Out of the Dark, Chapter Sixteen, Part One
Being on sick leave has its perks: I was able to add a bit to my Bodie/Cowley epic! not very thrilling in itself but useful to prepare the next part, which will be more action-laden, I hope.
Fandom: The Professionals
Title: Out of the Dark
Author: Francis Kerst
Pairing: Bodie/Cowley
Genre: Slash
Rating: Adult
Warning: None
Archive: Anywhere
Summary: Chasing Bodie.
Sipping with a grimace a gulp of tepid water from the MI6 regulation canteen, Cowley swallowed a pinch of tiny brownish pills. Angus' repeated claims about his medication's efficiency weren't so much of a boast after all, and the few remaining doubts they both might still have held about his ability to withstand the ongoing trial were definitely unfounded, he thought, while scrambling down the steep slope that led to the only spot on the bank where a boat could have landed on this side of the loch.
The hardly visible trail they were following didn't deserve to be called a path. Scurrying ahead, the dog was cutting them a breach through the thicket of bracken. Angus kept striding close behind at a brisk pace, the old bugger... Eh, bugger he could be, if Churchill's famous words about the Navy's traditions were to be trusted, but old he wasn't, not outside the calendar at least. The passing years and their plights seemed to have slipped on the man's skin and mind without leaving a trace, not counting the scars.
Cowley didn’t lack scars of various kinds and locations and, for many years, he had to fight his body rather than rely on it to achieve his goals. But for the first time since Korea he felt sound and whole, able to move freely, almost nimbly. For a second he wondered if his cousin hadn’t given him some opiate...No, Angus wouldn’t have dared, though...
Soon they reached the place where the boat had been abandoned: a small creek, hidden from all sides but the water. The dog’s flair had been useful this time. Angus gave him a scrap of jerky and a pat on the head. “Good boy, fine job”.
The praise was not undeserved: the boat had been covered with branches and greenery, skilfully arranged as to look natural and without the dog’s help, they could easily have missed it at first. It wasn’t empty, though Bodie had taken with him everything he could cram into or pile up on top of his big rucksack; and that included a sleeping bag and one of those light, small Army tents, where two men could hardly squeeze in and lie down. They weren’t from MI6’s stock but from Angus’ shack: Bodie had insisted on bringing them aboard “in case they’d decide to stay the night in the woods if the weather allowed it” (something Cowley was very resolute to avoid at all costs, even if it had been the mildest in Scotland’s climatic history).
They found one of the Radio transmitters, undamaged, and the second sleeping bag, with a set of well-worn sportswear (Cowley’s idea this time; a fishing party on a boat may easily turn into an unintended aquatic exhibition and make a change of clothes very necessary). Cans of beer had been discarded, probably to give room to more useful stuff in his bag. Somehow he had managed to pack all the food. He wouldn’t lack subsistence for the next two days at least, with or without an extra-supply of game or fish.
Anyway, all that gear made an awful weight to carry, even for a young, athletic chap like Bodie. But, of course, Cowley had good reasons not to doubt the lad’s ability to bear his burden as long as it would take. He never ceased to marvel at the amazing amount of physical strength and resilience his former companion could display when needed. What an outstanding agent he would make if only...No, that thought was ridiculous. The situation had changed dramatically during the last two hours: the man was now a fugitive, suspected of connections with terrorists and susceptible to being charged with resisting a legal arrest by assaulting regular State forces.
“I’m surprised he didn’t get rid of the RTs,” Angus said pensively. “I was so sure that would be his first move I didn’t even try to check his position.»
Neither did I thought Cowley, a bit mortified by his unusual lapse of mind. Damn Angus and his emotion-stirring, brain-befogging potions. He, quite unfairly, retorted: “Yes, you preferred to rely on the dog.”
But Angus was pursuing his own train of thoughts: “At least he could have kept one and destroyed the other.”
“He wanted us to find it. Didn’t know we had the third one.” Cowley didn’t elaborate. He wasn't very keen about telling, even himself, why he was so sure Bodie would wish to communicate with him at some point. Fortunately Angus didn’t ask.
“So why hide it?”
“To save time, I guess; we would have found the boat eventually.”
“In that case, wrong move. This device can give him away, working or not, whole or broken. There’s a homing chip inside.”
“I know it; you know it, but he’s probably not aware of that. It’s not mainstream technology.”
“Aye, you may be right. It must not have reached the African bush yet. Eh, just his bad luck.”
Bodie's position wasn't difficult to pinpoint: he had headed towards the valley behind the hill, following the narrow path that bordered the bank at first, then turning left to take a wider lane through the woods.
Before resuming the chase Angus opened one of the cans of beer. “No hurry, cousin: in this direction there’s nothing for miles and miles but trees, except - not too far away from here - a farm whose owner is a friend of mine. I can ask Bart to warn him,” he smiled thinly, “not to be afraid of a possible stranger’s intrusion and even to give him the warmest welcome if he sees him, while waiting for us to arrive.”
Cowley dismissed the idea. “It won’t happen. He’ll never ask anybody for help, that’s for sure. And he’s aware he’s being hunted down by men with powerful means. Don’t underestimate the man. I’d be surprised if he allows himself to be seen by your farmer. The most likely is he’ll try to steal a car and then some money from a village shop or some empty house”.
“You’re right, of course, I’ll warn him to lock his vehicles indoors, all his vehicles.”
And so he did, using his own frequency to contact Bart. The farmer didn’t show too much surprise, according to the old man’s later report; he had noticed the unusual circling of a helicopter above his head. (And maybe Angus had a reputation among his neighbours too?). He hadn't seen anything suspicious but agreed about the safety measures.
After half a mile Cowley stopped. “Is the farm you told me about close-by?”
“Yes, quite, why?”
“I think you should go there and stay with your friends, I'll keep in touch with you through Bart,”
“You offend me, cousin! I wasn't aware I looked so useless.”
“That's not the point. I'm convinced the only way to reach to Bodie is through talking. He may agree to talk to me, but to me alone. Not sure he still trusts me, probably not, but there's a slight hope of it; not with you: he'd be more stupid than I could imagine him to be if he wasn't able to guess who had disclosed the place and time of our meeting to MI6.”
“Come on, George! We are on the same page here.”
“Not quite. He knows I don't like MI6 and its methods. We discussed it and I was very clear about it.”
“Twaddle! I can't leave you alone to face a madman! You are not in the best of physical condition and he knows that.”
“Precisely! He cannot hold any fear towards me.”
“Neither towards me: he's so much younger, and heavily armed now.”
“Angus, again you don't get my point: it's not just a question of bodily strength or weaponry; he may be wary but he's not afraid of me. Whatever he may consciously think, my take is he cannot believe I would do him any harm.”
“And you won't?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Angus let out a brief laugh. “Methinks, if he's so bright, he'll take this reservation into account!”
“He will. And I'll prevail.”
“Presumption will be your downfall!”
Cowley's mind was made up, however, and Angus knew him well enough not to insist when it was plain the discussion was closed. Good sport, he admitted his defeat.
“Have your way, cousin. Yours, at least, is a clear option; probably better than improvising on the spur of the moment...”
Cowley snorted. “You mean running haphazardly in all directions, like a headless chicken...”
“A little exaggerated, I'd say, but you may have a point there. I thought we could catch up with him eventually, if only because of his extra load. But no; his lead on us seems to be increasing with every minute.”
“I told you he's got uncommon physical and mental resources.”
“I had more than mere hunches about that,” Angus conceded, “I experienced them first hand; the mental resource I mean.”
“The physical is on a par; believe me.”
“I believe you. But what shall we do now? Time is not an issue any more if you are to fix a meeting with him, I suggest you come with me to the farm for a rest and a drink. You can have your chat there. I continue to think it's not a good idea to get in touch with him too soon; he must have some time to get tired and ponder on the situation.”
Cowley hesitated. Going with Angus to the farm could be the best assurance he had the old man wouldn't follow him. “You may be right. We still have to keep to the 48 hours deadline, but one hour makes little difference. Anyway if I can't persuade him to come back with me, the game is over.”
“Over for us but not for MI6.”
Cowley mumbled evasively. He never had been so uncertain about an action plan in all his life but Angus didn't need to know that.
All comments are very welcome. Any exchange of ideas is a great source of inspiration for me. And I wish to finish this never-ending story more than anything else (except restoring my health condition, of course).
Fandom: The Professionals
Title: Out of the Dark
Author: Francis Kerst
Pairing: Bodie/Cowley
Genre: Slash
Rating: Adult
Warning: None
Archive: Anywhere
Summary: Chasing Bodie.
Sipping with a grimace a gulp of tepid water from the MI6 regulation canteen, Cowley swallowed a pinch of tiny brownish pills. Angus' repeated claims about his medication's efficiency weren't so much of a boast after all, and the few remaining doubts they both might still have held about his ability to withstand the ongoing trial were definitely unfounded, he thought, while scrambling down the steep slope that led to the only spot on the bank where a boat could have landed on this side of the loch.
The hardly visible trail they were following didn't deserve to be called a path. Scurrying ahead, the dog was cutting them a breach through the thicket of bracken. Angus kept striding close behind at a brisk pace, the old bugger... Eh, bugger he could be, if Churchill's famous words about the Navy's traditions were to be trusted, but old he wasn't, not outside the calendar at least. The passing years and their plights seemed to have slipped on the man's skin and mind without leaving a trace, not counting the scars.
Cowley didn’t lack scars of various kinds and locations and, for many years, he had to fight his body rather than rely on it to achieve his goals. But for the first time since Korea he felt sound and whole, able to move freely, almost nimbly. For a second he wondered if his cousin hadn’t given him some opiate...No, Angus wouldn’t have dared, though...
Soon they reached the place where the boat had been abandoned: a small creek, hidden from all sides but the water. The dog’s flair had been useful this time. Angus gave him a scrap of jerky and a pat on the head. “Good boy, fine job”.
The praise was not undeserved: the boat had been covered with branches and greenery, skilfully arranged as to look natural and without the dog’s help, they could easily have missed it at first. It wasn’t empty, though Bodie had taken with him everything he could cram into or pile up on top of his big rucksack; and that included a sleeping bag and one of those light, small Army tents, where two men could hardly squeeze in and lie down. They weren’t from MI6’s stock but from Angus’ shack: Bodie had insisted on bringing them aboard “in case they’d decide to stay the night in the woods if the weather allowed it” (something Cowley was very resolute to avoid at all costs, even if it had been the mildest in Scotland’s climatic history).
They found one of the Radio transmitters, undamaged, and the second sleeping bag, with a set of well-worn sportswear (Cowley’s idea this time; a fishing party on a boat may easily turn into an unintended aquatic exhibition and make a change of clothes very necessary). Cans of beer had been discarded, probably to give room to more useful stuff in his bag. Somehow he had managed to pack all the food. He wouldn’t lack subsistence for the next two days at least, with or without an extra-supply of game or fish.
Anyway, all that gear made an awful weight to carry, even for a young, athletic chap like Bodie. But, of course, Cowley had good reasons not to doubt the lad’s ability to bear his burden as long as it would take. He never ceased to marvel at the amazing amount of physical strength and resilience his former companion could display when needed. What an outstanding agent he would make if only...No, that thought was ridiculous. The situation had changed dramatically during the last two hours: the man was now a fugitive, suspected of connections with terrorists and susceptible to being charged with resisting a legal arrest by assaulting regular State forces.
“I’m surprised he didn’t get rid of the RTs,” Angus said pensively. “I was so sure that would be his first move I didn’t even try to check his position.»
Neither did I thought Cowley, a bit mortified by his unusual lapse of mind. Damn Angus and his emotion-stirring, brain-befogging potions. He, quite unfairly, retorted: “Yes, you preferred to rely on the dog.”
But Angus was pursuing his own train of thoughts: “At least he could have kept one and destroyed the other.”
“He wanted us to find it. Didn’t know we had the third one.” Cowley didn’t elaborate. He wasn't very keen about telling, even himself, why he was so sure Bodie would wish to communicate with him at some point. Fortunately Angus didn’t ask.
“So why hide it?”
“To save time, I guess; we would have found the boat eventually.”
“In that case, wrong move. This device can give him away, working or not, whole or broken. There’s a homing chip inside.”
“I know it; you know it, but he’s probably not aware of that. It’s not mainstream technology.”
“Aye, you may be right. It must not have reached the African bush yet. Eh, just his bad luck.”
Bodie's position wasn't difficult to pinpoint: he had headed towards the valley behind the hill, following the narrow path that bordered the bank at first, then turning left to take a wider lane through the woods.
Before resuming the chase Angus opened one of the cans of beer. “No hurry, cousin: in this direction there’s nothing for miles and miles but trees, except - not too far away from here - a farm whose owner is a friend of mine. I can ask Bart to warn him,” he smiled thinly, “not to be afraid of a possible stranger’s intrusion and even to give him the warmest welcome if he sees him, while waiting for us to arrive.”
Cowley dismissed the idea. “It won’t happen. He’ll never ask anybody for help, that’s for sure. And he’s aware he’s being hunted down by men with powerful means. Don’t underestimate the man. I’d be surprised if he allows himself to be seen by your farmer. The most likely is he’ll try to steal a car and then some money from a village shop or some empty house”.
“You’re right, of course, I’ll warn him to lock his vehicles indoors, all his vehicles.”
And so he did, using his own frequency to contact Bart. The farmer didn’t show too much surprise, according to the old man’s later report; he had noticed the unusual circling of a helicopter above his head. (And maybe Angus had a reputation among his neighbours too?). He hadn't seen anything suspicious but agreed about the safety measures.
After half a mile Cowley stopped. “Is the farm you told me about close-by?”
“Yes, quite, why?”
“I think you should go there and stay with your friends, I'll keep in touch with you through Bart,”
“You offend me, cousin! I wasn't aware I looked so useless.”
“That's not the point. I'm convinced the only way to reach to Bodie is through talking. He may agree to talk to me, but to me alone. Not sure he still trusts me, probably not, but there's a slight hope of it; not with you: he'd be more stupid than I could imagine him to be if he wasn't able to guess who had disclosed the place and time of our meeting to MI6.”
“Come on, George! We are on the same page here.”
“Not quite. He knows I don't like MI6 and its methods. We discussed it and I was very clear about it.”
“Twaddle! I can't leave you alone to face a madman! You are not in the best of physical condition and he knows that.”
“Precisely! He cannot hold any fear towards me.”
“Neither towards me: he's so much younger, and heavily armed now.”
“Angus, again you don't get my point: it's not just a question of bodily strength or weaponry; he may be wary but he's not afraid of me. Whatever he may consciously think, my take is he cannot believe I would do him any harm.”
“And you won't?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Angus let out a brief laugh. “Methinks, if he's so bright, he'll take this reservation into account!”
“He will. And I'll prevail.”
“Presumption will be your downfall!”
Cowley's mind was made up, however, and Angus knew him well enough not to insist when it was plain the discussion was closed. Good sport, he admitted his defeat.
“Have your way, cousin. Yours, at least, is a clear option; probably better than improvising on the spur of the moment...”
Cowley snorted. “You mean running haphazardly in all directions, like a headless chicken...”
“A little exaggerated, I'd say, but you may have a point there. I thought we could catch up with him eventually, if only because of his extra load. But no; his lead on us seems to be increasing with every minute.”
“I told you he's got uncommon physical and mental resources.”
“I had more than mere hunches about that,” Angus conceded, “I experienced them first hand; the mental resource I mean.”
“The physical is on a par; believe me.”
“I believe you. But what shall we do now? Time is not an issue any more if you are to fix a meeting with him, I suggest you come with me to the farm for a rest and a drink. You can have your chat there. I continue to think it's not a good idea to get in touch with him too soon; he must have some time to get tired and ponder on the situation.”
Cowley hesitated. Going with Angus to the farm could be the best assurance he had the old man wouldn't follow him. “You may be right. We still have to keep to the 48 hours deadline, but one hour makes little difference. Anyway if I can't persuade him to come back with me, the game is over.”
“Over for us but not for MI6.”
Cowley mumbled evasively. He never had been so uncertain about an action plan in all his life but Angus didn't need to know that.
All comments are very welcome. Any exchange of ideas is a great source of inspiration for me. And I wish to finish this never-ending story more than anything else (except restoring my health condition, of course).