Doyle heard a knocking on the door. He tensed. The knocking continued. It was gentle but persistent. Doyle reached for the walking stick Bodie had given him. It wasn't much as a weapon, but it was all he had. He couldn't withstand another beating. The Flak had nearly killed him last time. It had been a warning. If they'd wanted him dead they could have done it there and then. He had waited till he'd heard the car fire up and they were gone - leaving him barely conscious and bleeding in the town square. When he'd felt it safe to move, like a wounded animal, his instinct had told him to head for home. The Flak knew where he lived, and they could still have been lying in wait for him there for a second helping, but he was past caring by then. He didn't go straight to a mate's house. He didn't want to endanger them more than necessary, so he'd lain alone in his flat for several days before he felt it safe to get help. Now here the Flak were again at his door - or were they? The Flak didn't knock; they just blew the door down like the Big Bad Wolf. So Doyle dragged himself painfully to his feet, using the stick as an aid, and as a weapon once he got to the door and raised the cane above his head. He peered through the spy hole and saw a pair of terrified eyes staring at him. He lowered his stick and let the man in. It was his friend, Olssen. He was Danish and had helped to smuggle allies across the lines to safety. The lines often shifted, as did alliances. It was a dangerous game. Doyle, Olssen and too many others had suffered by trusting the wrong people, or been betrayed. Olssen slid quickly into the apartment. He was shocked by Doyle's battered appearance. He automatically began to ask what had happened, then stopped himself. It was obvious, and questions were dangerous things. Instead he announced:

"Terry's been caught."

Terry was one of their trusted allies. Although he was as committed to the cause as any of them, it wouldn't take interrogators too long to force any information out of him. Doyle and his associates didn't blame anyone for talking under interrogation. They understood that even a hero couldn't hold out forever. Doyle and Olssen also knew that, since Terry had been captured, the Flak would be on Olssen's tail quite soon. Terry didn't know about Doyle, but if Olssen where later captured … and so the chain would begin to unravel. Bodie and Green were also in the cell, but that was as far as Doyle knew. The cell could be a lot bigger, and was almost certainly attached to other cells, but that was too dangerous an amount of information for one person to hold. Olssen needed to get out and fast before they caught up with him. It had been risky to contact a cell member, but he hadn't known that Doyle had been badly injured. It had been a mistake to come here. Clearly the Flak knew about Doyle.

"Wait a moment," he said, limping to the bedroom.

Olssen stood uncertainly in the hall as he heard a short conversation on the phone. Then he watched his friend emerge a few moments later and go into the kitchen. Olssen was surprised that Doyle came out clutching an empty milk bottle.

"Let's go," he said. His friend didn't need telling twice.

Olssen was even more surprised that Doyle put the bottle out as though he were expecting the milkman in the morning. He didn't ask about such a mundane action. Information was a dangerous medicine. Maybe Doyle just wanted to give the impression he was still around. However, the bottle was a signal to a chosen few. A bottle on the left of the doorstep told a special friend who may come looking that the agent had left of his own free will and was expecting to come back; to the right of the door, and the agent had gone into hiding and was on the run. The bottle was placed carefully to the left.

Despite Doyle's injury, they backed and doubled backed on their journey till even Olssen was getting disorientated. If the Flak were tailing them they were good, and Olssen didn't think they were that good. His friend's breathing was painful to listen to, and the dragging of his left leg was becoming more marked. Out of the darkness, the river suddenly emerged. That, it seemed, was their destination.

"I thought we were going to my Embassy," the Dane said. "The Flak can't get me there."

"Dream on," Doyle whispered into the darkness. "The Flak have been tearing up the rule book for months. I haven't time to …"

But Doyle was cut off as they heard rapid footsteps approaching. They pressed themselves harder against the building and the footsteps passed by at a brisk pace. It was a man out of uniform. Could be Flak, could be an innocent resident trying to avoid the curfew. Once the footsteps had faded from their hearing, and waiting a bit more after that, they emerged and continued on their way. Doyle led Olssen to some crates waiting for storage in the morning. They could see the marina more clearly from here without being seen themselves. Olssen threw Doyle a quizzical look.

"You're going back to Denmark, Franc. Even the Flak can't get you there."

Olssen wanted to argue but knew Doyle to be right. He couldn't operate as a saboteur or help to get civilians across the line if the Flak knew him by name and by sight. He was a busted flush now and a liability.

"And you? It seems that the Flak know about you, too, Ray."

"This is my home, Franc. I've nowhere else to …"

"Come with me and wait out the war there. You've done more than …"

"No. I can still operate here. This is still my country -"

"… right or wrong?" Olssen finished for him.

Doyle smiled and turned his attention back to the marina. He would have liked nothing more than to get to a neutral country and stay with his friend's family on a Danish farm looking at nothing more harmful than a heard of Friesian cows, but his job was here; his life - and death - was here. Doyle's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of several vehicles approaching at high speed. The brakes were slammed on and the occupants got out noisily. The Flak had arrived and wanted everyone to know it. They shouted at the captain of a ship that was preparing to leave and, eventually, a gangplank was lowered and the Flak went aboard. Doyle and Olssen could see, even in the dark, that papers were being demanded and shown.

"Were you thinking of putting me on that? I could get on board after the Flak have left, eh?"

Doyle shook his head. "The Flak don't leave Franc. They stay with the ship until it reaches the open sea and then a motor launch sets off for them and then, and only then, do they disembark. They don't want the likes of you sneaking aboard as soon as their back's turned. It makes them cross!"

Olssen smiled in the darkness. Trust Doyle to try to make light of this dreadful situation. He didn't ask his pal what they were doing here then if getting aboard that Scandinavian vessel wasn't on the cards. He waited patiently alongside his friend. His trust in him was complete.

After some time the ship pushed off. Doyle was right, the Flak didn't get off. Doyle saw the sailing as a sign. He moved off, Franc automatically following in his wake. They sneaked along the quayside for a while, ducking behind any piece of equipment they could find to give them cover, then Doyle paused. His breathing had been getting worse and Olssen was wondering how much longer he could hold out. However there was no alternative but to keep following this casualty of a civil and awful war. Doyle gave the signal for Olssen to hold back. He carefully laid down his stick and made his way slowly and silently down the steps to the river itself. There was a muffled thud and then a sharp, short whistle. Olssen hoped that was a sign and moved forward. He tentatively got down the stairs and found a body laid on the middle step. He did his best to step over it without falling in the river. He awkwardly got in the rowing boat that clearly had belonged to the dead man.

"Who's the corpse?" Olssen whispered, his curiosity overtaking him.

"Hopefully not dead, but just a bit bruised," Doyle whispered back and took the oars. He filled in more detail with each forward stroke that got him closer to Olssen's face for a fragmented, hushed conversation. "A friend … " outward row; inward row, "He didn't see me…. The less he knows the better … The tide's going out … so he'll be alright as long as … he doesn't move too much and … even if he falls in he … the cold water will wake him."

The oars whispered on the water with each soft, gentle stroke. Doyle was keeping to the side to avoid noise and to stay in the shadows. Olssen knew that even if Doyle were an Olympic rower, he couldn't catch up with the ship now and even if he did, the Flak were still on board and would see them once they hit open water - unless Doyle had a powerboat to hand somewhere. It wasn't so far-fetched given Doyle's resourcefulness. He trusted his mate to the ends of the earth, but even he could hear Doyle's pain on each stroke.

"Let me take over, Ray, you're done for."

"Says who? Nearly there …"

Doyle had renewed his efforts at the oars. Olssen felt that Doyle was trying to prove to him that he could still row despite his injuries - whatever they were exactly. However, a searchlight came into view as they neared the harbour entrance.

"Tell me when we get onto the lights," Doyle whispered.

Olssen watched as the beam swept behind his friend across the river almost to the other bank. It grew larger and more frightening as they approached. Olssen held out until the last moment as Doyle gave the boat his all.

"Now," Olssen mouthed.

Doyle hoisted the oars and leaned forward, flattening himself as much as his injuries would allow. Olssen automatically followed suit, and the boat whispered under its own momentum underneath the searchlights. As soon as they were clear of it, Doyle and his partner unfolded themselves slowly and the rowing resumed. Another five minutes and Doyle stopped again.

"Do you want me …"?

But Doyle shook his head. "Wait," was all he said.

Olssen watched the Scandinavian ship increasing its distance from them. He then heard the sound of a motor launch heading towards the vessel, as Doyle had predicted. There was no way though that they could catch up with the ship once it was free of Flak. He had no choice but await developments as their little craft bobbed in the silent shadows. He felt very exposed. Doyle, though, seemed to know what he was doing. There was a confidence in his battered body.

Five cold, damp minutes later Olssen saw a coal barge drift past them in the dark. He hadn't even heard it. Their little rowing boat was tossed about in its gentle wake.

"Transport," Doyle said, nodding towards the vessel.

Olssen grinned. Doyle had pulled a rabbit out of the fire again. His friend passed over the oars. It seemed that he'd reached his limit. Olssen was more than relieved to take them. He tried to be as quiet as his friend had been at the rowing, but was not as adept. He hadn't rowed since college days. They moored alongside. It seemed that the captain was expecting them and he and some of his crew handed down to them. Olssen grabbed at the nearest hand and was hauled up the side. It seemed wrong - very wrong - to leave Doyle behind. He turned back and wanted to give his own hand, but Doyle was already pulling away. He and the crew watched the little, fragile rowing boat get smaller and smaller as the collier put increasing distance between them. One day I'll come back for you, Ray, Olssen thought sadly as he was given a mug of strong tea in the galley. This war won't last for ever. Just hold on, friend. I'm coming for you.