Out from the Dark, Chapter Fifteen, Part Three
The whole chapter has already been uploaded to AO3.
This time it's real action, not the easiest thing to do for me. Tell me what you think of the result!
Fandom: The Professionals
Title: Out of the Dark
Author: Francis Kerst
Pairing: Bodie/Cowley
Genre: Slash
Rating: Adult
Warning: None
Archive: Anywhere
Summary: Cowley on the war path.
The morning call struck like a bolt in a summer sky.
« Where's Bodie? »
Cowley's sense of danger was instantly on alert, with a grim foreboding. « What's the matter? »
« Where is he? »
« What do you want him for? »
Angus' voice on the RT was sharp. « George, that's serious business. Can you speak freely?»
“Aye. I'm alone. Get to the point!”
“In three words: Truce is over."
“What d'you mean?”
“You had a truce with MI6 regarding Bodie, didn’t you? Well, it's over.”
Cowley didn't bother to ask Angus what his source of information was; he just questioned: “What happened?”
“Seems some serious threat from the P L F has been uncovered that Bodie might have got intelligence about, like their arms provider's whereabouts, or even an access inside. They want him, urgently.”
“He's of no use to them in his current condition.”
“You don't need to tell me that. It's a moot point though; they want to question him, their way.”
“On what authority?”
“A fairly sufficient one, have no doubt about it.”
“The Minister?”
“You mean the Home Secretary? Changed his mind. Not his competence anyway. Foreign matters, MI6 private sandbox.
“I've got higher contacts.”
You don't intend to go up to the PM for this boy, do you, George? We're on highly sensitive grounds here. Our Israeli friends are fretting. With good reason.”
Cowley kept silent for a few seconds. Angus insisted: “You're playing with fire, George, keep in mind what's at stake.”
More than you imagine, Angus, thought Cowley. Angus knew about his project, along general lines, but not how close it was to its implementation. A wrong move on his part and everything could still be cancelled, or entrusted to someone else. However that wasn't his worst fear. His career he could dismiss, his honour was another thing. If the boy had noticed...what he couldn't have failed to, if he spoke (and then, in what terms?)...The least suspicion about his morality would cast a shadow on all his past achievements.
A sense of urgency gripped him, wringing his throat tight. “How much time do we have?”
“No time. They're already here.”
“What!”
“The last phone call I got was from Glasgow and mentioned a helicopter.”
“The last call? What else did you hide from me?”
“George, I wasn't even supposed to warn you at all.”
“I see. We'll talk later. What's going on at the moment?”
“MI6 has sent a team; they must have landed now, not very far from your place; if they're not at your door, they most likely are at the boat house.”
Cowley's heart lurched. Bodie was at the boat house, to try the engine and set the boat afloat. “What did you tell them, exactly?”
“Everything I knew. Look, I couldn't conceal anything from them in my position.”
“What position? You left the services years ago.”
“You never leave the services, George, never completely.”
“I'm wasting a precious time. Bye, Angus.”
“Hold on! What are you going to do?”
“Try to salvage something from this wreck.”
“George, don't do anything foolish!”
“I won't. Bye.”
Nothing was less sure, though. Cowley clicked off the RT. There was little he could do. Save a private telephone number, which was of no use there, he had no means of communication with the only man who had enough clout to thwart the MI6 moves (and who probably wouldn't deem the gain worth the wager anyway). He wondered how far he would have been ready to go otherwise: up to risking the most powerful support he had ever had in his career? Thinking further about it, he decided he didn't want to know. But he knew what he wanted: to take hold of Bodie before anyone else did, and silence him, by any means available barring murder.
It was reluctantly, though, that he retrieved his gun from its cache. Shooting at regular State agents performing a legal arrest was unthinkable; shooting at Bodie was hardly more acceptable, even in case of resistance, but, with the lad at least, just showing him the gun might allow him to get close enough to use another, more effective, weapon if plain words failed. He made sure he had the stun serum device well at hand in the inside pocket of his sports jacket and inserted an extra dose in the container. No handcuffs (they still were in the trunk of his car) but a roll of thin, strong nylon rope; properly used, it would make do.
He spared a few minutes to put on good walking shoes and breeches, then picked up his RT and the light bag he had prepared for the fishing party and left. He took a short-cut he never used, for it was still steeper than the track made by the boat trailer; more a sheep pass than a path, actually.
There was little chance he would be at the beach in time, Bodie could have been abducted already if Angus was right, but he hurried nonetheless. His leg and foot didn't hurt any more, as if they never had. He hardly limped. He was aware he was going on adrenaline. Once or twice he slipped without much damage. A brief wave of pain surged and ebbed. He kept moving, singlemindedly, his attention and willpower focused on his goal. But what was his goal, exactly? For the second time in less than a month, he had rushed into action, not heeding the consequences or having made a plan, without leaving himself a way out...He wanted Bodie; he wanted Bodie safe. Safe and silent, or just silent? This was a shameful thought. This was the inescapable issue of the dilemna. No choice really. At least he could tell himself it was all for the higher good.
The narrow track seemed to stretch out under his feet with every cautious step and every passing second, as if there would never be an end to it. When it eventually and abruptly ended into a clearing, he stopped under the cover of a beech-tree and scanned the surroundings. From his standpoint he could see the perfectly still and level surface of the loch and the clear blue sky above, beyond a barrier of shrubbery that hid the beach and the pier from his sight. Everything looked quiet; too quiet: no bird songs, no rustling through the grass and leaves. Such an unnatural silence couldn't be imputed to a lull in the breeze only: something had disturbed the wild life of the woods, and very recently, though he hadn't heard any shooting or shouting while walking down the last hundred yards.
Gun in hand, as noiseless as a bird-watching cat, he skirted around the line of the front trees and got close to the bushes, standing at the far right edge, where a gap in the branches opened up a broader view, encompassing the boat house and the pier. A first glance told him everything wasn't quite normal: the motor boat was nowhere to be seen; only the old wooden one was there, looking more wretched than ever. All his senses on alert he stood, motionless, for a little while. Nothing. Odd how silence and stillness could be more disquieting than turmoil sometimes. Yet he had to move, and fast. He wouldn't have any cover to cross the beach. Throwing caution to the wind, he headed straight for the boat house.
&&&&&&&
The door of the boat house was slightly ajar. Cowley moved aside, flattening himself alongside the wooden panel. There he stood for a few seconds, his arm outstretched, the gun's muzzle pointing to the chink. Listening intently, he heard a faint noise: like a feeble moaning from the back of the room; indistinct but human, indubitably. Briskly, he opened the door wide and rushed in. Leaning forward, his gun still in firing position, he went for cover between a large metallic cupboard and a stack of cardboard boxes in the right corner.
At this time in the morning, there was enough light inside to see everything clearly. And what he saw startled him; three decades of experience in man-to-man fighting and commando action hadn't totally blunted his ability of marvelling at the sight of sheer prowess: gagged and trussed up like a pair of Christmas geese, there were two men lying on the ground, closely bound to the legs of a massive and heavy workbench. The fishing line that had been tightly wound up round their bodies and kept their wrists tied up high behind their backs was set as a double-loop noose joining their necks together; they couldn't move without strangling each other. Yet the knot was loose enough not to cause any harm if they both kept quiet.
Cowley whistled in overt admiration. Whatever name the lad could be called, fool it wasn’t. If only he could get his hands on just two or three applicants with such skills and resources when he started recruiting his future operatives, he would be a lucky fellow.
A low growl drew his attention to one of the reclining figures. The man who was now glaring at him from below had visibly recovered his consciousness and there even was some sort of recognition in the staring gaze. Cowley bent over and swiftly pulled out a filthy rag from the goon's muzzled jaw.
“Cowley!”
“Don't yell at me, will you? You deafen me. And it's Mister Cowley to you.”
He had the strong impression of having already seen the man, in the corridors of MI6, or body-guarding Willis on some occasion or other. At the moment he was frantic and looked distraught but not in too bad a condition. Cowley repeated the same gesture with the other man, who was slowly awakening, and checked his breathing. He too seemed pretty unharmed. Fine. The lad knew how to measure, and to place, his blows.
“By the way, what are you doing in here?”
“You ask? It's your man, Bodie; he got us by ruse.”
“I can’t compliment you. Besides Bodie's not my man, I've no power or authority over him.”
“You warned him! He knew we were coming; you told him.”
“And how, I beg you? Using homing pigeons? Don't give me more bullshit or I’ll gag you again and leave you nicely tied up on your backs.”
“Don't you dare even think of it, if you value your life.”
Cowley swivelled briskly and faced the newcomer. This one he knew well: Preston, one of Willis’ best and most trusted operatives. Though the man yielded a much better look in his memory. At this moment he was drenched and plastered with mud. He held a gun but his sleeve was dripping onto the weapon. No dire threat. Cowley ignored it.
“Ah, Preston! What happened to you, man? Missed a step? Got too close to the brink? The pier’s that slippery?”
Scowling, Preston sheathed back his useless gun in his soaked holster. He seemed to recognize him belatedly. “You know what happened, Cowley.”
“Mister Cowley, will you? Or Major, if you prefer, Sergeant.”
“You know what happened, Major, repeated Preston, almost tamely.”
Cowley couldn't resist teasing him a bit more. “I take you had a bad encounter.”
“No kidding; he fled away with the boat and my men's arms and ammo.”
“Again I don't compliment you; MI6 training standards are slipping, or you are.”
Preston was indignant. “I'd like to see you in our place: We were under strict orders to get him alive and unharmed at all costs.”
“A paltry excuse for a wretched op.”
“That's rich! You blame us for having failed to capture your own 'protégé'?”
A husky, angry voice sounded behind them. “Could you postpone your explanations for later and just free us, for God's sake?”
The senior agent frowned at his subordinate's insolence and Cowley smiled. “Your turn, sergeant,”
Unthinkingly, Preston reached out to his boot for his dagger and withdrew his hand without it. Another weapon lost, apparently. Sparing him a comment, Cowley held out his own knife to the MI6 officer.
Freed from their bonds at last, the two men told the abridged version of their misadventures, while stretching their sore limbs and gulping much too much of the finest single malt from Cowley's flask.
In short, they had been surprised by the one they intended to surprise. The boat house, the right location for a trap? Yes, providing you were the first in the place, or fast as lightning and moved like a cat; which was not the case. The first man to enter was knocked down; the second was no match for Bodie.
“He was warned!” The, still irate, agent was anything if not stubborn.
“He's got sharp ears! And fast reflexes.”
“Cowley's right,” Preston admitted grudgingly; “they had no means of communication.”
“And how come he arrived so opportunely?”
“We had an appointment for a fishing party.” As unpleasant as it was to answer questions from an underling, he had to provide a cover to Angus. Yet, subscribing to the rule that attack is the best defence, he counter-asked: “And what about your part?”
Preston was understandably reluctant to expose his failure, the more so since he couldn't argue he had been surprised. From his embarrassed and diluted explanations, it emerged that he had posted himself (in the same copse where Cowley had stood for a while) to watch out for the arrival of his target - who wasn't supposed to already be inside - and warn his men of it, then - possibly - stop Cowley (who, according to Angus' pieces of information, was expected to come some time later). When realizing the operation had gone very bad, he had run to the pier, to prevent Bodie from taking the boat. Whatever had happened there, it wasn't a good example of MI6’s much vaunted achievements, though it might be put to Preston's credit that, following orders, he had avoided using his gun. The gun he had retrieved from the silt but, not counting his RT, that was the only thing he had managed to save from the fight.
So, Bodie had now a boat full of gas, two guns and their ammo, two or three daggers, two RT (with little use of them, admittedly) not to mention a supply of food meant for two days and the complete camping gear, including two sleeping bags and a tent, which had been loaded aboard in case they eventually decided to camp somewhere in the woods (another of Bodie's ideas of course).
Cowley strove to hide his glee, in spite of all the difficulties he foresaw for the near future. Now he had some means of pressure on Willis, at least regarding that affair (he was still dreaming of halting the man's steady progress to the top of MI6); he knew that Angus had conveniently schooled the tale he had dished his old colleagues and, last but not least, his admiration for the lad's abilities was blooming. Yet he had no delusion about Bodie's present state of mind and was aware it should be rather a cause of worry than of satisfaction to him.
He turned to Preston: “Is your RT still working? Think we both need to talk to Willis. Now.”
&&&&&&&
The radio-transmitter was working: it hadn't been dropped in the water during the struggle, just on the ground. Cowley wanted to speak to Willis as soon as possible and, at this point, only to Willis: there was still no need to turn to higher authorities, which he had already sufficiently bothered with a relatively minor and partially personal problem (from the, assumable, Minister's point of view). Moreover he had a hunch Willis would be only too relieved not to have to report his failure to the Head of MI6 (an embarrassment Cowley would have relished to witness in other circumstances).
The call was urgent. Cowley remembered the unusual silence he had noticed while standing at the edge of the woods. It seemed that Preston had disturbed the birds and all the little hidden wild life when he had rushed, breaking through the bushes and the undergrowth to pursue Bodie, say ten, twelve minutes earlier? Then the fight had occurred at the pier: two, three minutes? Maybe less. And Preston had been left unconscious, but not for long. However Cowley hadn’t heard any motor noise from his standpoint in the copse ten minutes ago or caught sight of the boat. He thought quickly. The loch wasn't wide; it was one of the smallest actually, and the boat was fast. Bodie was on the other side even then but couldn't have gone too far yet. He might be twenty five minutes ahead of them. There was still a means of catching him up, but only one. He took the RT from Preston's hand.
As expected, faced with the threat of a difficult and humiliating confession to his boss, Willis opposed little objection to Cowley’s plan.
“I want the helicopter on the beach with the pilot and all its equipment, soonest, and I want to be given free hand for 48 hours. I’d bet anything I can bring back the fugitive, docile and cooperating within that time-limit.”
“Into our hands?”
“If he’s sane and sound, and willing, yes. If his mental or physical condition needs medical care, he’ll go back to Repton, under my own, personal, and sole, responsibility.”
This should have sounded ominously like a demand for unconditional surrender to the ears of Willis. but he had not much of an alternative. He needed the man alive and there was little doubt that only Cowley, with the help of Angus, had any chance of achieving that goal in the current circumstances. Finally, they all had been taken back to the initial situation, although in a much worse predicament.
So, some fifteen minutes later, the small black chopper deftly landed on the narrow beach after a short stop at the farm yard and Cowley got on board, welcomed by joyous barks and yaps.
“Ah, you brought Rover with you.”
“Aye, he likes Bodie; could be useful.”
“Could be, indeed.” Cowley wasn’t that happy at Angus’ presence but he needed a back-up, especially with his bad leg, and Angus had a thorough knowledge of the whole area while his was only partial and out of date, plus there was the old man’s perfect command of the dog to take in account. Good idea, the dog, by the way...
“I also took a handkerchief left by Bodie, last time.” It was Angus’ but Bodie had used it, which was well enough for Rover’s flair. Cowley suspected his cousin had done it on purpose, just in case...
The chopper took off, leaving on the ground three very miffed MI6 agents. They now had to get back to the farm on foot, deprived of both their equipment and their mission, not to mention their pride. Preston had kept his useless gun but left Cowley the RT, which - he hoped - could allow him to communicate with Bodie.
The pilot was a technician, not an operative, and looked rather amused by the whole shebang.
“Where shall we go now?”
“Straight across the loch.”
“The north bank of the loch has no beach”, Angus explained, “but there’s quite a large clearing at the top of the hill above, where the trees have been felled down by the tempest, two years ago.”
“Hmm, trunks and stumps are not exactly a good landing place, even for a copter.”
“No worry; it has been cleared since then, to be replanted, but the work hasn’t begun yet. I’m sure you can find a convenient spot to land on.”
The pilot circled the hill, scanning the ground below: the location wasn't ideal but there was room enough for a seasoned professional, which he certainly was.
“I warn you, I have to stay with the aircraft.”
“Of course, no problem: we don’t need you with us,” Angus agreed, in his usual smooth way.
“We need you to wait for us here,” Cowley cut in, crisply, “if we aren’t back within 48 hours, or in case the RT contact is broken, after 24 hours, you’ll alert Preston.”
The pilot made a face: “48 hours with our emergency rations? Sleeping in the cockpit?”
“And what are your emergency rations for? Sleep where you like, the entire glade is yours.”
“It’ll be freezing at night!”
“Don’t you have a sleeping bag?”
“It all comes with the job,” Angus added, smiling graciously.
From the young man's expression, it was plain he didn’t find the game so funny, after all. He considered the two men gloomily while they unloaded their packs: two of the three agents' regulation kits and a few items Angus had brought with him.
“How long since you had to carry a backpack for the last time?”
“Not so long actually,” Cowley grated: what on earth was it with Bodie and Angus, a conspiracy to make him feel old? “I kept attending some of the training sessions for a while after I left the field service, until...
“...until your knee's worsening condition made you unable to continue?”
“Aye”, Cowley admitted, feeling distinctly uncomfortable at the turn of the conversation.
“Do you think you'll manage this time?” Angus sounded genuinely concerned, which wasn’t reassuring.
“I have to!” he snapped, and more composed: “I'll do, if you've done your job.”
“I can't heal it.”
Blast the man; why state the obvious? “I never expected you would!”
“but if you take the medication I've just given you, very regularly every two hours, I can promise the inflammation and the pain will recede enough for you to hold on for the next 48 hours.”
“I'm fine so far. Eh! watch that crazy dog!” Rover was jumping and bouncing all around them like the pup he had been five years ago.
“He's over-excited by the flight. Like any good operative he needs a drive, a purpose, to behave properly. Just wait he'd been assigned his mission...”
Rover sniffed the handkerchief several times, trembling and whimpering, then stood very still in uttermost concentration before he went running in widening circles all around the clearing, stopping and sniffing at every corner and, eventually, sat back on his haunches, looking helpless. Cowley would have laughed if he had not been so strung up.
It took more to disconcert Angus. “Rover is a good dog but he’s not a canine seer; we’re too far from the prey and the wind is blowing the wrong way.”
“And so, what the hell we do now?” Cowley asked with a burst of totally unreasonable anger though he knew the answer.
“Well, we must go downhill and start tracking the man from the place he's left the boat.
“We’re falling behind.”
“There’s no other way.”
“Yes, there is one: I can try to reach Bodie through the RT.” This was something he had thought about when he had borrowed Preston's RT; he couldn't use his own since he didn't know the frequency used by MI6. However he wouldn't make the call in front of Preston and, to tell the truth, wasn't sure that doing it in the presence of Angus would be any wiser...for all sorts of reasons.
All the same, he needed to talk to Bodie...for all sorts of reasons.
The old man tutted: “Too soon, If I read him right, he can’t be in a very communicative mood at the moment. Let's make him sweat a little.”
“As for now, we are the ones who are sweating!”
“You're getting slack, cousin.”
Rover came close to Cowley and shoved a wet nose in the palm of his hand, wagging his tail encouragingly, not a tad affected by his failure. At least, thought Cowley, among the four of us, there's one happy to be there and content with himself.
This time it's real action, not the easiest thing to do for me. Tell me what you think of the result!
Fandom: The Professionals
Title: Out of the Dark
Author: Francis Kerst
Pairing: Bodie/Cowley
Genre: Slash
Rating: Adult
Warning: None
Archive: Anywhere
Summary: Cowley on the war path.
The morning call struck like a bolt in a summer sky.
« Where's Bodie? »
Cowley's sense of danger was instantly on alert, with a grim foreboding. « What's the matter? »
« Where is he? »
« What do you want him for? »
Angus' voice on the RT was sharp. « George, that's serious business. Can you speak freely?»
“Aye. I'm alone. Get to the point!”
“In three words: Truce is over."
“What d'you mean?”
“You had a truce with MI6 regarding Bodie, didn’t you? Well, it's over.”
Cowley didn't bother to ask Angus what his source of information was; he just questioned: “What happened?”
“Seems some serious threat from the P L F has been uncovered that Bodie might have got intelligence about, like their arms provider's whereabouts, or even an access inside. They want him, urgently.”
“He's of no use to them in his current condition.”
“You don't need to tell me that. It's a moot point though; they want to question him, their way.”
“On what authority?”
“A fairly sufficient one, have no doubt about it.”
“The Minister?”
“You mean the Home Secretary? Changed his mind. Not his competence anyway. Foreign matters, MI6 private sandbox.
“I've got higher contacts.”
You don't intend to go up to the PM for this boy, do you, George? We're on highly sensitive grounds here. Our Israeli friends are fretting. With good reason.”
Cowley kept silent for a few seconds. Angus insisted: “You're playing with fire, George, keep in mind what's at stake.”
More than you imagine, Angus, thought Cowley. Angus knew about his project, along general lines, but not how close it was to its implementation. A wrong move on his part and everything could still be cancelled, or entrusted to someone else. However that wasn't his worst fear. His career he could dismiss, his honour was another thing. If the boy had noticed...what he couldn't have failed to, if he spoke (and then, in what terms?)...The least suspicion about his morality would cast a shadow on all his past achievements.
A sense of urgency gripped him, wringing his throat tight. “How much time do we have?”
“No time. They're already here.”
“What!”
“The last phone call I got was from Glasgow and mentioned a helicopter.”
“The last call? What else did you hide from me?”
“George, I wasn't even supposed to warn you at all.”
“I see. We'll talk later. What's going on at the moment?”
“MI6 has sent a team; they must have landed now, not very far from your place; if they're not at your door, they most likely are at the boat house.”
Cowley's heart lurched. Bodie was at the boat house, to try the engine and set the boat afloat. “What did you tell them, exactly?”
“Everything I knew. Look, I couldn't conceal anything from them in my position.”
“What position? You left the services years ago.”
“You never leave the services, George, never completely.”
“I'm wasting a precious time. Bye, Angus.”
“Hold on! What are you going to do?”
“Try to salvage something from this wreck.”
“George, don't do anything foolish!”
“I won't. Bye.”
Nothing was less sure, though. Cowley clicked off the RT. There was little he could do. Save a private telephone number, which was of no use there, he had no means of communication with the only man who had enough clout to thwart the MI6 moves (and who probably wouldn't deem the gain worth the wager anyway). He wondered how far he would have been ready to go otherwise: up to risking the most powerful support he had ever had in his career? Thinking further about it, he decided he didn't want to know. But he knew what he wanted: to take hold of Bodie before anyone else did, and silence him, by any means available barring murder.
It was reluctantly, though, that he retrieved his gun from its cache. Shooting at regular State agents performing a legal arrest was unthinkable; shooting at Bodie was hardly more acceptable, even in case of resistance, but, with the lad at least, just showing him the gun might allow him to get close enough to use another, more effective, weapon if plain words failed. He made sure he had the stun serum device well at hand in the inside pocket of his sports jacket and inserted an extra dose in the container. No handcuffs (they still were in the trunk of his car) but a roll of thin, strong nylon rope; properly used, it would make do.
He spared a few minutes to put on good walking shoes and breeches, then picked up his RT and the light bag he had prepared for the fishing party and left. He took a short-cut he never used, for it was still steeper than the track made by the boat trailer; more a sheep pass than a path, actually.
There was little chance he would be at the beach in time, Bodie could have been abducted already if Angus was right, but he hurried nonetheless. His leg and foot didn't hurt any more, as if they never had. He hardly limped. He was aware he was going on adrenaline. Once or twice he slipped without much damage. A brief wave of pain surged and ebbed. He kept moving, singlemindedly, his attention and willpower focused on his goal. But what was his goal, exactly? For the second time in less than a month, he had rushed into action, not heeding the consequences or having made a plan, without leaving himself a way out...He wanted Bodie; he wanted Bodie safe. Safe and silent, or just silent? This was a shameful thought. This was the inescapable issue of the dilemna. No choice really. At least he could tell himself it was all for the higher good.
The narrow track seemed to stretch out under his feet with every cautious step and every passing second, as if there would never be an end to it. When it eventually and abruptly ended into a clearing, he stopped under the cover of a beech-tree and scanned the surroundings. From his standpoint he could see the perfectly still and level surface of the loch and the clear blue sky above, beyond a barrier of shrubbery that hid the beach and the pier from his sight. Everything looked quiet; too quiet: no bird songs, no rustling through the grass and leaves. Such an unnatural silence couldn't be imputed to a lull in the breeze only: something had disturbed the wild life of the woods, and very recently, though he hadn't heard any shooting or shouting while walking down the last hundred yards.
Gun in hand, as noiseless as a bird-watching cat, he skirted around the line of the front trees and got close to the bushes, standing at the far right edge, where a gap in the branches opened up a broader view, encompassing the boat house and the pier. A first glance told him everything wasn't quite normal: the motor boat was nowhere to be seen; only the old wooden one was there, looking more wretched than ever. All his senses on alert he stood, motionless, for a little while. Nothing. Odd how silence and stillness could be more disquieting than turmoil sometimes. Yet he had to move, and fast. He wouldn't have any cover to cross the beach. Throwing caution to the wind, he headed straight for the boat house.
&&&&&&&
The door of the boat house was slightly ajar. Cowley moved aside, flattening himself alongside the wooden panel. There he stood for a few seconds, his arm outstretched, the gun's muzzle pointing to the chink. Listening intently, he heard a faint noise: like a feeble moaning from the back of the room; indistinct but human, indubitably. Briskly, he opened the door wide and rushed in. Leaning forward, his gun still in firing position, he went for cover between a large metallic cupboard and a stack of cardboard boxes in the right corner.
At this time in the morning, there was enough light inside to see everything clearly. And what he saw startled him; three decades of experience in man-to-man fighting and commando action hadn't totally blunted his ability of marvelling at the sight of sheer prowess: gagged and trussed up like a pair of Christmas geese, there were two men lying on the ground, closely bound to the legs of a massive and heavy workbench. The fishing line that had been tightly wound up round their bodies and kept their wrists tied up high behind their backs was set as a double-loop noose joining their necks together; they couldn't move without strangling each other. Yet the knot was loose enough not to cause any harm if they both kept quiet.
Cowley whistled in overt admiration. Whatever name the lad could be called, fool it wasn’t. If only he could get his hands on just two or three applicants with such skills and resources when he started recruiting his future operatives, he would be a lucky fellow.
A low growl drew his attention to one of the reclining figures. The man who was now glaring at him from below had visibly recovered his consciousness and there even was some sort of recognition in the staring gaze. Cowley bent over and swiftly pulled out a filthy rag from the goon's muzzled jaw.
“Cowley!”
“Don't yell at me, will you? You deafen me. And it's Mister Cowley to you.”
He had the strong impression of having already seen the man, in the corridors of MI6, or body-guarding Willis on some occasion or other. At the moment he was frantic and looked distraught but not in too bad a condition. Cowley repeated the same gesture with the other man, who was slowly awakening, and checked his breathing. He too seemed pretty unharmed. Fine. The lad knew how to measure, and to place, his blows.
“By the way, what are you doing in here?”
“You ask? It's your man, Bodie; he got us by ruse.”
“I can’t compliment you. Besides Bodie's not my man, I've no power or authority over him.”
“You warned him! He knew we were coming; you told him.”
“And how, I beg you? Using homing pigeons? Don't give me more bullshit or I’ll gag you again and leave you nicely tied up on your backs.”
“Don't you dare even think of it, if you value your life.”
Cowley swivelled briskly and faced the newcomer. This one he knew well: Preston, one of Willis’ best and most trusted operatives. Though the man yielded a much better look in his memory. At this moment he was drenched and plastered with mud. He held a gun but his sleeve was dripping onto the weapon. No dire threat. Cowley ignored it.
“Ah, Preston! What happened to you, man? Missed a step? Got too close to the brink? The pier’s that slippery?”
Scowling, Preston sheathed back his useless gun in his soaked holster. He seemed to recognize him belatedly. “You know what happened, Cowley.”
“Mister Cowley, will you? Or Major, if you prefer, Sergeant.”
“You know what happened, Major, repeated Preston, almost tamely.”
Cowley couldn't resist teasing him a bit more. “I take you had a bad encounter.”
“No kidding; he fled away with the boat and my men's arms and ammo.”
“Again I don't compliment you; MI6 training standards are slipping, or you are.”
Preston was indignant. “I'd like to see you in our place: We were under strict orders to get him alive and unharmed at all costs.”
“A paltry excuse for a wretched op.”
“That's rich! You blame us for having failed to capture your own 'protégé'?”
A husky, angry voice sounded behind them. “Could you postpone your explanations for later and just free us, for God's sake?”
The senior agent frowned at his subordinate's insolence and Cowley smiled. “Your turn, sergeant,”
Unthinkingly, Preston reached out to his boot for his dagger and withdrew his hand without it. Another weapon lost, apparently. Sparing him a comment, Cowley held out his own knife to the MI6 officer.
Freed from their bonds at last, the two men told the abridged version of their misadventures, while stretching their sore limbs and gulping much too much of the finest single malt from Cowley's flask.
In short, they had been surprised by the one they intended to surprise. The boat house, the right location for a trap? Yes, providing you were the first in the place, or fast as lightning and moved like a cat; which was not the case. The first man to enter was knocked down; the second was no match for Bodie.
“He was warned!” The, still irate, agent was anything if not stubborn.
“He's got sharp ears! And fast reflexes.”
“Cowley's right,” Preston admitted grudgingly; “they had no means of communication.”
“And how come he arrived so opportunely?”
“We had an appointment for a fishing party.” As unpleasant as it was to answer questions from an underling, he had to provide a cover to Angus. Yet, subscribing to the rule that attack is the best defence, he counter-asked: “And what about your part?”
Preston was understandably reluctant to expose his failure, the more so since he couldn't argue he had been surprised. From his embarrassed and diluted explanations, it emerged that he had posted himself (in the same copse where Cowley had stood for a while) to watch out for the arrival of his target - who wasn't supposed to already be inside - and warn his men of it, then - possibly - stop Cowley (who, according to Angus' pieces of information, was expected to come some time later). When realizing the operation had gone very bad, he had run to the pier, to prevent Bodie from taking the boat. Whatever had happened there, it wasn't a good example of MI6’s much vaunted achievements, though it might be put to Preston's credit that, following orders, he had avoided using his gun. The gun he had retrieved from the silt but, not counting his RT, that was the only thing he had managed to save from the fight.
So, Bodie had now a boat full of gas, two guns and their ammo, two or three daggers, two RT (with little use of them, admittedly) not to mention a supply of food meant for two days and the complete camping gear, including two sleeping bags and a tent, which had been loaded aboard in case they eventually decided to camp somewhere in the woods (another of Bodie's ideas of course).
Cowley strove to hide his glee, in spite of all the difficulties he foresaw for the near future. Now he had some means of pressure on Willis, at least regarding that affair (he was still dreaming of halting the man's steady progress to the top of MI6); he knew that Angus had conveniently schooled the tale he had dished his old colleagues and, last but not least, his admiration for the lad's abilities was blooming. Yet he had no delusion about Bodie's present state of mind and was aware it should be rather a cause of worry than of satisfaction to him.
He turned to Preston: “Is your RT still working? Think we both need to talk to Willis. Now.”
&&&&&&&
The radio-transmitter was working: it hadn't been dropped in the water during the struggle, just on the ground. Cowley wanted to speak to Willis as soon as possible and, at this point, only to Willis: there was still no need to turn to higher authorities, which he had already sufficiently bothered with a relatively minor and partially personal problem (from the, assumable, Minister's point of view). Moreover he had a hunch Willis would be only too relieved not to have to report his failure to the Head of MI6 (an embarrassment Cowley would have relished to witness in other circumstances).
The call was urgent. Cowley remembered the unusual silence he had noticed while standing at the edge of the woods. It seemed that Preston had disturbed the birds and all the little hidden wild life when he had rushed, breaking through the bushes and the undergrowth to pursue Bodie, say ten, twelve minutes earlier? Then the fight had occurred at the pier: two, three minutes? Maybe less. And Preston had been left unconscious, but not for long. However Cowley hadn’t heard any motor noise from his standpoint in the copse ten minutes ago or caught sight of the boat. He thought quickly. The loch wasn't wide; it was one of the smallest actually, and the boat was fast. Bodie was on the other side even then but couldn't have gone too far yet. He might be twenty five minutes ahead of them. There was still a means of catching him up, but only one. He took the RT from Preston's hand.
As expected, faced with the threat of a difficult and humiliating confession to his boss, Willis opposed little objection to Cowley’s plan.
“I want the helicopter on the beach with the pilot and all its equipment, soonest, and I want to be given free hand for 48 hours. I’d bet anything I can bring back the fugitive, docile and cooperating within that time-limit.”
“Into our hands?”
“If he’s sane and sound, and willing, yes. If his mental or physical condition needs medical care, he’ll go back to Repton, under my own, personal, and sole, responsibility.”
This should have sounded ominously like a demand for unconditional surrender to the ears of Willis. but he had not much of an alternative. He needed the man alive and there was little doubt that only Cowley, with the help of Angus, had any chance of achieving that goal in the current circumstances. Finally, they all had been taken back to the initial situation, although in a much worse predicament.
So, some fifteen minutes later, the small black chopper deftly landed on the narrow beach after a short stop at the farm yard and Cowley got on board, welcomed by joyous barks and yaps.
“Ah, you brought Rover with you.”
“Aye, he likes Bodie; could be useful.”
“Could be, indeed.” Cowley wasn’t that happy at Angus’ presence but he needed a back-up, especially with his bad leg, and Angus had a thorough knowledge of the whole area while his was only partial and out of date, plus there was the old man’s perfect command of the dog to take in account. Good idea, the dog, by the way...
“I also took a handkerchief left by Bodie, last time.” It was Angus’ but Bodie had used it, which was well enough for Rover’s flair. Cowley suspected his cousin had done it on purpose, just in case...
The chopper took off, leaving on the ground three very miffed MI6 agents. They now had to get back to the farm on foot, deprived of both their equipment and their mission, not to mention their pride. Preston had kept his useless gun but left Cowley the RT, which - he hoped - could allow him to communicate with Bodie.
The pilot was a technician, not an operative, and looked rather amused by the whole shebang.
“Where shall we go now?”
“Straight across the loch.”
“The north bank of the loch has no beach”, Angus explained, “but there’s quite a large clearing at the top of the hill above, where the trees have been felled down by the tempest, two years ago.”
“Hmm, trunks and stumps are not exactly a good landing place, even for a copter.”
“No worry; it has been cleared since then, to be replanted, but the work hasn’t begun yet. I’m sure you can find a convenient spot to land on.”
The pilot circled the hill, scanning the ground below: the location wasn't ideal but there was room enough for a seasoned professional, which he certainly was.
“I warn you, I have to stay with the aircraft.”
“Of course, no problem: we don’t need you with us,” Angus agreed, in his usual smooth way.
“We need you to wait for us here,” Cowley cut in, crisply, “if we aren’t back within 48 hours, or in case the RT contact is broken, after 24 hours, you’ll alert Preston.”
The pilot made a face: “48 hours with our emergency rations? Sleeping in the cockpit?”
“And what are your emergency rations for? Sleep where you like, the entire glade is yours.”
“It’ll be freezing at night!”
“Don’t you have a sleeping bag?”
“It all comes with the job,” Angus added, smiling graciously.
From the young man's expression, it was plain he didn’t find the game so funny, after all. He considered the two men gloomily while they unloaded their packs: two of the three agents' regulation kits and a few items Angus had brought with him.
“How long since you had to carry a backpack for the last time?”
“Not so long actually,” Cowley grated: what on earth was it with Bodie and Angus, a conspiracy to make him feel old? “I kept attending some of the training sessions for a while after I left the field service, until...
“...until your knee's worsening condition made you unable to continue?”
“Aye”, Cowley admitted, feeling distinctly uncomfortable at the turn of the conversation.
“Do you think you'll manage this time?” Angus sounded genuinely concerned, which wasn’t reassuring.
“I have to!” he snapped, and more composed: “I'll do, if you've done your job.”
“I can't heal it.”
Blast the man; why state the obvious? “I never expected you would!”
“but if you take the medication I've just given you, very regularly every two hours, I can promise the inflammation and the pain will recede enough for you to hold on for the next 48 hours.”
“I'm fine so far. Eh! watch that crazy dog!” Rover was jumping and bouncing all around them like the pup he had been five years ago.
“He's over-excited by the flight. Like any good operative he needs a drive, a purpose, to behave properly. Just wait he'd been assigned his mission...”
Rover sniffed the handkerchief several times, trembling and whimpering, then stood very still in uttermost concentration before he went running in widening circles all around the clearing, stopping and sniffing at every corner and, eventually, sat back on his haunches, looking helpless. Cowley would have laughed if he had not been so strung up.
It took more to disconcert Angus. “Rover is a good dog but he’s not a canine seer; we’re too far from the prey and the wind is blowing the wrong way.”
“And so, what the hell we do now?” Cowley asked with a burst of totally unreasonable anger though he knew the answer.
“Well, we must go downhill and start tracking the man from the place he's left the boat.
“We’re falling behind.”
“There’s no other way.”
“Yes, there is one: I can try to reach Bodie through the RT.” This was something he had thought about when he had borrowed Preston's RT; he couldn't use his own since he didn't know the frequency used by MI6. However he wouldn't make the call in front of Preston and, to tell the truth, wasn't sure that doing it in the presence of Angus would be any wiser...for all sorts of reasons.
All the same, he needed to talk to Bodie...for all sorts of reasons.
The old man tutted: “Too soon, If I read him right, he can’t be in a very communicative mood at the moment. Let's make him sweat a little.”
“As for now, we are the ones who are sweating!”
“You're getting slack, cousin.”
Rover came close to Cowley and shoved a wet nose in the palm of his hand, wagging his tail encouragingly, not a tad affected by his failure. At least, thought Cowley, among the four of us, there's one happy to be there and content with himself.