man his due and get him out of here.”
He didn’t know the details of what happened next until much later. What he heard was a moment of near silence, a shout of “Merde,” a scuffle and something that sounded like a body being punched and someone choking. Then the sound of feet running, out of the room and down stairs, and another pair of feet in pursuit. Willis left the room and called down the stairwell, but there was no reply.
Willis came back into the room, moved about as though looking for something, came up, bitter and twisted, against Bodie’s ear.
“I believe your time has run out,” Willis whispered viciously.
“Cutting the party short, aren’t you - what happened to your sidekicks? I take it Franky didn’t like your payment methods.” Bodie could feel the darkness approaching, but he refused to give in to it, wanting to jab at Willis one more time.
“I’ll take care of Franky later. You… right now.”
Willis moved. Bodie tensed. Then a third voice in the room, female.
“Put the gun down, Willis.”
And a fourth. One he knew very well indeed.
“Drop your weapon, or I’ll shoot you in the gut and leave you for the rats.”
A hiss, and Willis replied, “Back off, or I’ll shoot him first!”
Willis brought the gun up against Bodie’s temple. He was shaking though, on the edge. And then another voice spoke.
“From personal experience a bullet in the knee’s pretty painful too. Doyle may hesitate, but I won’t. Drop your gun, man.” Cowley, as stern as Bodie had ever heard him.
That seemed to be the final straw. Willis stepped back and laid down his gun. Bodie hung on to consciousness for a little longer, until Doyle arrived at his side. He wanted to say something, to tell Doyle he was okay, he’d stared doom in the face and won, but he couldn’t. The most he could do was persuade a few muscles to draw the corners of his mouth upward, and to look at Doyle and drink him in, even as unconsciousness claimed him.
Epilogue
“You knew, didn’t you?”
“Not for certain, Bodie.”
“Yes, but you had an idea, and you used all of us to get to Willis!” Bodie was shouting, his voice hoarse. Damned difficult to work up a head of steam from a hospital bed, especially with your partner trying to hold you back against the pillows, and a load of painkillers dulling the mind as well as the knife-edged jabbing of broken ribs.
“Aye, I did my job. And you did yours. You’ll feel better after two weeks leave. And so will he.” Cowley nodded in Doyle’s direction. He smiled grimly, and Bodie sank back against the pillows, knowing there was no point in saying anything more.
Title: The Deviousness of Wise Men
Author: KWS
Slash or Gen: Slash, extablished relationship
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes
Notes: Follows on from "The Obedience of Fools" which I wrote years ago, but stands alone. Characters included from 'Where the Jungle Ends', and 'Fall Girl'. A bit more whumpage than I usually write but no TV-permanent harm to our Lads.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2017-01-10 12:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-01-25 01:06 pm (UTC)Bodie in peril and Cowley's team working with ex-pat, Susan, to save him - a great read all round.
I particularly liked the way you finished with the reminder that, in their world, the job at hand is never straightforward.