Author's Note: I'm a big fan of the Lois/Superman/Clark love triangle of Superman lore. This stage of Clark and Lois's relationship is so wonderfully fraught with double-meaning, and hidden agendas, and subtext. With this story I wanted to have a bit of a poke and a prod at its expense. The story is set in the ill-defined hinterland between the first movies of the movieverse and the events of Returns, although it's something of an homage to things like LnC, the Animated Series, and, latterly, (huzzah!) Smallville, in that the episodic nature of those shows allows the triangle to breathe in a way the movieverse doesn't.

It's a straightforward two-parter and the second part should be up very shortly. I had enormous fun writing it. As ever, I hope you enjoy it too.

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, I just borrow them off DC for fun!

Roman Holiday

Part I

He waited until the sun had dipped below the skyline and he was hidden by darkness before he began to work his way down to her floor. City noises carried up from the street- the disharmony of car engines push and pulling away, vendors closing up and going home, in the distance, police sirens. It was a warm, moonless, evening and she had left her window open on the latch. A summer breeze tugged gently across him and stirred the drapes which only half-covered the scene inside the apartment. It had been a while since he'd last done this, and the harness felt tight. He concentrated and kept very still.

He watched. Marvin Gaye was starting up on the stereo as she came back into view slinking towards her bedroom mirror. Let's Get It On. She dipped and moved in time to the sliding wah-wah notes of the melody. She had changed again. This time out she was wearing a long silk robe so it was impossible to tell what was underneath. With her hips swaying side to side and her thick, dark brown hair down, and tumbling over her shoulders, she was quite a sight. He smiled a greedy, nicotine-stained, grin.

Empty boxes, pieces of tissue wrapping and more items of clothing were strewn carelessly over the floor and the end of the bed. She'd had a busy day, he recognized the labels of the big name stores and brands on the oversize shopping bags; Prada, and Zara, and Kiki's on Sixth. And Victoria's Secret, of course.

And there was one bag from somewhere called 'Bedside Manners'.

She stopped just in front of her reflection, lifted her chin and inhaled deeply through the nose. "Smells good, doesn't it?" Long lashes flickered open. "It's my own special recipe. Perhaps you'd like to come inside and try it?"

Her hands hovered at the tie of the robe and he felt himself holding in his breath. One delicate tug and the robe came loose. The smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. Well, well. A pale pink negligée trimmed with black lace. And those legs. Jesus. They went on forever. He lifted the camera, finger working silently on the shutter. He was only here because Eddie was better suited for grunt work and Kent's apartment had been empty.

Sometimes, you just luck out.

---

Two hundred years ago, when the house was new and full of dinner guests, Solomon Zebediah Wayne would repair to this room so that the men could talk, and smoke tobacco, and drink cognac out of tulip-shaped glasses.

Now the great fireplace remained dark and unlit. Instead, long bar room lamps hung low illuminating the leaf-green surface of a large pool table, an oak-paneled countertop with taps had been installed, and, underneath, shiny refrigeration units stocked ice-cold bottles of beer.

But Solomon's great-great-great grandson used the room for much the same purpose.

"A Caesar shift?" Bruce took one swig and set his bottle on the mantelpiece again. "Old school."

"It completely passed me by. I was all for running DES variations. Lois noticed the pattern."

Bruce eyed his friend. "Lois, huh?"

Clark wasn't looking at him. In flannel shirt and jeans, he was leaning against the bar, one leg crossed over the other. His cue stick rested in the crook of his folded arms. "She's good with numbers," Clark said. "Like, Rainman good. Faces and numbers." He smiled to himself, "She says it's an army thing." He shrugged, "Anyway. It wasn't the code that was the problem. That was just the start. We were sat at our desks until it started to get light again, running different number combinations through MapServe for crying out loud." He shook his head. "Talk about a needle in a haystack."

Bruce lined up a shot. "Yeah, I'm sure it was a real chore." His elbow flicked and the blue two disappeared into the corner pocket. He drew himself back up and Clark watched him move around the edge of the table. "You and the lovely Miss Lane... Working late at the office... The wee small hours of the morning... Together..." As Bruce leaned forward to make a bridge with his hand he didn't quite Groucho Marx his eyebrows but the implication was apparent regardless; "Alone."

He missed the shot. Clark just sighed. "I think she said two things to me that were non-work related all night; 'No milk, no sugar, right?'" One of Clark's eyebrows lifted, "Which is actually wrong." He exchanged places with Bruce at the table. "And 'I have to go pee.'" He bent forward. A carefully judged banked shot rolled the striped red ball into the opposing center pocket. "Romance was truly in the air."

Grinning, Bruce took a sip then dabbed his mouth with the back of his hand. "So what happens next?"

"The story?" Clark straightened. "She wants to find out if we're right."

"What are you going to do? Batter the door down and raid the place?"

Clark eyed Bruce with a wary smile, "If she had her way." The butt of his pool cue tapped at the floor. His index finger pointed. "There's a another unit right next door. Empty. We're going to set up a listening post. Strictly surveillance."

While Clark positioned himself for another shot, Bruce rubbed at the back of his neck. "You're playing a very dangerous game, my friend." He tilted the tip of his cue to point it at Clark. "From what I hear, these guys aren't smalltime."

Clark turned to him. "You hear anything else?"

"That they have friends in high places." Bruce tilted his head. "Or low, depending on your point of view, I guess."

Clark's eyes narrowed. "Luthor?"

Bruce shrugged.

"I never would have pegged him for drug running."

"It's a bear market, Clark. People follow the money."

Clark chucked one cheek philosophically. "I guess jail-time isn't the obstacle it once was to pursuing one's dreams of megalomaniacal criminality."

They switched places again. "People follow the money."

Clark rocked on his heels. "Do you think we should back off?"

Bruce was thoughtful. He leaned against his pool cue. "Just don't let her get into anything too dangerous."

Clark fixed a noncommittal gaze back at his friend. "That's some great advice, Bruce. Really helpful. What are you going to ask me to do next? Thread sunlight into gold? Catch a moonbeam?"

Bruce absently scratched at the five o'clock shadow on his cheek. In sympathy, he mused, "I guess she does strike me as kind of single-minded."

"She's-" Clark broke off. A dreamy look had stolen, unbidden, into his eyes. He blew out a breath and returned to the room, "Like no one I ever met."

From his position, low on the table, Bruce growled, "She's a total fox, that's what she is."

Clark was shaking his head.

Another ball disappeared out of sight. "So!" Bruce chirruped. Dropping his voice, he maneuvred himself to try and tee up a particularly tricky angle. "Have you kissed her yet?"

Clark shifted weight one foot to the other. "Not exactly."

"What does that mean?" Bruce swung his elbow loose, concentrating, shadowing the stroke before playing it.

"Well. It's complicated."

Bruce made the shot and straightened himself back up. "Nah, it's easy." He pointed to his mouth. "You just kind of pucker your lips and lean forward."

Clark smirked. "You're very funny."

Bruce was grinning widely. He bent down over the next shot. To himself, he said, "You haven't kissed her."

"You have an unhealthy interest in my love life."

Bruce's eyebrows lifted. He muttered, "Seems to me like 'love life' might be overstating your case a tad, pal."

Clark had picked up his beer. He swilled the bottle in his hand. "There's been a couple of near misses."

Bruce's eyes rolled. "We're not talking about target practice here, Clark." He stood up, "Have you kissed her yet or not?"

Clark's shoulders rolled. Eventually, he grudged, "Clark got a peck on the cheek at Christmas."

Bruce frowned. "What did Superman get?"

Clark's lips rolled inwards.

"Not even a hug?"

"It's not funny, Bruce."

Amused but apologetic, Bruce picked up his beer and gestured at Clark with it before taking a drink, "I thought she was really into you?"

"She is," Clark insisted. "I think," he added with less conviction. Looking skywards he let out a frustrated sigh. "It's me."

"This dual identity drama," Bruce said without sympathy. "Stop being such a girl. You like her so much. Why hold back? Sweep her off her feet."

Clark looked unimpressed with his friend's call-to-arms. "As Superman."

"If that's what she wants."

"Without telling her?" Clark asked, pointedly.

"Without telling her what?"

There was a note of exasperation in Clark's reply; "That I'm Clark!"

"Why not?"

Clark lifted a hand that fell limply to his side again. "It just feels gratuitous." He looked pained. "It'd be like I'm lying to her."

"You're already lying to her. On a round-the-clock basis."

Clark scowled. "That's different."

Bruce laughed, "How?"

"Lois not knowing certain things- it keeps her safe. To circumvent all that, just for the sake of... Of..." Clark cast around the room.

"Sex?" Bruce finished helpfully.

He was treated to a stern look. "Intimacy." Clark paused. "It takes it to a whole new level of untruthfulness."

Bruce looked pleased with himself, "What am I always telling you? There are degrees of deceit."

"Your seal of approval on moral matters," Clark despaired. "Just what I need."

"Hey." Bruce raised one finger. "This distance you choose to put between who you really are and how Lois sees you- that's up to you." He stopped. "And no offense taken."

"But that's just it." Clark pointed at himself, "The guy in tights who gets to hold her in his arms is no more real than the guy in glasses who gets to hold her coat. She's falling for a version of me that doesn't really exist."

Bruce was unmoved. "Your rock-and-a-hard-place life sucks. Is that what you want me to say?"

"I'm telling you how it is, that's all."

"Look. The way I see it, there's one of two ways this plays out." The look in Clark's eyes silenced him.

"There're no take-backs, Bruce. Once she knows, she knows." Clark's eyes dropped to the floor. "It's a hell of a burden to ask someone to carry." He shuffled his feet. "I'm just not sure she's ready for that conversation."

"Maybe you're the one that's not ready."

Clark gave a hollow laugh. He smiled sadly, "You're probably right."

They were quiet. Bruce lowered to the table again for a long shot right next to the rail.

"What would you do? If you were in my position." Clark looked up. "Would you tell her?"

"God, no." With a satisfying plunk Bruce connected with the cue ball. They both watched the number four disappear into the far right pocket. Clark nodded.

Bruce said, "But then I've never been in love."

A high-pitched trilling interrupted them. Clark picked up his cell phone from where he had left it over on the counter. "It's work."

"On a Saturday night? I didn't know you were expected in?"

"I'm not." Clark flipped it open and read the message. "Mr White wants to see me." He frowned. "He wants me to bring an overnight bag?"

Leaning against the table Bruce watched his friend pull on his jacket. "You were there this morning until dawn- now your boss wants you to sleep at your desks. That's pretty hardcore." Bruce's mouth upturned, "I like his management style."

Clark was uneasy. "Something's up."

"One day maybe we'll get to finish a game before you have to go rushing out of a window."

Clark snorted. "One day maybe I'll get to finish my lunch before I have to go rushing out of a window." He patted at his jacket, "What did I do with my glasses?"

Bruce pointed at the counter a little further along where a pair of thick black frames were folded. "Clark."

Clark stopped.

"Maybe you do have to distance yourself as Superman. But maybe as Clark it can work the other way?"

Clark looked at Bruce and laughed.

"What?"

"The way she looks at me when I'm Superman..." His eyes widened, "Well. It's definitely not the way she looks at Clark."

"She sees precisely what you're willing to show her." Bruce lifted one shoulder. "You can't blame her for that."

"I don't." Clark smiled. He lifted his glasses. In a lighter tone, he said, "Maybe if my alter ego was disgustingly rich, this would be easier?"

Bruce opened his arms to the room, "You want to trade?"

Clark looked around. "Sure. Do I get to keep the Ferrari?"

"Sure. Do I get to keep Lois?"

Clark chuckled and told him it was a nice try.

"I'll throw in the pool table."

Clark gracefully demurred. "I haven't got anywhere to put it anyway." He threw back his cue for Bruce to catch. With one in each hand Bruce rested them against the floor like skiing poles. Clark was at one of the large portico windows when Bruce called him back. He turned and they looked at each other. "This thing with the two of you." Bruce blinked. "Maybe it just needs time."

An appreciative smile curled one corner of Clark's mouth before disappearing again. "To be totally honest, aside from everything else, we're colleagues." He looked off to one side and then back at Bruce. "Even if Clark stood a chance with her," he sighed heavily, "right now I think it's important to respect those workplace boundaries." Earnestness settled on Clark's face. "I really value our professional relationship."

---

"Golly," Clark whispered. His tone was soft and full of studied innocence. "Are those ...garters?"

He and Lois had leaned forward in their chairs to inspect a set of black and white prints fanned out in front of them. The photographs were eight by ten candids of a beautiful woman striking a variety of come hither poses in her bedroom mirror. The woman was not wearing very much in any of the pictures. And what she was wearing was rather racy. The color of Lois's cheeks reddened in sympathy with the movement of her eyes across the gallery as each fresh indignity revealed itself.

Lois snatched the photographs up as Clark adjusted his glasses which had slipped a little on his nose. "Where," she strangled out, not just embarrassed but appalled, "did you get these?"

Opposite them Perry White sat with his fingers folded and a severe expression on his face. He was wearing a golf shirt and a patterned sweater that softened his usual edges and made him seem very grandfatherly. "Not where;" his seriousness was incongruous and therefore disconcerting, "who." He explained, "They were in an envelope addressed to me. I found it on my doorstep an hour ago. With this."

Clark picked up the calling card Perry had slipped across. It was blank on one side. On the other there was a handwritten note. Out loud, Clark read, "'Cutting short our stay. I'm sure you understand'." Clark shared a look with Lois, "Signed 'the Scarlet Pimpernel.'"

Lois was recovered enough to channel her horror into anger. "That rat."

Perry was nonplussed. "The Scarlet Pimpernel? I don't get it?"

"The drug running bust we've been working on."

Perry eyed Lois, "The cocaine?"

She nodded. "Last night we think we finally cracked the radio code they've been using. Lots of references to clearing out by the end of the month and making sure the shipment's ready."

Clark elaborated, "A shipment they refer to only as 'French cheese.'"

"Ah," Perry grunted.

"We fed a bunch of decoded numbers into the computer," Lois said. "There were a lot of dead ends but one sequence kept repeating."

"For a grid reference. It matched a location on the waterfront, a warehouse down on Pier seventeen. We checked with the records." Clark shook his head, "There's no paper trail. That lot's supposed to be vacant."

Perry nodded. He opened his hands off the table, "So you put the squeeze on and now they know you're sniffing around. They've obviously been watching you." He crooked a finger at the photographs Lois was clutching. "Who knows how long they've been sitting on these?"

Lois looked agitated, "No, they know we're close. And now they're trying to scare us off."

Perry stared at her. "This isn't a game. My sister's grandkids are visiting. They could have found those."

Careful to keep the developed side of the prints away from sight, she held them up, "They've not been keeping these back, Chief." Her lips pursed as she hesitated. "These were taken tonight."

Clark's head snapped. "Tonight?"

Lois found herself shifting under his unusually direct attention. Although she was now dressed more formally in jeans and a zipped up leather jacket, for a moment she was half-naked again. She turned to Perry, "If they're moving their plans forward we don't have much time. We have to do something."

Perry was silent. He seemed to look right through her, Then he said, "No. It's over."

Lois picked up the card, "But they're playing into our hands."

"No." Perry said, curtly. "This was a warning." He switched focus. "Find something else." He addressed Clark, "Kent, how's the angle on the baby pandas coming?"

Clark's eyes darted between Lois and his editor. "Well, I..."

"Wait," Lois's hand was raised. "I don't understand." Her forehead creased. "You're pulling us off the story?"

"I'm not going to fight you on this."

Her face opened, "Oh, is that how it works, now? Things start to get a little sticky and you hide us away?" She stubbed her finger at him, "So much for the duty of the fourth estate! Edmund Burke would be rolling in his grave."

Perry stared at her. "Please don't quote chapter and verse at me, Lois. I don't know how you think I can care about that when your safety's at stake?"

Lois puffed a breathful of air out the side of her mouth, "They're bluffing."

Perry gestured at the prints in her hands, "Have you even looked at those pictures? They weren't taken with a telephoto lens. Whoever took them-"

"-Must've been right outside your window," Clark finished, quietly horrified. He cursed himself for being in Gotham.

"Let's just be thankful it wasn't a bullet."

"I don't need a lecture, Perry."

"Yes, Lois, sometimes you do."

In answer she just folded her arms.

"Edmund Burke!" Perry scoffed. "Drug lords, and gangsters," he said, exasperated with her. "Stopping them is the duty of the police. Not the press."

"The Daily Planet; putting the investigative in investigative journalism."

Perry's eyes narrowed. "Don't get cute with me. This isn't a joke."

"It IS a joke," Lois slapped her hands hard on the arms of her chair. "'The Scarlet Pimpernel'? This guy's laughing in our faces."

"Let him laugh. You can't win every time."

"Yes, you can," Lois shot back, eyes burning, "you've just got to want it."

An obvious impasse had been reached. Perry tossed a look at Clark. "Will you talk some sense into her, please?"

Remembering Bruce's warning, Clark took a breath. "Mr White's got a point, Lois."

Her head rotated slowly in his direction, "Well, gee, partner. Thanks for backing me up."

Doing his best to ignore the archness of her tone, Clark suggested following Perry's advice that they contact the appropriate authorities.

"Who?" Lois spat. "The cops? The Feds? The CBP? And what are we going to tell them, exactly? That we've got radio reports that a major contraband deal's about to go down? The illegal exportation of Camembert?"

Both Clark and Perry looked sheepish.

She slumped back. "We've got nothing. And now we're going to stand by, and let this scumbag slip through our fingers."

"Stop reacting emotionally and think." Perry pressed his fingertips to his chin. "This is a long game."

"Stop dressing it up!" Lois thundered, fluttering the photographs. "This is kowtowing to the demands of a bully."

"We're not in the schoolyard."

"I don't care where we are, it stinks."

For a moment Perry just sat back, saying nothing and looking grim. Then from a desk drawer he produced two keys and placed them in front of his reporters. A red plastic fob on the ring of each key was shaped like a love heart.

"Don't tell me," Lois said. "Polly Pocket's got a grudge and now we're being warned off the children's treasurebox racket, too."

Perry regarded his reporters dispassionately. "You both remembered to pack your toothbrushes, right?"

Lois let out a weary sigh. "I don't believe this." She extended her arm and picked up one of the keys, turning over the fob in her hand. "'Lucky Hearts Lodge'?"

At her dead-eyed expression and Clark's raised eyebrow, Perry said, "Just for tonight. Just in case. You're staying out of the city."

Lois blinked at him. "You can't be serious?"

"Exit twelve. That's the turning before Fulton Park." To Lois's stony-faced disgust, Perry went on, "Single rooms. Double beds, air-conditioning, and cable tv. And a complimentary continental-style breakfast." Perry touched his lips together. He addressed Lois, "If you're going to sulk, you can at least sulk somewhere safe."

"You are serious."

Perry smiled tiredly. "Take one of the news trucks. I have one waiting for you."

For a few moments more they eyeballed each other. Then Lois nodded. Her palms came up and twirled in the air. "Fine."

Perry squinted. "Good."

Lois got up to leave, taking her photographs and her room key with her. Perry watched her. "Stay out of the city tonight. I mean it, Lois."

Clark got up to follow her out the door. "Kent." Perry held his gaze. "You better keep an eye on her."

Perry swore he heard the young man mutter 'Moonbeams' before the office door closed shut.

---

Charitably, Clark preferred to think of Lois's driving habits as 'eccentric' and 'quaint' as opposed to erratic or dangerous, which is how colleagues who had ever shared a journey of any meaningful length with her tended to describe them. They were barely out of sight of the Daily Planet building when, without warning, she veered the truck into a side alley and killed the engine.

With both hands gripping the wheel she turned to him, "Okay, Kent. Any bright ideas?"

Clark's eyes darted. "About what?"

"About how to contact Superman." Lois chewed at her bottom lip, fretting idly at herself as she stared out the windshield, "I think he's our only hope."

Clark's thoughts about the situation had been working along strikingly similar lines. The crucial difference being that his immediate problem was not one of meeting Lois. Rather- it was one of getting away.

"What do you usually do?"

Lois leaned back. "What do I do when?"

Clark nudged his head. "When you, you know. Want to see him."

Lois shifted in the seat. Clark thought she looked a little embarrassed, and it shamed him. She gave a helpless shrug, "I guess I kind of wait around somewhere visible. Sometimes he shows up. There's not really a pattern to it." After some thought, she added, "Unless I'm in some kind of immediate danger- then he's pretty reliable."

"Okay then," Clark nodded in encouragement. "How do you contact him when you're in immediate danger?"

"I don't know. I yell really loudly?" Clark watched her eyebrows knit together. "We really need a better system."

While they both digested this thought, the sound of sirens not more than a couple of blocks away disturbed Clark's attention and instinctively he turned to his window to identify their direction.

"Do you think we should go and find a roof?"

Definitely police sirens. Now being joined by the lower two-tone sound of a fire truck. Clark refocused his hearing and caught a back-and-forth between one of the units and control; evidently there had been some kind of multi-vehicle accident at an intersection.

"Clark?" Lois found herself looking at the back of her partner's immaculately combed head.

"Mmm?"

She dipped her head to try and establish eye contact. "Do you think we should go and find a roof?"

Finally he turned back round. "You know what? It's the darnedest thing. I just remembered, I forgot to pack my eye drops."

Lois tipped her chin. "I beg your pardon?"

Clark pointed at his glasses. "I forgot to pack my eye drops."

Her hands opened on the wheel as she shook her head, "And?"

Clark's pointed finger, still hanging in the air, tucked itself away to be replaced by a thumb. "I better go get them."

Lois stared. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Um. No?"

Her fingers flickered between them. "We're talking about busting the biggest trafficking scam this city's ever seen- and you're worried about eye drops?"

Clark noted that it was not so much disgust that had written itself across Lois's face, as it was a look of total incredulity that this pathetic creature sat before her was somehow ever capable of passing himself off as a worthy counterpart in their partnership. He forged on, "I suffer from a chronic corneal condition, Lois. Dry eye is more common than you think- and can be quite debilitating."

"I'm sure it is, Clark, and I'm sorry to hear that, I really am." She snorted, "But priorities are priorities and I'm also sure you can tough it out until we've done our jobs and stopped this deal going through."

Anxious to be elsewhere, impatience crept into Clark's tone. "I really think we should listen to Perry on this one. Stopping this deal does not fall under the remit of doing our jobs."

"But running away to spend the night in a motel like a couple of fugitives does?"

Briefly, a hard look crossed Clark's eyes, and it was gone before Lois could tell whether it had ever been really there. "I'll go get my eye drops." His tone was conciliatory but uncompromising. He opened the car door but didn't get out. "I'll be right behind you, an hour, tops. I'll catch a cab from my place and meet you back at the motel."

"What about Superman?"

"He keeps his eyes and ears open, Lois. We can't be certain that he's oblivious to this, he might even be handling it without us even knowing about it?"

"How will he know?" Lois pleaded. "We broke a code and we didn't even know we were right until someone sent a poison pen letter?" She sighed.

"I'm sorry, I have to go." Clark opened the door out and hopped down. Before moving away to close it he fished inside his wallet and reached inside the cabin with a couple of twenties.

She regarded his outstretched hand. "What's this?"

"Dinner from Pepe's. My treat." He tried out a smile on her. "I'll have my usual."

When she showed no sign of entering into the spirit of the thing or, indeed, having even heard him, Clark added, "The Italian Supreme, extra mushrooms."

Lois was just looking at the notes in his fingers.

"Unless you're not in the mood for pizza?"

"No." Moodily, she took the money.

"I'll get a cab- I'll see you back at the motel. Right?"

Again, she didn't answer.

"Lois? With the extra mushrooms." His eyes back-and-forthed over her own. More forcefully, he prompted, "Right?"

She fluttered into action, "Right! Yes. God."

He lingered at the door, well aware what was on her mind. "I'm trusting you not to do anything stupid."

Without looking at him, she listed sidewards to tuck the bills into her jeans pocket. "Go get your eye drops."

As soon as it was safe he was in the air and gone. Below him, he heard her restart the engine.

---

Lois flicked her wrist and cut out the engine. According to the streetmap now folded out on the passenger seat, the warehouse would be a brisk five-minute walk from her current position- the backlot of a row of corrugated iron buildings that were set back from the dockside between Piers twenty and twenty-one. Memorizing her route she slipped out of the cabin and went to open the rear doors of the truck. By the orange glow of the lot's security lights, she zipped open the front compartment of her travel case and took out her pocketknife and her dictaphone, depositing them both into the inside pocket of her jacket. From her back pocket she pulled her cell phone and switched it to silent.

She closed and locked up the truck and headed northwards in the direction of Pier seventeen.

---

In darkness, it was tricky to scope the place out, but if the buildings along this part of the waterfront were uniform Lois at least had some idea of the lay of the land. If she was right, there was a small access point, a side door, situated towards the rear of the warehouse. From her vantage point tight against the wall of the neighboring warehouse she could see only the front access point; a large steel shutter. A thin halo of yellow light framed the shutter. Lois shook her head. Empty lot, my ass.

She was about to break her cover and make for the side door when, from that direction, a figure stepped into the light. She retreated backwards. He was a lanky-looking guy, pale-faced in the gloom with a cigarette poking from his lips and a lighter held up to his face. The Pimpernel himself? Lois checked out his all-black outfit and greasy hair pulled tight into a ponytail. He looked more like a roadie than a master criminal. But if he turned his head ninety degrees and looked carefully he would see her. Still and calm, Lois pressed herself flat against the brickwork. The man turned in the opposite direction, out of the wind, away from her, and Lois took her chance. She darted into sight and then back into shadow again, down the walkway between the two buildings until she reached the door.

There was no handle, but the door had been left ajar. Without opening it any further she peered inside and could make out a dimly lit corridor. There appeared to be no one else around. She checked her watch, hesitating at the threshold as a hot, guilty thought snaked through her mind- it had been well over thirty minutes since she had last seen Clark. He was probably on his way out of the city right now. She steeled herself against her second-guessing; now was not the time for equivocation. With a last look back she licked her lips and slipped inside.

---

Although it had involved several vehicles, a hydrant, and a streetlight that now looked like it was bending over to pick something off the sidewalk, the car accident carried no fatalities. Clark had been required to help the rescue team free a husband and wife trapped inside their sedan, but none of the passengers needed superspeeding for immediate hospital treatment. After making a couple of trips to a wreckage yard to clear the scene of debris, Clark shook hands with the paramedics and some familiar faces on the fire crew and took off for the waterfront.

---

The corridor was about thirty feet long before it bent round a corner at the opposite end. It was lined on the right hand side by a set of four doors, each protected by a keycard lock. The doors looked odd. They were shiny but dull, like they were made out of metal. On her left, there was some kind of partition wall. In contrast to the doors, the wall did not seem very thick and through it Lois could hear lots of activity on the other side- what would be the main floor of the warehouse. She could hear voices. It made her heart race. She knew this part of the job, this excessive flirtation with danger, was what drove Clark, and Perry, and Superman- maybe especially Superman- crazy. Her sister called it her reckless streak. The truth was it was times like this, when she could hear the blood rushing in her ears, that got her up in the mornings. And reckless streak or not, it was calculated gambles like this that got her the headlines. She relished it. She tried her luck with every door, already envisioning tomorrow's front page in her head; 'Metropolis Drug Ring Blown Wide Open'. Behind the first door there was a small washroom. To her increasing disappointment, the next two doors were also unlocked, but the rooms inside were completely empty.

She reached the final door on the corridor and fully expected the handle to make way. It didn't, the dot of light on the card panel remained stubbornly red. She zipped open her jacket and brought out the pocketknife. She flipped out the smallest blade and artfully worked its edge up and down the door jam until the inner mechanism shisked open and the light blinked green.

This time the room beyond was not empty. It looked like a regular office- a large filing cabinet occupied one corner and a desk with a metal-frame chair was up against a wall. There was no computer or laptop on the desk, only paperwork scattered haphazardly across the surface. And a pair of nautical dividers. She squinted. And what looked like maps. Pages and pages of maps.

Silently, without turning on any lights, Lois lifted the chair out from under the desk and tipped it onto its back legs to secure the door handle in position. She paused at the door and listened. Nothing.

Back over at the desk, she opened her phone and used the screen like a flashlight. Inspecting the maps she found they were not maps at all but charts. She picked through a pile, her eyes scanning them looking for something recognizable, but they were incomprehensible to her- image after image of great swathes of Atlantic ocean numbered and squared by lines of longitude and latitude. She frowned. About as damning as a road map.

She put her phone down and started to gather the charts up into a roll. At the bottom of the pile there was a larger chart. She stopped. This one had been marked with the tell tale straight lines and angles of a navigation course. Lois grinned. Bingo.

---

In the air above the warehouse, Clark hovered, his cape rippling on a sea breeze. He was sure this was the right place. Yet below him he could see nothing. If there was drug smuggling about to occur, he couldn't tell. He swept his gaze left and right. Well, this was interesting. His x-ray vision worked perfectly on the buildings either side, just not on the warehouse directly underneath. Lead-lined roofing was not suspicious in and of itself- entire streets in Metropolis carried it. But to have one warehouse in particular, the only one amongst a complex of otherwise identically constructed buildings, be the odd one out- that was a concern.

Just then something else caught his eye. Visible, away to his left, in a deserted corner of a lot southwards down the pierside, was the distinctive white roof of a Daily Planet news truck.

He wished he were surprised. "Damn it, Lois."

---

Shining her phone, Lois followed the dotted line out of Metropolis Bay and into open water with her finger. The end point, the destination, seemed to be somewhere way out at sea, well outside international waters. In handwritten script a name and a set of co-ordinates had been noted. She retrieved her dictaphone from her jacket and brought it close to her mouth to whisper; "Petroco Eleutherius. Forty, forty-nine, fifty-eight, point six, four, three, nine, north. Sixty-seven, seventeen, zero-seven, point zero, nine, two-."

Noises close by had her suddenly holding her breath. She remained in position, bent over the desk, dictaphone and cell in hand, perfectly still. Footsteps and then two voices; one much deeper in tone than the other. They seemed to be in conversation right outside the door. Lois could hear her heart thumping against her chest. She tucked the dictaphone as well as her cell back inside her jacket but took out the pocketknife and slipped it down the front of her shirt. The murmur of conversation ended and then one pair of footsteps walked away. She dared not move.

Out in the corridor, Eddie had run into Gooch returning from his cigarette break. By chance, Eddie had been on the way to use the bathroom and it was debatable whether he would've noticed the green light on the card panel at all if he hadn't stopped to talk with the other man and been stood in that particular spot. Puzzled, Eddie looked back over his shoulder in the direction the other man had just gone. If Gooch was now with Farlowe loading the crates then this room shouldn't be in use at all.

He reached to open the door and was irritated rather than alarmed when the handle failed to turn. Hitching his pants at the waist he stuck his large fist into his back pocket and brought out a small plastic card. He swiped the card through the slot and the light blinked green but still the door wouldn't open. He cursed and bent down. Adjusting his huge aviator glasses to get a better look he could see no obvious reason why the mechanism should not work. He tried swiping the card again and then a third time. The fourth time he dispensed with the services of the card and used both hands and his shoulder to apply pressure to the door. Then he stopped short, thinking he could hear movement; the sound of something heavy being dragged.

"Hey, is someone in there?"

It was the man with the low voice. Lois watched the door handle rattle again. With the chair barely holding its own, she was just beginning to panic. Her lack of an exit strategy as such was casting fresh doubt on the viability of making tomorrow's front page afterall. Sacrificing stealth for safety she had managed to wedge herself between the filing cabinet and the wall and was now off the floor and using both feet to push the thing backwards against the door.

"Hey! Who's in there?"

Inside the room, the cabinet's effect as added weight in bolstering the door could not be considered a total success as it bounced forward every time the man on the other side made a new attempt to force the door open. She juddered with it as the hits became harder.

Lois looked around. There were no windows, there were no ceiling panels, there were no air vents. There was no obvious way out, and there was nowhere to hide.

Crap.