Indelibly Marked part 6/8
Indelibly Marked
By
Dawnwind
Part six of eight
Doyle rose out of the dream gasping, his face wet. Damn, that was so real, as if only moments had passed since their first kiss a year ago.
He couldn't keep sliding into memories of Bodie like this-his own psyche was going to derail him just when he needed all his faculties at their best. Still shaking from the aftermath, he stumbled into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Not a chance of anything edible in the house. Doyle stared into the cupboard without much hope; sure enough, Bodie's larder contained a few cans of beer, several tins of soup, the wrapper for a Swiss roll, but no sign of the cake itself, and a packet of PG Tips.
No breakfast for him, then.
Sighing, Doyle switched on the electric kettle and found a clean mug with Queen Elizabeth's face on the side. There was a narrow crack between her eyes, but the mug held liquid without leaking, so no matter.
Lounging against the counter, waiting for the water to heat, Doyle spotted a paperback, splayed open, spine up on the table. Bodie must have run out some days earlier and left his Ian Fleming novel in the middle of the story. Her Majesty's Secret Service had obviously been read more than once, the pages were dog-eared and the spine split nearly in half. As Doyle picked it up, something fluttered from between the pages.
A photograph of he and Bodie, from some agent's retirement dinner or holiday party. He was in a dark suit with his tie was askew, laughing at something Bodie must have said. Bodie was alight with joy, one hand clasping Doyle's arm, the other holding up a beer in a toast.
Damn you, Bodie.
Picking up the picture, Doyle felt his whole world tilt. He wouldn't survive this slippery-slope much longer if he didn't get Bodie back. He would be certifiable in a day or two.
He slid the photo back into the book, unable to look at it objectively.
Fixing his tea, he gulped it down and burned his tongue. He threw on his pale green t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and left this refuge. The abysmal weather fit his mood; low, malevolent clouds spitting cold rain.
His R/T was squawking persistently when he unlocked the car door. "4.5," Doyle answered, wiping his wet face.
"Where have you been, 4.5?" Cowley scolded. "With this case in flux, I expect you to be on alert at all times."
"I was asleep, sir," Doyle said petulantly, refusing to apologize for normal bodily functions.
Cowley gave a low grumble, "Well, you'll be pleased to know that we nabbed Janssen trying to slip out of the East Midlands Airport-a smaller venue, to be sure, which is undoubtedly why he thought we wouldn't be watching there."
Astonished, Doyle switched on the ignition, ready to drive to headquarters straight away. "Are you putting on the screws? Has he talked? Where's Bodie?"
"The agents who spotted Janssen at EMA are still ferrying him back to CI-5, but I will be conducting the questioning myself. Never fear, the whereabouts of 3.7 are at the top of my list."
"Never doubted you, sir," Doyle said, glancing at his watch. "What's his ETA? I'll be there by half past eight."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You were my driver!" Henrik Janssen sprang furiously from his chair, the chains on his handcuffs rattling loudly when he lunged at Doyle.
Murphy shoved him roughly back down. "That's enough of that, my son. Speak kindly to your betters."
"Now, 6.2," Doyle chided softly, leaning against the door jam with his hands in his jeans pockets. "I'm no better'n him. Why, look at the way he's dressed. A fine cashmere suit, silk tie." He circled the prisoner sitting in a battered chair, waving a hand at the scored, unpainted table and dank, cement walled room. "We should have provided finer
quarters for a gent like him."
Janssen glared at Doyle, his slate gray eyes glittering in the flat light of the basement room. His anger was banked, held firmly in check, but Doyle knew how to needle and goad, bring that fury to a boil so that emotion would loosen Janssen's tongue.
"You see, I may have killed a few people in my time." Doyle stood directly in front of Janssen, staring straight at him. "As a by product of the job, but this man kills wholesale, slaughters millions of innocents…"
"For profit," Murphy put in conversationally.
"Pounds and pounds and pounds of it." Doyle nodded at his colleague. "To fund guerrilla soldiers who rape women and children all for the sake of protecting opium poppies and other uplifting pursuits."
"You have no idea what you are talking about," Janssen sneered.
"No?" Doyle leaned in close, got right in his face. There wasn't a whiff of fear coming from the man. Nerves of steel, although Doyle could see droplets of sweat along Janssen's hairline. "Then set us straight. Why did you meet with…" For a moment, he couldn't recollect Bodie's undercover name. One of his Christian names.
Williams?
Phillips!
"Andrew Phillips? Known for running guns and other illegal substances," Doyle whispered. The softer the voice, the more the prey was seduced into the trap.
"Phillips? He was a brief stop, nothing more. I heard his name from another acquaintance who thought we should meet," Janssen said, folding his cuffed hands on the table. "I didn't transact any business with him, which is all for the better now that I realize I have been under surveillance since the very beginning. He's one of yours, is he not?"
Doyle went cold inside, his heart stuttering to a stop for fraction of a second. He started to speak when the interrogation room door opened and Cowley stepped inside.
"Johnny-on-the-spots, both of you," the old man barked. "Starting without me?"
Janssen smirked, glancing between Doyle and Murphy, apparently expecting to see dissention amongst the ranks.
Ruthlessly burying any residual thoughts of Bodie, Doyle shrugged as if Cowley's words had little effect on him. He stepped back to let his boss to the prisoner. "Be my guest, sir. We were just warming him up for you."
"And?" Cowley looked down his nose at Janssen, the overhead light creating a small pool of brightness around the two of them.
"He's only admitted to meeting Andrew Phillips, but claims the bloke is CI-5," Murphy said with a shake of his head. "We're not inclined to believe a word out of his mouth just yet. Not without a bit of proof."
"I see." Cowley frowned, the old-fashioned school master disappointed with a star pupil. "Can't be anymore helpful than that, Mr. Janssen?"
"Alas, I have no idea why you have detained me." Janssen spread his cuffed wrists as widely as they would go. "You seem to be under the impression that I have made some illegal business transactions, and I assure you that is a completely false accusation."
"Och, but that's where you're wrong." Cowley gave him a gimlet-eyed stare, his blue eyes bright. "We've just intercepted a consignment of Russian made guns, hand grenades and rocket launchers moments before they were to be loaded on a freighter bound for Africa."
This was news to Doyle. He watched his superior, not sure whether Cowley was bluffing like the old pro that he was or if he'd received last minute intel. Standing behind Janssen, Murphy widened his eyes slightly, so it came as a surprise to him, too.
"I am an import/export dealer," Janssen said patiently. "I deal only in supplies for celebrations, fetes, that sort of thing-fireworks, entertainment, tents…"
"And the Loch Ness monster is a wee water creature." Cowley snorted derisively, sitting in a chair across the table from Janssen. "As you must already be aware, we know that before and after you spoke with this scoundrel Phillips, you met with an Edward Daniels who has an arrest sheet longer than Nessie herself."
"Daniels is a business associate, but there is nothing untoward in sharing a meal with him. You're made a dreadful mistake. Once my solicitor arrives, I expect to be released."
"We aren't the bloody Met, you fool," Doyle said with a nasty chuckle. "No phone call, no solicitor to argue before the magistrate and get you out. You're here for the long term until we get our answers. And we expect you to spill all-you're already up trafficking guns, smuggling and assorted other charges, not to mention traveling on a forged British passport. Lawrence van der Horst is not your real name…" He pulled the passport Murphy had given him out of his jacket pocket and tossed it onto the table in between Janssen and Cowley.
"Well then, let's take a look at this." Cowley opened the booklet and peered at the customs stamps. "You're quite well traveled. Istanbul, Algiers, numerous Arab nations, not to mention Angola, Tangiers, and your home country of South Africa, eh, Mr. Janssen?"
Janssen didn't respond, his eyes narrowed.
"First and foremost, we are interested in the whereabouts of Mr. Phillips." Cowley got up, walking around the table, his limp far more pronounced than usual.
Doyle almost laughed. A diversion tactic, perhaps?
"Because your motor, an excellent Jaguar, number plate XIN 449W, was found abandoned soon after you and he met at the Swan. You were not our original target, as it happened, he was…" Cowley suddenly smacked his hand down on the table top. The impact sounded like a shot in the low ceilinged room.
"I spoke with him and gave him a ride for only a short distance to his destination," Janssen said calmly. "He was a nice enough fellow, but did not have the supplies in stock that I required."
"Your memory must be at fault, my good man." Cowley beckoned to Murphy. "Do you have the tape recorder set up?"
"It's right outside." Murphy went into the hall to fetch the reel to reel machine and placed it on the table beside Cowley's elbow.
Janssen's face darkened but he held his tongue, watching suspiciously as Murphy adjusted the speed and volume before switching on the tape.
"You say you can get me 30 members of the Kalashnikov family, and some fireworks for a… match between two rival teams?" Janssen's voice boomed from the recording. "Everything necessary for a really good bonfire."
"Whatever you require," Bodie agreed. "I have a warehouse full of…useful items. I simply need to see the cash. This is no post office, no credit or money orders accepted."
"I'm weighing offers," Janssen said. "What can you provide that the others cannot?"
"I think we've heard enough," Cowley said dryly, clicking off the power. "Thirty Kalashnikovs would certainly make a bonny fire. You'd light up the night sky with the explosions and rockets."
"The Kalashnikovs are a well known Russian high wire act," Janssen sniffed. "As I have said, I was ordering supplies-acts and pyrotechnics for a fete."
"Aye, so you did." Cowley perched on the edge of the table, tapping one of the reels, looking skeptical.
"We still don't believe you," Doyle snarled, fury vibrating through his body. "Where is Phillips?" He almost said Bodie but managed to switch consonants just in time, his fingers twitching to close around Janssen's neck.
"My driver said there was a malfunction with the car," Janssen explained, raising both linked hands to loosen the knot of his tie almost as if he'd felt Doyle's mental throttling. "We had to stop in a car park. Luckily, I was able to ring my friend Edward Daniels, who came to our aid. He left myself and my driver at our hotel and drove off with Mr. Phillips-I was not privy to their destination."
That was all Doyle needed. Proof that Daniels had grabbed Bodie that ill-fated day, if in fact Janssen was telling the truth. And Doyle thought he was. "What time was that?" he demanded.
"I certainly don't recall such a trivial moment from days past!" he protested.
"You should consult with a neurologist. Your memory is quite spotty," Cowley commented with a rise of one blond brow.
"You met at the Swan at eleven am with Andrew Phillips, only stayed but ten minutes and drove away at twelve past eleven," Murphy recited the facts.
"Yet you can't recall the car breaking down by the side of the road in Windsor?" Cowley asked incredulously. "Why, you were in the car with him for over half an hour, surely you must have spoken to one another."
"We conversed about the most trivial of matters," Janssen said, his mouth twisted in a grimace. "Inconsequential."
"Why did Phillips go off with Daniels?" Doyle pushed, wanting answers. He had just over an hour before he needed to leave. There had to be something more!
"They appeared to be acquainted. I do not know," Janssen replied. "Daniels greeted him by name and was pleased to see him. It had nothing to do with me. I've answered your questions, now I demand to see my solicitor immediately."
"We have many, many more questions for you, Mr. Janssen." Cowley waggled a finger at him. "We'll be here all afternoon, unless I miss my guess. And you'll be a guest of Her Royal Majesty for some while."
"Daniels greeted Phillips by name?" Doyle repeated to get the interrogation back on track. "Did he know that you were meeting Phillips beforehand?"
"Not that it's any concern of yours, but yes, I had told him." Janssen rolled his eyes, as if he had never done an illegal act in his entire career as a fete planner.
So Daniels knew about Bodie from square one. No doubt, the moment Lord Burley saw the CI-5 agent, Bodie was in a heap of trouble.
"Was Lord Burley with Daniels when he picked the three of you up?" Doyle asked. He saw Cowley's eyes light up at this line of questioning.
"No. I do not know his Lordship," Janssen said tightly.
Backing up, Doyle left Cowley and Murphy to their inquiry. He had other matters to attend to. As if in anticipation of its upcoming procedure, his arm tingled as if he'd put his hand against an electric wire.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Doyle peered at the snake that now graced his flesh. His own limb no longer looked like it belonged to him, and the stinging pain felt like he had been skinned from bicep down to the middle of his forearm. Mick had managed to hide the accidental blotch of ink by covering the red with extra black detail. Doyle touched one of the artistically drawn scales. There was a raised ridge, like the serpent was rising out of his flesh, and eerily, the snake's red eyes glowed as if lit from within. He flexed his wrist, watching the snake seem to slither around his muscles of its own accord.
The combination of the tattoo artist's marijuana and two beers had really gotten to him-he was blotto. His head was swimming and he felt a little sick to his stomach. Unfortunately, there was no chance of refusing the whisky Mosby had brought over to toast his induction into Daniels' group.
"I'll be mother, then." Eddy Daniels poured whisky into four glasses and doled them out to Doyle, Thomson and Mosby, leaving the last one for himself. "To the future!"
"The future!" Mosby and Thomson said as one, watching Doyle like a pair of hawks.
"The future," Doyle echoed, drinking his whisky. "What exactly is in our future, then?"
"Big things, lads, which will change Mother England as we know it." Daniels grinned. "But first, our little Raymond has a big night ahead of him, yeah?"
Mosby giggled inanely, his crooked teeth hooked over the edge of his whisky glass.
Doyle turned to look at Daniels, and the whole pub swung lazily from side to side. He blinked which didn't help matters at all. In fact, it made them worse. Daniels' grin spread, vanished and reappeared again like the Cheshire cat's. The background noise in the pub went loud and then soft, and Mosby's laugh echoed in his ear. Daniels said something, his words slowing down the way a broken phonograph did.
Bloody hell.
He'd been drugged. Doyle latched onto the few coherent thoughts he could manage, but they were slipping away like sand through his fingers. He could hear Thomson speaking, but the words no longer made sense. Was this how Bodie felt right before he disappeared?
And what was this big night they had planned for him?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Doyle came awake slowly, feeling hands pawing all over him. He groaned, terror rising up like a living thing in his breast, and tried to roll away but his body was not responding to commands.
"None of that, little Raymond," Daniels crooned in his ear, pushing him down into a mattress. The words were soft, sensual, but there was a cruel nastiness to them. "This is your debut, my love. Your night to shine."
"I don…" Doyle slurred, trying to focus. Daniels's face was a pale, elongated blob with a cloud of dark hair on top. Behind him, there were other indistinct shapes-possibly Mosby and Thomson. Mosby giggled, confirming his guess.
Doyle moaned, scooting to one side, but his right arm, the one with the fresh tattoo, was held fast. He jerked his left wrist, too, and realized he was naked and restrained to bedposts. Daniels was straddling his hips, sitting heavily on his bare legs. "Get off me!" Doyle yelled, far more clearly this time.
"I've haven't yet begun, my lad," Daniels continued, moving back just enough to be between Doyle's legs instead of on top of them. "Ned, grab his legs, keep him steady."
"You fucking shit!" Doyle surged up to the limit of his bonds hard enough to slam the bedposts against the wall. He'd known all along that this would happen. Had accepted sex with Eddy as payment for finding Bodie again.
So why was he so scared?
He could feel the fear, the wash of painful memories trying to pull him under, and fought against the paralyzing terror. He had to keep his head. No matter what Daniels did, Doyle was now a trained agent, not a hapless twenty-one year old anymore.
"Language!" Thomson grabbed both of Doyle's ankles, pulling them wide before buckling leather cuffs around each one. He and Mosby were still completely dressed, in contrast to their leader. "We've all been where you are, Doyley, and it's considered a privilege to have Eddy all to yourself. You're in the place of honour tonight."
They'd been prepared, ready for his initiation. "We haven't even had a first date yet and it's straight on to the naked tango?" Doyle panted. His vision had cleared and he could easily see that Daniels was completely nude, too. He was festooned with tattoos of snakes. Besides the glowing red serpent on his arm, there were three writhing on his torso, one on each thigh, and a green and gold Cobra coiled right above his genitals, its jaws spread widely, fangs bared. When Daniels was buried to the hilt in Doyle's ass, the Cobra would look like it was striking.
Doyle kicked out again, but he couldn't get free, and only succeeded in banging the bed against the wall again.
Daniels grinned widely, obviously enjoying the increasing violence. "You can lie back and accept what's going to happen, Ray Doyle, or fight, and get it rough." He pinched one of Doyle's nipples hard, twisting it so tightly that Doyle felt the sharp pain all the way down to his groin. Improbably, his cock twitched, conditioned to expect Bodie's teasing. Outraged, Doyle tried to turn on his side only to be hauled back by his tormenter.
"You'll be quite a ride!" Daniels said with smug satisfaction, pushing Doyle's buttocks up onto his upper legs so that his swollen cock just brushed against Doyle's thigh. "I wager you're keen to have it fast and rough."
"Take 'im, Eddy, take 'im!" Mosby chanted, fondling himself through his trousers.
"Don't let first impressions fool you," Doyle ground out, adrenaline surging through his body. As long as he could maintain a modicum of control, he was all right. And when it was over, he'd find Bodie. Wherever he was. Wherever they both were. "I just wanted a job. Don't fancy you at all, mate."
Thomson's fist came into view. Doyle had time to make out the letters 'F-E-A-' before he was slugged in the jaw. He tasted blood just as Daniels thrust into his anus, fast and hard.
Doyle didn't move, didn't respond, didn't cry out. Sucking on his split lip, he endured Daniels' deep penetration, using techniques learned in the martial arts to wall off his emotions. He had to bide his time until it was his turn to attack. Daniels had gone in dry, but Doyle was too experienced with anal penetration to find it overly painful. He couldn't control his body's instinctive reactions, though. Despite his revulsion, Doyle's cock half swelled, aroused by the sensation of sex, no matter how brutal.
"Bleeding hell," Daniels whispered, a ragged edge to his voice. "You're no virgin, are you, choir boy?" He rocked, thrusting aggressively, shoving so deep Doyle could feel the pressure in his chest. "Nice and tight, but not like it's strangling my willie. Ned, do your thing, so I can feel that petit mort…"
There was only a flash of the F on Thomson's first knuckle before his fingers closed around Doyle's neck, pressing firmly on his throat. True panic welled up, obliterating his rigidly held control. He couldn't breathe!
The need for oxygen was absolute. He gasped, trying get some air past the stricture of Thomson's fingers. Blackness flickered on the edges of his vision and Doyle bucked, drumming his heels against the mattress to no avail. The exercise only exhausted him. Consciousness fleeing, he could feel his heart beating frantically, blood roaring in his ears and his head about to explode from the pressure…
From somewhere far off, Daniels shouted, roaring his pleasure and pumped into Doyle, filling him to the overflowing. Doyle was just this side of awareness, but too drained to react. He heaved against the blockage around his neck and suddenly, there was freedom.
part seven