Lost, Stolen or Strayed.
Doyle rinsed his breakfast dishes, and stood them on the draining board to dry. He glanced out of the window. It looked as if it was going to be a nice day weather-wise.
I wonder what we'll be on today, he mused idly. Something new, for they had just completed their last enquiry.
He would be with Bodie today, for his own car was in for a service. He was just waiting for his partner to pick him up.
A 'beep' on his phone alerted him that his mate was here. Reaching for his jacket, he quickly locked up, and hurried down the stairs.
As he got into the car, he picked up the newspaper that Bodie had tossed idly onto the passenger seat, and scanned the various headlines. His attention was caught by one of them.
"Ah," he said, "I see your favourite 'cat-walk' queen has gone missing."
It had made the front page that the tall blonde, Ellie Page had failed to turn up for a prestigious fashion show.
"I expect it's all a publicity stunt," said Bodie, as he started the car and moved off smoothly. "She'll turn up in a week with a big kidnap story, and get lots of media attention."
"Cynic," reproved Doyle lightly, "but you may well be right."
Neither of them gave it a second thought when they arrived at Headquarters, and hurried up to look at the duty roster. What would they be on today ? The notice board merely said report to Cowley, so they went quickly along the corridor, tapped on the formidable office door, and were called in.
Cowley was studying a paper held in his hand.
"I've had a report of sudden increased activity in a small warehouse at area 50 Lansdowne Road," he said. "I'd like you to check and find out why."
"Lansdowne Road," commented Bodie, "That's a bit of a dubious area, isn't it ?"
"Which is why I want you to have a look at it," snapped Cowley. "Preferably straight away !," he added with a glare.
"Yes sir, on our way," said Bodie, hurrying after his partner who was already making for the door.
But Bodie had been right when he called it dubious. It was near some of the oldest docks and in a very run-down area. Several of the bigger warehouses round about had in the past been the scenes of violent raids after drugs gangs.
It didn't take them long to make their way there and to start their enquiries. The local shop was their first stop, and they were in luck, for the middle-aged lady behind the counter was the chatty sort, and a mine of information.
They quickly learned that the warehouse was the base for a small firm owned by a Mr. Dutton, importing coffee from Colombia in South America. They also heard that he was a good boss, employing mostly local people, and paying proper standard wages.
"He doesn't sound suspicious," said Doyle as they returned to their car.
"No," agreed his partner, "but the sudden increase in activity does."
"Do many drugs come from Colombia ?," asked Doyle.
"I expect so," replied Bodie. "Most countries in that area are engaged in some connection with the highly profitable drugs trade."
They took time to drive past the shabby-looking building, which looked ordinary enough.
"Let's come back in the evening," suggested Doyle, "and pay a visit to the 'local' then. That might be the place to pick up some information."
They did just that, and found the local men quite friendly. They craftily managed to steer the conversation round to the changes going on in the warehouse, and very quickly got their answer.
"Oh, that's all down to young Mr. Dutton," said one man, eager to talk about it, "He's just left the Army, to join his father in the firm. The first thing he did was to go out to Colombia, to try to drum up more business. He came back with two new contracts from small growers, eager to find an outlet. It has more than doubled the business.!"
Enthusiastic sounds from some of the men listening showed how pleased they were with this development. Another chipped in with his comment.
"The first deliveries won't be till the end of the month, but Mr. Ted is getting ready by renting more space, and taking on more workers."
Bodie and Doyle were very impressed by these eager revelations, as they answered all their questions. So they were able to call it a day and clear off home, mentally formulating the report they would give their boss in the morning.
Bodie picked his partner up promptly the next morning, and they set off for Headquarters. Doyle reached over to the back seat to collect the newspaper that his partner had tossed there.
"You could buy your own paper," complained Bodie.
"I prefer borrowing yours," replied Doyle cheekily.
"Cheapskate !," retorted Bodie.
Doyle grinned at him as he scanned the pages.
"Anything interesting ?," he asked.
"Nothing special," replied Bodie, "and the horse I backed lost."
"Hard luck," replied his mate.
"Hmm," he said as something caught his eye, "A scientist has gone missing, perhaps defected, from Pirbright, That's where they deal with nuclear waste, isn't it ?." he added, remembering the time from the bowling alley.
Before Bodie could reply, he added a bit more.
"That reminds me," he said, "That cat-walk model you liked. Did she turn up after all ?"
"No, I don't think so," replied his mate. "I haven't seen anything in the press, and she's not back on the cat-walk."
"Probably earning her keep with a rich 'sugar-daddy' somewhere, "said Doyle cynically.
Little did he know how right, and yet how wrong he was.
The following morning, Doyle's report to Cowley was short and to the point, explaining the reasons behind the increased activity in the small warehouse.
Cowley listened carefully, and gave his verdict. "Sounds reasonable," he said, "and requiring no action."
He turned to pick up a paper from his ever-overflowing in-tray. "This may do so, however." he said firmly. "I have received reports of a sudden escalation of arson attacks on shops and storage areas."
"Arson isn't usually our business, is it ?," interrupted Bodie.
Cowley glared at him. He didn't appreciate his plans being questioned.
"I'm making it our business," he snapped, "for there is the suspicion of a well organised racial element."
He handed the paper to Doyle who scanned it quickly before passing it to his partner.
"It's a very dodgy area," Doyle commented. "A lot of nefarious stuff goes on there by all accounts."
"Then you'd better be careful with your enquiries," said Cowley brusquely, dismissing them.
The pair hurried down to Bodie's car. They were still working together as the mechanics had discovered a 'metal fatigue' fault in Doyle's car which would take a few days to fix.
They spent the day making careful enquiries from various sources and learned quite a lot. Apart from a couple of incidents, most of the victims did seem to be Asian and a pattern was emerging which looked as if it might confirm their shrewd boss's suspicion. He would not be happy when they reported that.
Late afternoon saw them walking back to where they had left their car. As they turned the corner, Doyle suddenly gave a shout.
"Look, Bodie there's someone in your car !."
Both charged forward rapidly.
"Didn't you lock it ?," gasped Doyle as they ran.
"In this area ? Course I did," retorted Bodie crossly.
They reached the car and wrenched open the door. They found a couple of lads in there, bending forward as they concentrated on an attempt to 'hot-wire' the vehicle.
Startled, the street-wise youth re-acted very quickly. He swung his legs round, and launched a vicious kick at Bodie. It caught him, as the lad had intended, just where it would hurt the most, and doubled him over in pain. Grabbing his chance, the lad leapt from the car, and took to his heels along the road. Recovering as well as he could, Bodie straightened up and took off after him.
Meanwhile Doyle had gone round to the passenger side of the vehicle, and had dragged out the other youth. Held in a tight half-nelson, he was now sprawled across the bonnet, while his captor went through his pockets.
Doyle found first a nasty-looking flick-knife which he stuck into his own belt, and a very interesting bunch of skeleton keys, with some odd shapes. He put those in his pocket to examine later. He continued rifling the lad's pockets in search of some sort of identification.
He was expecting Bodie to return any minute with the other miscreant in tow. But after a few moments he realised that wasn't happening. Had Bodie lost his quarry ?
He pulled the lad upright and began pushing him in the direction the other two had taken.
Suddenly there was a 'beep' from his radio-phone. With his free hand, he pulled it out and activated it. It was Bodie's voice he heard, sounding a little strained'
"Doyle, get here !," it gasped, "I need some help."
Doyle broke into a run, dragging the youth with him, and rounded the corner. To his great surprise there was no sign of either of the two he expected to see.
But he did see something unusual !
Ten yards up the road, next to the pavement, there was a large fenced-off hole. Evidently there had been some repair work going on there earlier in the day, left to be completed in the morning.
But the flimsy white fence protecting the hole was broken !
The surprise had made him loosen his hold on the lad, who seized the opportunity to wriggle free and make a run for it.
Doyle let him go as he hurried towards the hole. After all, it wasn't as if they would be bothering to make charges against the pair.
He was more concerned about the hole and the broken fence.
He raced forward to find, as he had feared, his mate, Bodie down in the hole.
"What happened ?," he asked anxiously.
"The little blighter tripped me and shoved me against the fence," explained Bodie. "I think I've done my ankle in."
As he spoke, he was struggling to get to his feet. But when he put his right foot to the ground he let out an involuntary gasp.
Doyle leant down and offered a strong arm to his mate. With his help Bodie managed to climb out onto the pavement, but he couldn't put his foot to the ground.
Doyle regarded his friend anxiously. He looked a sorry sight. His once pristine grey suit was now covered in mud and boasted a couple of tears. There was even mud on his face and in his dark hair.
"Let's get you back to the car," said Doyle. He eased his shoulder into his mate's armpit, and with a strong arm round his waist, helped him hop back to the car.
Bodie sank gratefully into the passenger seat. "What a mess," he groaned, "Cowley's going to go mad."
Doyle started the car and set off.
"Where are we going ?," asked Bodie.
"St Richards," replied his partner, "I'll find Simon. He'll help us."
Dr Fenton was a good friend to both of them. He knew who they were and what they did and had treated them both many times.
It was a good move. Doyle found the doctor quickly and explained what had happened. The cheerful man pulled a few strings, got Bodie in by the back door, treated his badly-sprained ankle and helped Doyle clean him up.
"I'll have to send a report to Cowley," he said as he finished, "for you will be hobbling for a week, I'm afraid."
"We are not looking forward to that interview," said Bodie with a grimace, "but many thanks for your help. At least, I didn't have to sit in Casualty wearing all that mud."
They set off, back to Headquarters.
Doyle made a stop at the car pool first. He wanted to check that the two young would-be car thieves hadn't caused damage. While a mechanic was checking, he showed the keys he had confiscated to the head man. Together they tried them on various cars, and were quite surprised by what they found.
Then as they couldn't put it off any longer, they parked the car in the yard and wearily climbed the stairs to report to Cowley.
As they had expected, he was not best pleased !
He ranted on for some while using terms like 'carelessness' and 'stupidity' freely.
"And you're called my best team," he stormed. "After all that's been spent on your training, I would have expected better."
The two listening were somewhat aggrieved. After all, accidents do happen, and they hadn't lost the car
But they remained silent, sticking to their pre-arranged plan to hold their tongues and ride it out.
At last, their fiery boss began to run out of steam. Doyle took the chance to cause a distraction by producing the bunch of skeleton keys.
"I took these off one of the boys," he began, "They are a bit unusual."
The ploy worked. Cowley's interest was caught, and he put out his hand to take them.
"They look home-made," he commented.
"They're not quite the same as ours," went on Doyle, "We tried them on the cars in the pool, and using a bit of force, they opened most of them, but they are no use in the ignition."
"Interesting," said Cowley, "I hope there aren't too many of them about, or we'll have an up-surge in car-crime."
But the interruption had cooled his anger, and he dismissed them almost amiably.
Doyle picked up Bodie early next morning and took him into Headquarters. His mate grumbled all the way, as he was not looking forward to a week on desk duties. Searching through masses of records was not his ideal task.
Doyle dropped him off at the rest room and continued along the corridor to tap on Cowley's door.
He was called in brusquely, and realised straight away that his boss was not in the best of moods. He'd have to tread carefully.
He soon found out the reason for the ill-humour.
His boss came round from behind his desk, and eyed him up and down thoughtfully.
"I have to attend a week-end conference on security," he announced, "At a large country mansion in Dorset. I was going to take Bodie as my driver. As he's laid up, it'll have to be you."
Doyle bridled inwardly at the suggested 'second best', but wisely held his tongue.
"You do have some decent clothes, don't you ?." Cowley asked.
"Course I do," snapped Doyle, irritated, "Just because I choose not to wear them to work."
Cowley turned away back to his desk, and picked up a folder. "Right," he said, "Take the rest of the morning off. Be back here, promptly at 2 o'clock, suitably dressed and with an over-night bag."
Doyle left quickly, feeling slightly miffed at his boss's peremptory orders.
He went to find Bodie, to tell him what was happening, and to warn him he'd need to find someone else to ferry him about.
Bodie' response was surprising. "Lucky you," he said enviously, "A week-end in the country.!. Lots of fresh air and good food."
"Well, I hope his temper improves," said Doyle.
"Ah," said his mate, "I expect he's worried about the conference. I went to one last year. He meets up with people who would like to see the end of C.I 5, and the power he has."
Doyle thought that over and realised it could be true. It eased his attitude. The fierce little Scot could be brusque and almost rude at times, but Doyle would loyally back him to the hilt over the work of C.I.5
"Right," he said, more cheerfully, "See you when I get back. Take care of that ankle."
As he still had the car keys, he used Bodie's car to go back to his own flat. Once there, he had a shower and a change of clothes, choosing carefully. He made himself a light lunch, and washed up the plates.
He took his always ready overnight bag from the bottom of his wardrobe, locked up securely, and left.
He arrived back at Headquarters shortly before 2 o'clock. He parked Bodie's car neatly and locked it up.
Then carrying his bag, he hurried up the stairs to find his partner, to give him his keys back. He found him in Records, already looking a bit bored. He was glad someone else would have to cope with that.
He walked along the corridor towards Cowley's office. As he neared, the door opened and his boss emerged, carrying a neat large holdall.
Doyle stepped forward to take it from him, unwittingly giving his boss a chance to check his appearance.
He was immediately satisfied. With his casual hair-style and slighter frame, Doyle would never look as formal as Bodie, but he was neat and tidy.
They took the lift down to the ground floor and made for the entrance. Cowley's big red Granada was already standing there, with the mechanic who had brought it round standing guard.
Doyle opened the capacious boot and put both bags in. He moved quickly to hold the door as his boss climbed into the back, then shot into the driving seat. He'd driven this car before, so he was quite used to handling it.
He glanced in the mirror, awaiting orders. Cowley was looking at a map.
"Take the best road you can, south-west out of London," he ordered. "I'll give you more detailed directions later."
Doyle started the engine which purred smoothly, well-tuned by the clever mechanics of the car-pool, moved out of the yard and into the busy traffic of London.
Once they had left the city and its outskirts, Doyle was able to pick up speed, and soon they were moving through pleasant countryside.
Relaxing in the back, Cowley began to update his directions.
"The Conference Centre is in a big country house ten miles north of Weymouth," he said. Following sign-posts, Doyle was choosing the right roads, and the big car was eating up the miles very nicely.
"We are not expected until early evening," went on Cowley, "in sufficient time to unpack before the evening meal. So I think we can afford to treat ourselves to a pit-stop. If I remember from last year, there is a very nice little café about two miles further along this road. Look out for it, and pull in there."
Doyle soon spotted the entrance, slowed the big car down, and eased it gently into the small empty car-park.
He was relieved to see that a mini-bus which had been following them for some time, arousing his suspicions, sailed on past and disappeared round the next bend.
Doyle was unarmed. He felt a little uncomfortable about that, but Cowley had told him to pack his gun, but not to wear it. His boss had said that at this particular conference turning up with an armed guard would give a very bad impression. He was keen to avoid that. He had resentment enough.
Cowley climbed out of the car and moved towards the entrance to the small café. Doyle locked the car securely and followed him into the old-fashioned style tea-room.
His boss must have been in a generous mood, as he ordered tea and scones for them both, and settled himself beside the ingle-nook fireplace. There wasn't a fire, but the hearth boasted a decorative artistic display of autumn foliage, all orange and gold.
It was a short but pleasant break, and Doyle caught a glimpse of a gentler side to his usually un-bending boss.
A quick discreet visit to the gents, and both were ready to resume their journey.
Cowley went to the counter to pay the bill. Doyle moved towards the door, feeling in his pocket for the car keys.
Suddenly they were not alone!
The door swung open, revealing two men pushing in, and the leading one held a gun !
Doyle re-acted swiftly. A flying kick took the gun from the man's hand, sending it skittering across the floor. A second powerful kick caught the second man where it hurt most, doubling him over.
Cowley wasn't slow on the uptake either. He made a quick lunge for the fallen gun, hoping to stop it sliding under the nearby table. Unfortunately, the man who had dropped it had the same idea. He cannoned into Cowley's back and the pair of them ended up on the floor. But the heavier man was on top, and had Cowley pinned down, while the gun moved on out of the reach of either of them.
Meanwhile, Doyle's problems had increased as three more men had come barrelling into the small café, one of them wielding a hefty baseball bat.
Not good odds even for someone as skilled and crafty as Doyle. He was battling on, doing all he could. As he swung his arm up to avoid a baseball bat aimed at his head, he took the full force of it on the inside of his wrist. He felt a crack and a vicious pain shot up his arm. He staggered back only to meet with a full-on punch from a clenched fist. It was too much, and he crumpled to the floor, out cold.
Stepping over the prostrate form, one man was helping his boss to rise from the floor and drag Cowley to his feet. And another was retrieving the gun from under a nearby table.
He moved back to stand over Doyle. "We don't need him, do we ?," he asked, pointing the weapon at the helpless unconscious man."
"Stop," yelled his boss, grabbing his arm as he went to pull the trigger. But he was a fraction slow, though he did manage to divert his aim a little.
The bullet caught Doyle at the top of his leg. Fortunately, it was only a flesh wound, but a red stain began to appear, ruining the neat grey trousers.
"You idiot," shouted the leader, "He's an agent, and agents know a lot. We might get extra if we take him along."
He snatched the gun back from the over-eager man.
"Put him in the back of the bus," he ordered and the chastened man hurried to obey. With the help of another man he lifted the limp form and carried it out of the door to the mini-bus now waiting in the small carpark. They dumped him unceremoniously on the bench seat at the back of the large vehicle.
The leader turned to Cowley, now firmly held by two of the gang. "Come along," he said, "we have a long drive ahead of us,"
Cowley was hustled out into the mini-bus, and pushed into one of the centre seats, with a man on either side guarding him. The rest of the gang piled in, the leader taking a place opposite the driver. The engine purred into life, as the driver eased the large vehicle out of the car-park and onto the main road, turning to head south.
Back in the little café all was silent. The little lady who had served tea so nicely, had crouched down behind the counter when the gang had swept in. Scared out of her wits, she was hiding there, trembling with fright, and not knowing what to do. When the sound of a gun-shot had echoed round the room, she had fainted clean away, and subsided limply to the floor. Fortunately for her, the gang had not even noticed her.
Her husband, who had been working out the back in the vegetable garden, wandered in, looking for his usual cup of tea. As he was tired and dirty, he didn't go into the café area, but stayed in the kitchen. Usually, his wife heard him and brought his 'cuppa' in to him.
He'd sat down at the kitchen table, glancing at the daily paper, waiting for her to come through.
When it didn't happen, he was surprised, and then a little concerned. He got up and moved towards the doorway that connected to the café.
As he brushed aside the beaded curtain, he caught sight of his wife lying on the floor behind the counter. He dashed forward, and found her just stirring and trying to sit up. He helped her with his strong arms, and led her back into the kitchen. She was pouring out a torrent of words, trying to tell him what had happened. It took him a while to make sense of her garbled story. But then like the sensible man he was, he sat her down in her favourite armchair, speaking calming words, put the kettle on, and called the police.
Meanwhile the mini-bus was well on its way. When they came to the junction where Doyle would have taken the turning west towards Weymouth, the driver turned his vehicle east, veering towards Poole.
It had not been a silent journey. The gang leader was very pleased with himself, and decided to tell Cowley all about his exploits.
"We are the Retrievers !," he declared, "and just for fun we've all assumed dog's names, I'm Rex, he's Rover, and the rest are Max, Wolf and Shaggy."
He was grinning widely, proud of his wittiness.
"It all began," he went on, "when a certain Mafia godfather stayed at a posh London hotel. He was so taken with the cuisine that was served, that he decided he wanted the chef's exclusive services. He tried to bribe him, but the man didn't want to know. Not used to being denied, he contacted me and some of my mates, and set up the Retrievers. We collected the reluctant chef and he's now working in Sicily, producing his marvellous dishes for the godfather and his family."
Cowley listened quietly. The man was so arrogantly pleased with himself. And indeed, he had made it sound so easy.
"Our next job was that long-legged blonde from the catwalk. A certain very rich sheik paid good money for her, and she is now gracing his harem somewhere in the middle east."
No wonder she was never found, thought Cowley. She would be well guarded there, with little hope of escape, poor girl.
"Our next was that scientist from Pirbright" Rex went on, "That was clever because the rumour got about that he had defected."
This was true. Cowley had had a special report about it appear in his busy 'in-tray'.
"But this is the most lucrative one yet," crowed Rex. "You are very much wanted by the K.G.B., and they are paying very well."
Although he tried valiantly not to show it, Cowley's heart quailed. Falling into the hands of that organization and probably ending up in Siberia was not a pleasant prospect.
Several miles short of Poole, the mini-bus turned onto a side road, and ten minutes later, up the long drive of a large manor house set in extensive grounds.
Cowley was ordered out of the van towards the imposing doorway, which was opened for them by a woman.
He was hustled up two flights of stairs and into a large room at the top of the house. This had evidently not long relinquished its role as a nursery, as it was still fully furnished. There were two large windows, letting in a lot of light, but protected with iron bars across them. There was a large bed, plus a divan, and even a child's cot. Under one window there was a serviceable sink, and under the other a small table and several chairs. A screened off area in one corner no doubt concealed toilet facilities.
Cowley was pushed into the centre of the room to allow the entrance of two of the men carrying Doyle's limp form. They dumped him unceremoniously to sprawl on the divan. mThen they retreated and locked the door behind them.
Cowley had just begun to take stock of the surroundings of his prison, when he heard the sound of the key in the lock.
As he turned toward the door, it opened and Rex appeared, flanked by two of the gang. He was still holding the gun in one hand. He held something out to Cowley. It was a white box with a red cross on the top.
"Use this," he ordered fiercely as Cowley took it, "patch him up. We're sick of lugging him about. If he's not on his feet by the morning, we'll get rid of him, _ Permanently !."
They all departed again, and Cowley heard the click of what sounded like a very strong lock.
Concerned, he turned back towards the figure lying on the divan. How badly was Doyle hurt ? Would he be able to help him sufficiently to prevent the gang killing him out of hand ?
He was startled as the limp figure suddenly sat up, looking remarkably alert and clear-eyed.!
Doyle managed a smile at his boss's surprised face. "I've been 'playing possum'," he explained, "hoping I might learn something useful, and trying to avoid too much notice. But it sounds as if I'd better stop that now."
He'd evidently heard the last words Rex had spoken. He swung his legs round to get up, and became aware of his injury.
"How did that happen ?," he exclaimed, gazing down at the dark-stained trouser-leg.
"One of the gang was going to shoot you," explained Cowley, "but the leader, Rex, diverted his aim. Reckoned you might be of some value to those who had paid for my abduction."
"Did he say who they were ?," Doyle enquired.
"Yes, indeed," replied Cowley grimly, "The KGB !."
Doyle's face hardened. That was not a pleasant thought.
"We had better use this," said Cowley, holding out the first-aid box. "Sit down and let me have a look."
Doyle's hand went to his waistband to loosen it, and it was then that that he discovered to his dismay that the fingers of his right hand wouldn't work properly, and the wrist above was swollen and painful.
With his left hand and Cowley's help, the damaged trousers were eased down, to reveal, surprisingly, a pair of bright scarlet underpants, with the word TIGER emblazoned across them.
"A gift from a lady-friend," explained an embarrassed Doyle. "Only ones I've got. I don't usually wear them."
Remembering his agent's usual garb of skin-tight jeans, Cowley knew this was probably true, but he refrained from making any comment.
He fetched a wet flannel from the sink, and together they eased away the stuck material and bathed the wound. When cleaned up, it showed as little more than a rather deep cut. A pad of lint and some sticking plaster dealt with it quite well.
With his left hand, Doyle eased his ruined trousers back into place. It was a good job that he was becoming more and more ambidextrous.
Comfortable now, Doyle began to explore the possibilities of the room. He strode over to the windows, and with his good hand tested the strength of the bars. Solid as a rock !
Not that it mattered really, for as they were three storeys up, the drop to the ground level was considerable. He looked out at the view. Large stretches of lawn, beginning to look a little over-grown, with clumps of trees and a small wood well over on the perimeter. No sign of close neighbours. The only building to be seen was a far distant farmhouse, with smoke lazily curling from its chimney.
Cowley, meanwhile, was also prowling around, searching for any sign of a listening device. He found nothing of interest, except one very odd item, an old-fashioned speaking tube, which would have enabled conversation between the parents and the nanny without disturbing the children. Quaint !
Doyle crossed over to look at the door. Not much hope there. It looked pretty sturdy, and the lock was a large solid one.
To their surprise, some ten minutes later, there came a soft whistle from the speaking tube, and then a voice.
"We've brought a meal," came the voice. "Go and sit on the bed away from the door or you won't get it."
Deciding it would be better not to be difficult, the listening pair did as they were told.
The door was unlocked and opened. Rex appeared, holding his gun, and behind him two of the gang carrying covered trays. They moved forward and deposited the trays on the small table. Then all three retreated and the door was quickly re-locked.
Cowley and Doyle moved forward to investigate. The covers came off to reveal a very reasonable meal, a small chicken pie with vegetables and gravy., with a couple of fruit yoghurts for dessert. The cutlery was old-fashioned and not very sharp, no use as tools.
The pair were hungry and managed to enjoy the meal, though the small chairs and the low table proved a little uncomfortable, designed as they were for the usual inhabitants of the one-time nursery.
An hour later, the trays were collected, with Cowley and Doyle ordered to stand well away from the door, as before.
Before he left Rex threw a parting remark in their direction. "I suggest you get some sleep," he said, "In the next day or so we'll get our final instructions on where to deliver you. It could mean quite a journey."
There were no longer any curtains at the barred windows, and it was beginning to get dark outside. So it seemed sensible to do as instructed.
Doyle immediately moved over to the divan. He slid off his jacket, folding it neatly, and placing it on a nearby stool. Then he climbed onto the bed and pulled the covers up round himself. He wriggled onto his side and was asleep in minutes, much to Cowley's envy.
As Doyle had evidently elected that his boss should have the big double bed, he turned towards that. He also shed his jacket and climbed in under the big old-fashioned patch-work bedspread.
It was pleasantly warm and comfortable, but sleep was a long time coming to him.
He tried to drive from his mind the nasty prospect of what he might expect once in the hands of the KGB.
Instead he was pondering about what might be going on in the world outside. By now his failure to turn up at the Conference would have been reported, and all of C.I.5's considerable resources would have been called into action.
But was there anything that would give them a clue to where he was ?
He now bitterly regretted his decision to pack his gun and his 'tracker' into his luggage for fear of causing offence at this difficult Conference. They would be found, of course, when his car was located in the car-park of the little café, but they would be of no use there.
Eventually, after having pondered for hours, he dropped into a light doze, but it was far from restful.
Meanwhile, what had been happening elsewhere ?
Murphy had been holding the fort in Cowley's office, fielding any phone-calls, dealing with what he could, and carefully noting and filing all that would have to wait for their boss's return.
Bodie had been pottering about in Records, a task which did not suit him at all. Those who knew him stayed clear of him, knowing that he would he restless and fidgety until he was fit to be out in the field again with his partner.
The first either of them heard about what had happened was a call from the Conference centre, saying that Cowley had not arrived and demanding an explanation. The self-important man speaking was almost rude, behaving as if this had been a deliberate slight by Cowley.
Murphy immediately said he didn't know what had gone wrong but he would find out and report back. He barely had time to put out a call for Bodie to join him in the office, before another call was put through.
This was from the Dorset police. An officer had gone to the little café, and had spent quite a while talking to Betty and her husband, trying to make sense of her story. When he heard that a shot had been fired, he decided this was too big for him to handle, and had called for support.
Soon there were several senior officers on the scene. They found the big red car in the little car-park. It was, of course, securely locked, thanks to Doyle, and told them nothing until the number-plate was sent off to be checked. When the results of that enquiry came back, there was immediate and fast-moving action.
But the local police had very little to go on, or to offer to help Bodie who had immediately got on the phone asking for details.
Betty had only got the merest glimpse of the men, before hiding away. Her husband hadn't seen them at all. All he could offer was that he'd had a quick sight over the hedge of a white mini-bus with a red stripe on the side. He couldn't give them a number-plate as he hadn't seen it. He had noticed that when it left it had turned south, but that was all.
A white mini-bus ? They would start enquiries, of course, but it was hardly a rare vehicle. Not many were privately owned, it was true, but schools, colleges and organisations tended to use them for transport. And there was nothing to give them any help in determining where it had gone or how far. Or even if it was still in Dorset.
Because there were no curtains, it was dawn's early light that woke the two captives, streaming in to light the whole room.
Doyle rose easily, bright and alert. His leg felt much better, but his wrist was still painful, with no strength in his fingers.
Having not slept well, Cowley was still drowsy, and turned over away from the light.
Doyle decided not to rouse him, and went to investigate the toilet facilities. He was able to freshen up a bit, but could do little about the rumpled state of his suit.
After a while, his boss surfaced, and also did his best to restore some of his lost dignity.
Breakfast was served to them, and the dishes removed with the usual customary caution.
As the door lock clicked again and Cowley turned away, he caught a thoughtful look on his agent's face.
"Doyle ?," he questioned and his man responded.
"I'm beginning to think," he began, "that Rex is the only one with a gun. I've seen all the others in their shirt-sleeves, and none of them had a shoulder-holster, or any sign that they ever did. They do leave rub-marks," he explained.
"I think you are right," commented Cowley, "you didn't see it, of course, but Rex was furious when his man picked up the gun he had dropped and fired it. He snatched it back, and shouted wildly at him."
He thought for a moment, and then asked "Does that help much ?."
"Well," replied Doyle, "I'll keep a very close watch on Rex. And if I see the slightest chance of grabbing it off him, I'll be more than ready."
Cowley made no further comment, but vowed inwardly that he would be alert too, and ready to back up any move his man made.
But all through the next long dreary day, the opportunity never presented itself. Meals were served to them, but Rex himself did not take more than one step into the room, and he kept his attention, and his gun, trained steadily on his two prisoners.
Both the captive men were feeling frustrated and bored, but there was nothing they could safely do.
Another long night dragged by.
Though little was happening there, there was plenty of activity in the world outside. Every possible agent was active. Every slightest lead was followed up. Every snout or informer was being badgered for the slightest clue that would give them some hint as to what had become of their leader.
And all over the country, white mini-buses were being stopped and checked. But, of course, with no success, for the one they sought was safely out of sight in the large garage at the back of an isolated country house.
The following morning, breakfast was delivered in the customary cautious way. The dishes were collected and removed, carefully watched by the captives.
No opportunity arose, and the deflated pair resigned themselves to another boring, frustrating day.
Cowley did ask if they might have a newspaper to read, but this was refused by Rex who appeared to be in a surly mood. None of the gang had been out of the house to get a paper. They had been keeping a very low profile.
Doyle went to gaze out of the window, not for any good reason, just for something to do. He swung round as he heard the sound of the door being opened again.
Rex stood in the doorway, gun in hand, and with two of the gang close behind him.
But his mood had changed dramatically !
He was now smiling cheerfully, as he made an announcement.
"Delivery Day," he exclaimed excitedly. "today we hand you over, and collect our money. We'll be on the move in half an hour."
Then he was gone again. Doyle and Cowley exchanged looks. This was it then. They must be ready to grab the slightest chance that was offered. Once they were in KGB hands there would be no further opportunities. They were much more efficient than this amateurish gang.
Twenty minutes later, the door swung open again. This time all five of the gang were there, fully dressed and obviously ready to travel. With Rex, holding the gun firmly, overseeing the procedure the rest moved in to grab their prisoners.
Wolf, whom Doyle had guessed was the most violently inclined, and with a strong sadistic streak, deliberately grasped Doyle's injured wrist. The pain this caused was excruciating, but Doyle employed all his self-control, and did his best not to give the man the satisfaction he wanted. He managed not to make a sound.
With a gang member either side, holing on tightly, the pair were hustled out of the room and down the two flights of stairs to the front door.
Rex followed, still brandishing his gun, and slid open the door of the white mini-bus pulled up there.
The pair were roughly thrust inside. Doyle was pushed into the seat behind the driver. The man had relinquished his hold on Doyle to slide into the driving seat.
"I want you where I can see you," snarled Rex, waving the gun recklessly in his direction.
He's not used to handling a gun, thought Doyle to himself, which makes him doubly dangerous, as he might well do something stupid by accident.
Cowley was pushed into a seat in the middle of the bus, with a gang member close on either side of him, and the last one in the seat behind.
Rex opted for the front seat on the passenger side, but was sitting in it sideways so that he could keep an eye on all the other occupants.
Before he sat down he slid the door closed and nodded to the driver, who immediately turned the ignition key under his hand.
The mini-bus moved off smoothly, making its way down the drive and out onto the road.
As it picked up speed, Cowley's good sense of direction told him that they were travelling north.
How far back towards London were they going, he wondered ?
Had anyone at the café or in that area noticed the white mini-bus that had spirited them away ?
If they had, his men would have immediately put out an APB on it, and all over the country, they would be looking for it.
Was there a chance that someone might spot it and alert the police. ?
But although he pondered all these questions, he had no answer for any of them.
Shaggy was a good driver, and the minibus moved smoothly along narrow country roads with little traffic. After a while they got onto busier roads, and Cowley began to see signposts giving directions and distances to Salisbury. Was that their destination ? Or were they going further ?
And Rex who could be chatty and informative, was unusually quiet and tense. He's worried about this handover, thought Cowley to himself. As are we, he added, the apprehension about this returning.
They were travelling along a quiet country stretch, with only fields and woods on either side. The traffic was light. For the moment not another car in sight. Then from round a far corner, a small red car appeared coming towards them on the other side of the road.
But as it got nearer it became clear that something was wrong. The little car was weaving from side to side randomly, almost into the hedge one side and then straying well across the central line into their path.
It was clearly desperately out of control !
Uncertain what to do Shaggy attempted to slow the pace of the mini-bus. But his reaction was not quick enough !
The small red vehicle swung right across the road and was hurtling head-on towards his vehicle.
Shaggy's re-action was instinctive. He swerved left to get out of its way. But he hadn't checked where he was heading.
The mini-bus mounted the grass verge, cannoned into a dilapidated, rotting fence, and plunged head-long into a deep, steep-sided ditch !
It ploughed along the ditch on its side, finishing with a sudden jolt as the front hit the remains of an old stone wall.
Without exception all the occupants were toppled from their seats to land hard against the passenger side windows as the vehicle came to rest tilted at a steep angle.
The driver, Shaggy, came off worst as he fell the whole width of the vehicle to land heavily in the stairwell of the two entrance steps. He now lay in a crumpled heap there, still and unmoving.
The man in the back seat had hit his head on the side window hard and had been knocked cold.
Cowley had come off best. Cushioned between the two gang members, he had been crushed but hadn't hit anything, so was uninjured. He was already moving, struggling to free himself from the awkward weight of the man who had fallen on top of him. He also was unhurt but seemed a bit dazed and confused. So he succumbed quickly to a swift karate chop, and was pushed back on top of the man lolling in the back.
Doyle, quickly alert, had done best of all. He had been pitched towards Rex, who, having been sitting sideways, had fallen backwards, hitting his head hard against the window behind him. The man was dazed but not unconscious, but sufficiently out of it to allow Doyle to achieve his objective.
His good left hand shot forward accurately to snatch the gun from Rex's limp hand. Then, hooking his other arm round a rail and bracing his feet against the edge of the seat, he was able to pull and push himself upright so that he was leaning against the seat he had just vacated, and was holding the gun firmly to cover Rex and all the recovering gang members.
"Well done, Doyle," said Cowley, very relieved at the change in the situation.
Suddenly, there came a tapping sound. Looking past Doyle, Cowley could see the figure of a man, who having scrambled down the bank of the ditch, was leaning on the side of the fallen vehicle. The man reached a little further and found that he could grasp the handle and open the driver's door. A blast of cold air swept in as he leaned into the opening.
"My brother's gone along to the phone," he said excitedly. "We'll soon have some help."
"Sir," interrupted Doyle, speaking to Cowley, "If you can come past me carefully, I think you could climb up over the driver's seat and get out."
"Good idea," said his boss, "then I'll call for some real back-up. Can you hold this lot for a bit ?."
"No problem," replied Doyle. He glared at the group before him. "I don't think any of them will try anything. I could hardly miss at this range !."
Cowley thought it would be a good idea to intimidate the gang further, so he added a parting shot. "He's a crack shot, and just as good with his left as his right. So don't upset him."
Then he turned his attention to carefully making his way round Doyle, avoiding the gun by ducking under it, and up into the fresh air over the driver's seat. He found a great many unorthodox foot and hand holds to assist him, and was soon grasping the helping hand of the man outside, reaching eagerly to his aid.
The pair then scrambled up the muddy bank and back onto the road. The man's car was standing there. He explained that he had seen what had happened from some distance away, and had immediately come to see what he could do. His brother had run back along the road to a phone box, to call out the emergency services. They should soon appear, he thought, depending on how far they had to come.
As he was speaking there was a loud roar, and a speed-patrol motor-cycle pulled to a halt beside them. But when Cowley stepped forward to meet him, producing his I.D. and explaining what was going on, the officer realised that this was too big for him to handle alone. He quickly got onto his radio and called for senior back-up.
Meanwhile, Cowley, who had been in a better position than Doyle to see it, explained to the patrol-man how the accident had been triggered.
"This little red car, which had been swerving all over the road, came at the mini-bus head-on, causing the driver to swerve instinctively," he explained.
He turned to look back down the road. "It has probably crashed somewhere down there," he suggested.
He was right in this supposition. The car was found as soon as the police were on the scene, crashed into a roadside tree. The woman driver was dead, not surprisingly, but it was later discovered by autopsy that she had had a severe heart attack.
The scene soon became one of increased activity as vehicle after vehicle arrived, an ambulance, a fire-engine, and following the patrol-man's urgent call, several cars with senior police officers. All had come from Salisbury, which was less than ten miles away.
Cowley met the police officers and produced his I.D., which commanded him immediate deference and respect as he explained the details of the situation.
"My man is holding the gang at gun-point," he said. "One of them is injured, and my man has an injured wrist. They won't be able to exit through the driver's door as I did."
"That's all right, sir," interrupted the senior fire officer, "As soon as we saw the position of the vehicle we decided to cut an exit in the back panel. My men are getting the equipment into place now."
"The men are criminals, and must be taken into custody," said Cowley.
"That's sorted too, sir" said the police inspector in charge. "The police van will be here any minute, they are not so fast as us," he explained. "They'll go straight to our cells at Salisbury Headquarters. If the injured one needs hospitalised he will have an officer with him."
Cowley nodded, well pleased with the efficiency of the help he was getting.
"And I suggest we take you there too, to give you access to our good communication facilities." continued the officer, "No doubt you will be anxious to contact your Headquarters in London."
"Yes, indeed," replied Cowley. "If only to call off all the expensive searches that will have been going on."
Down in the stricken mini-bus, Doyle was keeping a careful eye on the gang members, though none of them were showing any sign of attempting anything. It was as if this disruption of their plans had thrown them completely, and they were accepting that it was all over.
He had no idea what was going on up on the road, but he had complete faith in his fiery little Scottish boss. As soon as he identified himself, there would be immediate action, he knew, so he was content to wait.
Soon he became aware of activity outside, at the rear of the vehicle. Out of the corner of his eye he could see uniforms.
Then came the sound of something mechanical starting up, followed by the strident noise of metal being cut, and he realised that an exit route was being made for them. That was good, for although some of the gang might have been able to clamber out as Cowley had done, he would have found it difficult and it would have been impossible for the injured Shaggy. Doyle was concerned about the injured driver, for he hadn't stirred since he had fallen. He hoped he wasn't dead, killed by the fall.
Soon a large panel had been cut and wrenched open. There was quickly a great deal of activity.
First a medic climbed in, scrambled past the gang members and gave his full attention to the form lying in the stairwell.
Then one by one the gang members were grabbed by policemen, helped out and up the steep bank of the ditch. They were then all loaded into the waiting police van, though from his position Doyle couldn't see that.
A couple more ambulancemen climbed in, bringing a stretcher. Doyle watched as they carefully lifted Shaggy onto it, and carried him out of the back of the vehicle and up the bank.
A police officer climbed in and approached Doyle. He held out his hand as if to take the gun Doyle was still clutching.
"Shall I take charge of that, sir ?," he asked politely.
Doyle was suddenly fully alert again, now that it was all over.
"No thank you," he replied, slipping it into his pocket, "My boss will want to have it investigated, to find out where they got it from."
With a helping hand from the officer he clambered out of the back opening and climbed the bank. He moved to join Cowley who was standing conversing with several senior officers.
Cowley immediately turned to look at his agent, and seemed satisfied with what he saw.
"We're going to Salisbury Headquarters," he told him. "I'm hoping to get a helicopter to come for us. I want to get back to London as fast as possible."
"What about your wrist ?," he asked, "Do you need to go to the hospital where they are taking the injured man ?."
"I've managed so far," said Doyle quickly, "I'd sooner wait till we're back home."
Cowley nodded. It would be better than having to leave him behind.
A short drive in a police car took them to the main Salisbury Police Station. Cowley was instantly given access to a phone. He made several calls to London, and succeeded in his request for a 'chopper', a much better option than a long drive.
While they waited for its arrival, they were served with very welcome refreshments. Sitting in the basement canteen, they made the acquaintance of several senior officers, curious to see the 'legend' that was Cowley, Head of C.I.5. Doyle was secretly amused by their almost reverential attitude to his boss.
A couple of hours later saw them safely back on home ground. They had been met at the 'helipad' by several very relieved agents, headed by Murphy, Bodie and Jax.
Cowley was immediately back in charge, sharply issuing order after order.
Bodie greeted his partner with a wide grin, which faded as he spotted the dried blood-stain on the grey trouser leg.
"You are injured, mate ?," he asked anxiously.
. "Nothing to worry about ," replied Doyle.
But Cowley had heard this conversation, and remembered his man's other injury. As Bodie still couldn't drive, he immediately ordered Jax to take Doyle to get it looked at.
Jax obediently took him to St. Richards, where he was treated by his friend Dr Fenton. He emerged later rather disconsolately with a sling supporting a neatly plastered wrist.
Jax drove him back to Headquarters. "We collected Cowley's car," he told Doyle, "so we've got your over-night bag. I've been told to collect it and then drive you home."
Great, thought Doyle to himself, a good night's sleep in his own bed would make him feel much better, though the prospect of not being able to drive for a while was disappointing.
Next morning Doyle climbed the stairs to the rest room, where he found his partner busy making a cup of tea. Bodie grinned and reached for another mug, pleased to see his mate, back in his usual clothes, looking pretty good, apart from the sling and the white plaster.
Doyle took the proffered tea and carried it to sit down at the table.
"We're a right pair, aren't we ?," he said, "neither of us able to drive, so we are stuck at base for a while, you fiddling about in Records, and me with a report to file, which I can't write."
"I thought you were ambidextrous," said Bodie, joining him at the table.
"Getting that way with lots of things," replied his friend, "but not with writing, I'm afraid, not yet."
"Oh," exclaimed Bodie, "I suppose that means you want me to write it for you ?"
"No way," retorted Doyle cheekily, "not with your horrible hand-writing !"
Bodie pretended to look affronted, but secretly he felt elated. He'd missed his mate's friendly banter, even though it had only been a few days. Maybe that was because he had had a secret fear that he might have lost it for ever.
"No," continued Doyle with a smile, "I've been assigned a pretty secretary to do that for me, and to type it up nicely."
"Oh, which one ?," asked Bodie/
"Don't know yet," replied Doyle.
"Then how do you know she's pretty ?," demanded Bodie.
"Well, they all are, aren't they ?," retorted his partner' "You should know, you've 'chatted up' most of them."
And the pair exchanged grins, both very glad to be back together again.
.