He turned to thank Theresa, but she was already distracted looking for her bags. He grinned to himself again and turned toward the phones. The first one in the row had the body of a stout man standing in front of it, and Mac winced when his hand brushed the man's suit jacket.

"Sorry," he muttered, but the man, busy listening, said nothing.

The next phone was unoccupied, and Mac dug into his pocket for the British coins he'd had the foresight to pick up before Pete left. Finding the coin slot proved to be harder, and he spent a frustrating minute or two running his fingers around the call box looking for it.

At last, he found it and inserted the ten pence piece into it, dialing the number he'd memorized under Pete's tutelage.

"Harris," the gruff voice on the line replied after Mac had made his request of the secretary.

"MacGyver," Mac identified himself. "I'm at the airport."

"Mr. MacGyver?" Harris sounded surprised. "We were told to expect you tomorrow." His tone of voice made it clear that having his plans changed for him was not something he enjoyed.

"Someone from the Phoenix Foundation should have contacted you," explained MacGyver.

Harris broke in abruptly, "We were not contacted, Mr. MacGyver, and as my driver is out today, I shall have to collect you personally."

MacGyver winced, but did not reply.

"I shall arrive in thirty minutes," said Harris, and rang off.

Mac slowly replaced the receiver in the cradle and sighed. This was not going as smoothly as he would have liked. He rubbed his aching eyes and straightened his still-sore scars that raced up and down his back and knuckles.

Then, he squared his shoulders and turned, determined to make the best of the situation.

"Mr. MacGyver!" fluttered Theresa at his elbow. "You disappeared. Naughty thing. But I've collected my cases now, so I'm ready to take you wherever you need to go!"

Mac decided that he had definitely made a mistake in accepting help from this woman who had appeared to attach herself to him like a barnacle. He wondered whether he would enjoy dour Harris's company more, or Theresa.

"I needed to make a phone call," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the row of telephones.

"Of course you did," she replied, and continued without stopping. "Do you need to change money? I need to gain some pounds. Hee hee, get it?" She giggled at her own pun, while Mac tried not to look appalled.

"I do, actually," he said politely.

"Then come with me," she said, struggling with a large suitcase, which she had added to her purse and carry-on. Mac offered to carry the case, but immediately discovered he needed both hands. Theresa took the handle of her case from the other side, presumably to guide him, but he noticed that she self-consciously touched his hand on the leather handle. He sucked in a deep breath.

"Lead on, milady," he said, keeping his tone even. He felt a tug on the handle, and he followed, the light on his right growing brighter as they approached a wall of windows.

A few minutes later, they had emerged through the sliding doors into the sunlight, which MacGyver's brain, ready for night and sleep, had difficulty accepting. The beginnings of a headache began to throb along his temples as Theresa abruptly dropped the handle of her suitcase and began hopping lightly up and down.

"Taxi!" she cried, and Mac supposed she was also waving her hand as her jumping became more insistent.

"Here we are, Mr. MacGyver," she said happily when a rumbling motor pulled up to the curb.

"Oh, I have someone coming to pick me up," he explained hastily, realizing that Theresa had assumed he would be riding with her to who knows where. He mentally shook his head that the white cane had so diminished him in her eyes that she had adopted him like a stray puppy.

"Where are you going?" she asked coyly, and he hesitated. Revealing his true destination didn't seem to be too dangerous to a mere acquaintance off the plane, but at the same time, experience had taught him to be cautious, probably overly so.

"Just exploring London," he said vaguely.

"With your friend?" she asked.

Friend, he thought. Not hardly.

He was saved from having to come up with an answer by another car pulling up to the curb and a door opening.

"MacGyver." Harris's voice sounded one notch more friendly than it had on the phone, which wasn't saying much.

"Oh, is this your friend?" asked Theresa with a note of distaste in her voice.

"Mr. Harris, Theresa… uh… Reynolds," Mac offered, struggling to recall the name.

"Charmed," said Harris dismissively and stepped toward Mac to take his elbow. Rather than correct him, Mac moved toward the car, suppressing his feeling that he was entering the driver's seat as he climbed into the left front seat.

"Goodbye!" called Theresa, and Mac waved a hand out the window at her, glad he wouldn't have to continue dodging her friendship arrows.

Harris, lowered himself to the seat next to Mac with a ponderous sigh that suggested some bulk. With a grind of gears, he nudged the car away from the curb and into traffic.

"I spoke with Peter Thornton," he said without preamble.

"Oh good," began Mac, but Harris continued, cutting him off.

"I disagree with him entirely," said Harris coldly. "Putting a blind man into the field so soon after your injury is not useful to me or to you."

"Pete thought that underestimation…" tried Mac, but Harris went on as if he hadn't heard.

"No matter how impressive your dossier, a newly blinded agent has no business being…"

"See here," said Mac, interrupting in his turn. "I'm not any more crazy about it than you are. But I do what I'm told." He'd decided that turning Pete into the bad cop was the best route since it put him on Harris's side rather than the opposite.

Harris made a noise that Mac supposed was a grumpy acquiescence and fell silent.

Mac tried to look out the window at the passing city, but found that the glare of light effectively hid the blurred gray buildings that were passing. Once, Harris tapped the brakes and harrumphed, then resumed his speed. Mac found the drive had just begun lulling him to sleep when the car pulled up to the curb and Harris turned off the engine. The street seemed narrow, and Mac listened for a break in the traffic before cautiously pulling the door handle with his left hand and stretching his stiff back as he stood. He unfolded his cane and closed his door, making his way around to the back of the car where Harris was opening the trunk to retrieve his bag.

"Didn't even really need to put this in the boot," commented Harris, as if in admiration for Mac's ability to travel light. "Follow me," he said, and clumped across toward the building that loomed over them.

Mac used his cane to find the step of the curb and somewhat hesitantly followed the footsteps. At the open door he paused, the darkness of the hall within effectively blacking out his vision entirely. As he'd been taught, he swept his cane ahead of him, looking for obstacles and continued to follow Harris.

"This way," Harris growled, turning to his right and beginning to ascend some stairs. Mac suddenly realized that Harris was testing him. Was he up to this job? This annoyed Mac, since the job he'd been given had nothing to do with navigating a staircase and offering an elbow to guide him should not have bothered the man at all. Mac tried to shake off his annoyance. There wasn't much he could do about it, and after all, the staircase really wasn't much of a problem.

Harris entered a room that smelled thickly of cigarette smoke, and Mac had the impression of clutter and desks. The scratch of a pencil and the ring of a telephone confirmed that he was in London's version of the Bull Pen. His cane hid a wooden desk with a thud, and he made his way around it, trying to keep up with Harris who seemed to be continuing on toward a more private office.

Mac followed him through another door and turned as he discovered Harris behind him, ready to close the door behind them.

"Well, you're here," said Harris, seating his ponderous weight in a squeaky chair behind a large desk. Mac, left standing, wondered if he should find a chair or remain on his feet. "I didn't want you, but we've got to make the best of it now that you're here. How much has Peter told you?"

"Not much," Mac admitted. "He said two agents had disappeared."

"That's right," affirmed Harris. "Two American agents were here to assist us with turning a Russian agent who had contacted us in a very unusual way. Before they could make contact, both of them vanished. We need you to finish their job."

"But Pete said I was supposed to find them," objected MacGyver.

"This agent is of the greatest importance," went on Harris, and Mac had the feeling that he hadn't been heard at all. "As far as your colleagues, we think they might have… you know."

Mac knew what he was implying by the distaste with which he had said the word "American." He assumed the two agents had defected. Someone had offered them money or drugs or sex and just like that, willy nilly, they'd gone off to Russia. He sighed with frustration. Calling out the man's bigotry against Americans would probably do no good, and he decided to let it go, like he had the remarks about the blindness. He needed more information, not to make enemies. He resolved that he'd add both missions together, because not for a minute did he think that the two US agents had defected.

"What's the information on the Russian agent? How did he contact you?" he asked, extending his cane slowly toward the chairs he hoped would be in front of the desk. They weren't.

"She," corrected Harris. "She is a very well-known figure, a dancer, Nadia Pletskya, which is of course, not her real name."

Mac hadn't heard of her, since he didn't follow ballet. He thought wryly that if she had played hockey he would have not only known her name but her stats as well.

"How did she contact you?" he asked.

"She has been touring the world," Harris said, "And she was dancing here in London. At the Royal Ballet as a guest. That's how she contacted us, through one of our people there."

"You have people at the Royal Ballet?" asked MacGyver skeptically.

"Of course we do," snapped Harris. "You see, she left two red roses in his dressing room."

"And that means…?" asked Mac.

"It's cliche, yes, but back during the war, two red roses had been a simple code between the Russians and the British, asking for help."