It wasn't three in the morning; it was five-thirty in the afternoon, and the entire kitchen was a blur of frantic, dinner-rush, two-servers-and-a-pastry-chef-out-sick, semi-choreographed madness. LeBeau, both literally and figuratively, was up to his elbows in work when the telephone rang. He couldn't have come up with a less convenient time for that call to come if he'd tried, and, looking back on it, somehow that seemed entirely fitting.

The maître d' walked into the kitchen looking miffed. "There is a gentleman on the phone who insists that he needs to talk to you," he told LeBeau. "He says he is an old friend, and that it is important."

"I don't care how important he thinks it is; if we don't have a table available for tonight, then we don't have a table," said LeBeau. "Does he think that I can magically pull one out of my back pocket?"

"He's not asking for a table," said the maître d'. "He insists that he needs to speak to you on a personal matter."

"I don't have time for personal matters," said LeBeau, irritated. "Who is it? Tell him I'll call him back later, when I don't have eighty hungry people getting angrier by the minute."

"Very good, sir," said the maître d'. "He said his name was General Hogan. He sounded like an American," he added, disapprovingly, turning to go.

"Wait!" LeBeau dropped everything, wiping his hands on his apron. Eighty hungry people could wait a few minutes longer. "I'll take the call."

He hurried into his office, his heart pounding. "Hello? Mon Colonel, is that you?"

Hogan had been 'General' for quite some time. The stars on his uniform, the nameplate on his desk, the pay stubs in his filing cabinet all bore mute witness to that fact. He was General Hogan to everyone on earth… with the notable exception of a few ex-POWs for whom he would never, ever be anything but 'the Colonel.' That was neither intended nor taken as disrespect. Quite the contrary. It was a badge of honor that had nothing to do with actual rank; they weren't calling him 'a' colonel. He was THE Colonel, and there was a difference.

His voice was raspy and tight. "Yeah, LeBeau, it's me. I… I need to talk to you about something, and it isn't good."

LeBeau closed his eyes, clutched the receiver tightly in his hand. He knew before he asked the question, but he asked it anyway, because maybe, just maybe, if he went through all the motions he'd get some other answer than the one he knew was coming. "Ah. It is Newkirk, n'est-ce pas?"

"That's right. I just got the news; you're the first one I'm calling." Hogan cleared his throat, putting off the moment that he would have to say it, to make it real, for just that extra moment longer. "I'm sorry, Louis. He's gone."

LeBeau's voice was low. "I see. They are certain? Have they recovered his body?"

"I don't think so," said Hogan. "Not that I was told, anyway."

"Then perhaps it was not him. There could yet be some mistake."

"I wish that were true," said Hogan. "I guess anything's possible; this is Newkirk we're talking about. But it sounds pretty definite. Look, I'm going to call the others with the news, and then I'm flying overseas for… for a memorial, I guess. If you could come to London, we can talk in person." Unspoken was the implication that some things were not for public broadcast, and certainly not an unsecured telephone line; what he had to say would be ears only.

"…But I wasn't supposed to have to come to London. It was his turn to cross the Channel," LeBeau mumbled. "I came to London last time; it was his turn. Not mine. He was supposed to come here. He was supposed to come back…" he trailed off.

Hogan didn't say anything; LeBeau was not talking to him and he knew it. He was trying, one last, forlorn time, to convince the universe that there had been some mistake, that it was not too late to change things back to the way they should have been, and Hogan let him, because it was the only kindness he had to offer.

Getting ahold of himself, LeBeau continued, after a moment, in a very different voice. "Of course I will come to London. Of course I will. If I am not there tomorrow, I will be there the day after that."

"Okay. My assistant is going to arrange somewhere for us all to stay; he'll get you the details as soon as he's got them. I'll see you in a day or so."

"Yes. A day or so. Thank you for calling, Colonel."

"Hang in there," Hogan said awkwardly, and cut the connection. He leaned forward onto the desk, head resting in his hands. He'd lost men before; it came with the territory. He'd lost friends, too, had lost relatives; sooner or later, everyone did. He'd lost people who were family in every way that counted except blood, and he understood that anguish in all its myriad forms. But he'd never lost one of his heroes; he'd gotten them all—all! — through the war in one piece. Whether that was attributable to his skill as a commander, to their own sheer guts and stamina, to the whims of Fate or the hand of God… one way or the other, he'd done it. He'd brought them all home. And, that being so, he supposed that somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd always assumed that they'd all live to a hundred and three, hale and hearty, and die peacefully in their sleep.

A memory struck him—a mission gone very sour. For the life of him, he couldn't even remember what they'd been trying to accomplish. It didn't matter. They'd managed it in the end, because they always did, but somewhere in between the impossible task, the improbable plan, and the inevitable triumph, there had been betrayal and disaster, and there had been a tiny, noisome stone cell, and there had been Newkirk's rock-steady composure.

"Ah, well," Hogan had said. "Who wants to die in bed?"

"I might've. It all depends on who else was in it with me at the time," Newkirk had said with an eloquent eyebrow.

"You've got a point there," Hogan conceded.

Newkirk eyed the single rickety cot with disfavor. "Like you said, ah, well. No offense intended, of course, Colonel, but given the current circumstances and the current company, being shot's probably the neater option for both of us." He smiled. "I will say, it's been an honor, sir."

"It's not often I'm insulted and complimented in the same breath," Hogan said.

"Well, we've not got many left. Only makes sense to conserve."

"I can always count on you to cheer me up," Hogan said. "Newkirk, have I ever told you how much I've always appreciated your indefatigable optimism? What your sunny attitude has meant to me all these years?"

"Can't say you have, no."

"Exactly. Think about that, why don't you?"

Newkirk chuckled, and sat down on the cot, which groaned rustily, and leaned back against the wall, the picture of relaxation. "I live to serve," he said. "For a few more hours, anyhow."

"This isn't how I thought things would turn out," Hogan had said, no longer able to keep up the joke. "I'm sorry, Newkirk."

"Don't be. It's been grand, and I wouldn't've missed a minute of it."

"Me personally, I'd have taken a pass on this particular minute if I'd been given my druthers," said Hogan. "Not to mention the one we've got to look forward to at dawn."

"Point taken. But still. It was all worth it." Newkirk smiled faintly. "Colonel, I lifted my first wallet when I was eight. By thirteen I was breaking into shops. Bank jobs at seventeen. My neck's been forfeit for a long time, and that's without reckoning with the fact that I've been on borrowed time since I hit the silk over Krautland. If anything, just you remember that I'm grateful to be dying for a reason Mavis won't have to be ashamed of, even if she can never know about it."

"That doesn't change the fact that I should have known better than to fall for such an obvious setup. It's my fault this happened. My stupidity. Look, I'll 'fess up, tell them that you were only following my orders, and maybe—"

"Don't give them the bleeding satisfaction, sir," Newkirk interrupted, clapping a brotherly hand on his shoulder. His voice warmed. "There was never a chance I'd die anywhere what didn't have bars on the windows. Don't you go apologizing now. Not over this."

…Well, they'd gotten away, of course, and the day had been saved, but it seemed that Newkirk hadn't been wrong, after all. And it wasn't fair. If ever anyone had earned a long life and a peaceful death, Hogan thought, Newkirk surely had. He'd done so much for a world that had given him so little in return. Why didn't fate ever take that sort of thing into consideration? Why?

He cleared his throat one more time, then picked up the phone receiver, dialed Kinch's number, and steeled himself for another conversation he didn't want to have. And tried not to imagine what telling Carter was going to be like.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Under normal circumstances, trying to drop everything and fly across the globe on twenty minutes' notice presents certain logistical problems. Plane tickets are not free. Employers are not always understanding about unscheduled days off. There could be previous engagements, jury duty, measles outbreaks, school plays, broken water heaters, and a thousand other reasons—good, legitimate reasons—why it isn't always possible to go where one likes at the drop of a hat. People, quite simply, have lives, and complications, and responsibilities, and sometimes those responsibilities are not negotiable.

That said, these were men who had faced down the entirety of the Nazi war machine with little more than ingenuity and determination. Successfully. All four of them were in London within forty-eight hours. Because people have responsibilities. And sometimes those responsibilities are not negotiable.

Stephens was waiting for them. The poker-spined young officer who showed the heroes into a quiet conference room looked like he'd stepped off a recruiting poster. Stephens, who even in his prime had looked like the 'Before' photo in a vitamin advertisement, hadn't changed much in twenty years, aside from a few minor details, like the silvering of his always thin hair; he still gave the impression of a dull, mild-mannered, politely forgettable milquetoast of a man. Except that today he looked old. Suddenly frail; his cane seemed a necessity rather than a precaution. More than that, he looked defeated. The heroes had worked with Newkirk for the equivalent of a lifetime, all crammed into a few short, intense years. But after the war, Stephens, Hogan remembered, had worked with Newkirk for a lifetime taken day by day. He was grieving, too.

"Thank you for coming all this way, gentlemen," said Stephens, after they had all settled into their seats.

"Thank you for keeping us in the loop," said Kinch. "I can't imagine that explaining us to your superiors was easy."

"Fortunately for me, I don't have too many superiors anymore, and those I do have didn't need any explanations," said Stephens. "No one's forgotten what you chaps did; I'd've had far more explaining to do if I'd tried to shut you out. And no need for thanks; you've more than earned the courtesy of the truth."

"Yes. What, then, is the truth?" LeBeau asked. "What happened to Pierre? How did he die?"

Stephens looked him straight in the eye. "He died the way he lived," he said. "In the worst place on earth, doing a thankless, miserable job that no one in their right mind would care to tackle. Because I asked him to. Because we needed his help to at least postpone, if not avert, a war that no one wants and that no one can hope to win. I warn you; you'd best think very carefully before you ask me for any further details. "

"Why is that?" asked Carter. "What will you do if we ask?"

Stephens' voice didn't break, but it was a close thing. "I'll answer. Believe me, you don't want that. Here," he said, pulling a letter from his pocket and placing it carefully on the table. "This is for you gents. I'll just give you a few minutes to read it, shall I?" He stood up, hobbled to the door, and let himself out of the room to regain his composure; a strategic retreat that none of them either misunderstood or grudged him.

They all stared at the letter for a moment. In Newkirk's neat, plain handwriting, the front of the envelope was addressed simply to 'The Bears.' Hogan picked it up, turned it over. It was sealed, and in the same hand, written across the flap, in lieu of red wax, were the words 'Just In Case.'

"Read it, Colonel Hogan," Kinch said quietly.

Hogan nodded, tore open the envelope, and pulled out the single sheet of paper it contained, and took a deep breath. "Dear mates," he began, then stopped, forced a smile to cover a choke. "He always hated my attempts at an English accent," he said. "But this just sounds so wrong in my voice."

"We're all imagining it in his voice anyway," said Carter, of all people. "It's okay. Just read it."

Hogan nodded, and started over.

Dear mates;

If you're reading this, I guess my luck finally ran out on me. So it seemed like it would be a good idea to set the record straight in a couple of places, and this way you'll all have it clear in black and white. First of all, if you're all sitting around feeling sad, I want you to stop that shite immediately. I mean it. I had a good run, and I did things that were worth doing, and I had some of the best mates any man could ever hope for. That's more than I, in my wildest dreams, ever expected to get out of life, and if you're going to remember me at all, do me the courtesy of not spoiling it with wailing and gnashing of teeth. I've always hated funerals; don't go poncing around with black armbands telling each other what a fine fellow I was. (And for that matter, don't go telling the truth, either!) Instead, I want you to go to a pub, lift a glass or six in my name, flirt with the barmaid if she's pretty, and have a few laughs. Because that's what we really were fighting for, isn't it? For a time when people, even ones as different as all of us, could share a pint, and a joke, and a world, free and fearless. So go make the most of it, mates. We did the work, might as well enjoy the benefits.

I've tried a few times to write you individual messages, and all of them ended up in the fire. I'm good at a lot of things, but sharing feelings and the like isn't one of them. So I'll just say that you—all of you— were the best thing that ever happened to me. You showed me who and what I was supposed to be, and that's a debt I could never repay. You kept me alive, even when I didn't want you to. You kept me sane in a time and a place that came close to breaking me. You made me a better man than I'd thought I could be, because you believed that I could. I've tried to live up to that, to justify your faith in me, and I hope I succeeded in some measure.

It isn't everyone who could look at a hotheaded, sarcastic, pain-in-the-arse thief sitting in an isolation cell praying for death and see something worth bothering with. If I never said it before, please know that a day doesn't go by that I'm not grateful to all of you for taking the trouble. A lot of spies might have used the services of a cracksman, especially if one was ready to hand. I'd wager that most of them wouldn't have lowered themselves to make friends with him, and it means a lot to me that you did. It was always an honor serving with you, and even more of an honor that you stayed my friends after that service was done.

Well, that's enough of this soppy nonsense. Remember what I said—if you want to remember me, do it with a smile and a joke. If I hear you moaning and crying, I'll come back and bloody well haunt you, and you'll never find your wallets ever again. And your lady friends will all wake up smiling and blushing, and refusing to tell you why. So be told!

Yours truly, Peter Newkirk, Esquire

PS: Louie, I always took the mickey out of you about your cooking. All in fun, of course, and from the start, you and I were always able to joke around, but, looking back, I hope you never held it against me. Do me a favor. After I'm gone, I want you to go into your kitchen and make a pot of that fish stew I always complained about. And when it's all cooked and ready, I want you to sit down, ladle out a big bowl of it, and say to yourself, once and for all, that the stuff is bleeding nasty and completely unfit for human consumption. Because it is. –PN

Hogan put down the letter. Ten thousand emotions were all fighting for the chance to surface, and he wasn't sure which would win. He looked around the table. Kinch looked solemn. Carter looked devastated. LeBeau… was actually smiling, the tiniest bit.

"Oui. That is Pierre. That is our Pierre," he said, his eyes suspiciously shiny. "No taste. No taste at all. Ah, mon pauvre frere."

Carter folded his arms, tightly, as if he were physically trying to hold himself together. "How could he say all that stuff?" he said, his voice taut with hurt. "How could he? Thanks for bothering with him? For lowering ourselves to make friends? What the heck was that supposed to mean?"

Kinch sighed. "It means he thought he wasn't worth bothering with, Andrew. You knew that. We all knew that."

"Yeah, but how could he think we thought that?"

"He knew we didn't," Hogan said. "He never could figure out why not. But he knew. And it meant a lot to him; he said so himself."

"Not so," corrected LeBeau. "It meant everything to him. Everything."

*.*.*.*.*.*

Half a world away from that quiet conference room, Newkirk fought his way through the layers of gauze that separate the waking world from unconsciousness, opened his eyes, and immediately regretted taking the trouble when he saw where he was.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: This was probably a tad early for the reveal that this is an adventure story, and not a tragedy, but so many people seemed genuinely worried that our friend wasn't going to make it to retirement that I didn't have the heart to prolong the cliffhanger.

The 'Just In Case' letter is, of course, a reference to a previous short story, (I've Got A Little List,) but it's not necessary to have read that one beforehand. And Stephens is an OC from 'Traduttore, Traditore,' and all you really need to know about him is that he's a much less glamorous, if far more productive, version of James Bond.