Sipping with a grimace a gulp of tepid water from the MI6 regulation canteen, Cowley swallowed a pinch of tiny brownish pills. Angus' repeated claims about his medication's efficiency weren't so much of a boast after all, and the few remaining doubts they both might still have held about his ability to withstand the ongoing trial were definitely unfounded, he thought, while scrambling down the steep slope that led to the only spot on the bank where a boat could have landed on this side of the loch.

The hardly visible trail they were following didn't deserve to be called a path. Scurrying ahead, the dog was cutting them a breach through the thicket of bracken. Angus kept striding close behind at a brisk pace, the old bugger... Eh, bugger he could be, if Churchill's famous words about the Navy's traditions were to be trusted, but old he wasn't, not outside the calendar at least. The passing years and their plights seemed to have slipped on the man's skin and mind without leaving a trace, not counting the scars.

Cowley didn't lack scars of various kinds and locations and, for many years, he had to fight his body rather than rely on it to achieve his goals. But for the first time since Korea he felt sound and whole, able to move freely, almost nimbly. For a second he wondered if his cousin hadn't given him some opiate...No, Angus wouldn't have dared, though...

Soon they reached the place where the boat had been abandoned: a small creek, hidden from all sides but the water. The dog's flair had been useful this time. Angus gave him a scrap of jerky and a pat on the head. "Good boy, fine job".

The praise was not undeserved: the boat had been covered with branches and greenery, skilfully arranged as to look natural and without the dog's help, they could easily have missed it at first. It wasn't empty, though Bodie had taken with him everything he could cram into or pile up on top of his big rucksack; and that included a sleeping bag and one of those light, small Army tents, where two men could hardly squeeze in and lie down. They weren't from MI6's stock but from Angus' shack: Bodie had insisted on bringing them aboard "in case they'd decide to stay the night in the woods if the weather allowed it" (something Cowley was very resolute to avoid at all costs, even if it had been the mildest in Scotland's climatic history).

They found one of the Radio transmitters, undamaged, and the second sleeping bag, with a set of well-worn sportswear (Cowley's idea this time; a fishing party on a boat may easily turn into an unintended aquatic exhibition and make a change of clothes very necessary). Cans of beer had been discarded, probably to give room to more useful stuff in his bag. Somehow he had managed to pack all the food. He wouldn't lack subsistence for the next two days at least, with or without an extra-supply of game or fish.

Anyway, all that gear made an awful weight to carry, even for a young, athletic chap like Bodie. But, of course, Cowley had good reasons not to doubt the lad's ability to bear his burden as long as it would take. He never ceased to marvel at the amazing amount of physical strength and resilience his former companion could display when needed. What an outstanding agent he would make if only...No, that thought was ridiculous. The situation had changed dramatically during the last two hours: the man was now a fugitive, suspected of connections with terrorists and susceptible to being charged with resisting a legal arrest by assaulting regular State forces.

"I'm surprised he didn't get rid of the RTs," Angus said pensively. "I was so sure that would be his first move I didn't even try to check his position.»

Neither did I thought Cowley, a bit mortified by his unusual lapse of mind. Damn Angus and his emotion-stirring, brain-befogging potions. He, quite unfairly, retorted: "Yes, you preferred to rely on the dog."

But Angus was pursuing his own train of thoughts: "At least he could have kept one and destroyed the other."

"He wanted us to find it. Didn't know we had the third one." Cowley didn't elaborate. He wasn't very keen about telling, even himself, why he was so sure Bodie would wish to communicate with him at some point. Fortunately Angus didn't ask.

"So why hide it?"

"To save time, I guess; we would have found the boat eventually."

"In that case, wrong move. This device can give him away, working or not, whole or broken. There's a homing chip inside."

"I know it; you know it, but he's probably not aware of that. It's not mainstream technology."

"Aye, you may be right. It must not have reached the African bush yet. Eh, just his bad luck."

Bodie's position wasn't difficult to pinpoint: he had headed towards the valley behind the hill, following the narrow path that bordered the bank at first, then turning left to take a wider lane through the woods.

Before resuming the chase Angus opened one of the cans of beer. "No hurry, cousin: in this direction there's nothing for miles and miles but trees, except – not too far away from here – a farm whose owner is a friend of mine. I can ask Bart to warn him," he smiled thinly, "not to be afraid of a possible stranger's intrusion and even to give him the warmest welcome if he sees him, while waiting for us to arrive."

Cowley dismissed the idea. "It won't happen. He'll never ask anybody for help, that's for sure. And he's aware he's being hunted down by men with powerful means. Don't underestimate the man. I'd be surprised if he allows himself to be seen by your farmer. The most likely is he'll try to steal a car and then some money from a village shop or some empty house".

"You're right, of course, I'll warn him to lock his vehicles indoors, all his vehicles." (Cowley suddenly got the weird mental image of Bodie driving away, perched on the saddle of a tractor).

"Do it now; the man is swift as a snake."

And so did Angus, using his own frequency to contact Bart. The farmer didn't show too much surprise, according to the old man's later report; he had noticed the unusual circling of a helicopter above his head. (And maybe Angus had a reputation of his own among his neighbours too?). He hadn't seen anything suspicious but agreed about the safety measures.

After half a mile Cowley stopped. "Is the farm you told me about close-by?"

"Yes, quite, why?"

"I think you should go there and stay with your friends, I'll keep in touch with you through Bart."

"You offend me, cousin! I wasn't aware I looked so useless."

"That's not the point. I'm convinced the only way to reach to Bodie is through talking. He may agree to talk to me, but to me alone. Not sure he still trusts me, probably not, but there's a slight hope of it; not with you: he'd be more stupid than I could imagine him to be if he wasn't able to guess who had disclosed the place and time of our meeting to MI6."

"Come on, George! We are on the same page here."

"Not quite. He knows I don't like MI6 and its methods. We discussed it and I was very clear about it."

"Twaddle! I can't leave you alone to face a madman! You are not in the best of physical condition and he knows that."

"Precisely! He cannot hold any fear towards me."

"Neither towards me: he's so much younger, and heavily armed now."

"Angus, again you don't get my point: it's not just a question of bodily strength or weaponry; he may be wary but he's not afraid of me. Whatever he may consciously think, my take is he cannot believe I would do him any harm."

"And you won't?"

"Not if I can help it."

Angus let out a brief laugh. "Methinks, if he's so bright, he'll take this reservation into account!"

"He will. And I'll prevail."

"Presumption will be your downfall!"

Cowley's mind was made up, however, and Angus knew him well enough not to insist when it was plain the discussion was closed. Good sport, he admitted his defeat.

"Have your way, cousin. Yours, at least, is a clear option; probably better than improvising on the spur of the moment..."

Cowley snorted. "You mean running haphazardly in all directions, like a headless chicken..."

"A little exaggerated, I'd say, but you may have a point there. I thought we could catch up with him eventually, if only because of his extra load. But no; his lead on us seems to be increasing with every minute."

"I told you he's got uncommon physical and mental resources."

"I had more than mere hunches about that," Angus conceded, "I experienced them first hand; the mental resource I mean."

"The physical is on a par; believe me."

"I believe you. But what shall we do now? Time is not an issue any more if you are to fix a meeting with him, I suggest you come with me to the farm for a rest and a drink. You can have your chat there. I continue to think it's not a good idea to get in touch with him too soon; he must have some time to get tired and ponder on the situation."

Cowley hesitated. Going with Angus to the farm could be the best assurance he had the old man wouldn't follow him. "You may be right. We still have to keep to the 48 hours deadline, but one hour makes little difference. Anyway if I can't persuade him to come back with me, the game is over."

"Over for us but not for MI6."

Cowley mumbled evasively. He never had been so uncertain about an action plan in all his life but Angus didn't need to know that.

No question was asked by the farmer, who appeared to be a remote cousin of Bart and a former Marine trooper himself. Leaving the two old war-buddies chatting amiably in the kitchen, Cowley declined the offer of sharing their lunch and took the ham sandwiches brought by Angus instead. He accepted a glass of local beer however, then - with a few words of apology - slipped out to the farmyard, followed by Rover.

The sun was high in the sky now and the warmth of this mid-May, rather unusual in the Highlands, made the shadow afforded by the overhanging roof of the wood-shed very welcome. The pile of wood he was sitting on wasn't as convenient as a bench but he enjoyed the quietness and solitude, grateful that Angus had tuned himself into discreet mode for once.

He patted Rover's rump. "What would you tell to Bodie, old chap?" The dog woofed sympathetically but had no more pertinent advice to give, so Cowley had no excuse for delaying the call any longer. Thanks to Preston's precise, if not exactly freely provided, snippets of information, he knew the frequencies to use. Short waves have a long scope. He could only hope Willis would hold true to his word and abstain from scanning his unsuccessful team's radio transmissions or, at least, not use them during the agreed 48 hours.

Bodie's quick answer stunned him. "About time. What kept you?"

"I came as soon as possible."

"Hardly. I expected you hours ago."

"You forget I had no motor-boat at my disposal."

"You had the 'copter. I knew you'd use it."

Cowley burst out. "Precisely, Bodie! I had to clean the mess you've made: free the poor fellows you'd ambushed, appease their leader and, last but not least, find an agreement with MI6. For I have made an agreement with Willis and, believe it or not, that's the only reason you're still alive and free, with a not too ungrounded hope to remain so."

Bodie laughed. "I'm free because I took matters into my own hands. As for being alive, it's something I don't owe to you: I had a strong impression they only wanted me alive."

Cowley hissed. "You missed the second part of my sentence: the part about remaining free in the future."

"And you hold the key of my cell?"

"Bodie, that's no joking matter. We have to talk, and not through this device. You understand me?"

A silence. The voice broke it, clipped. "I agree. We've to meet. On my conditions."

"Which are?"

"You and me. Alone."

"Of course. I told you I've got a truce with MI6"

"That means also: not with Angus. I don't want him."

"Fine. He's not with me."

"He came with you. I saw him and the dog."

"Indeed? You've sharp eyes."

"I've binoculars."

"Angus is now having lunch with a friend and enjoying himself telling old war tales. He's no intention of coming with me."

"OK. I'll see you from a long way off anyway."

Mildly surprised by the relative smoothness of the verbal exchange with the fugitive, Cowley pursued with more assurance. "Where are you?"

"You don't think I'm going to tell you, do you?"

Good, thought Cowley, he's not aware of the homing device. "Seems to be necessary, if we have to meet."

"Not yet. You'll get back to the path you were on before heading towards the farm, first. Then call me again."

"Don't you want to know my frequency?"

"No. You call me: your move."

"As you like." Hmm, he suspects something in the appliance can detect his position but doesn't know what or how. Actually calling or being called is indifferent, master Bodie, but I'm not going to explain it to you.

"I'm leaving now; should be at the crossroads in about ten/fifteen minutes."

Cowley shouldered back his heavy pack with notably less energy than before. He took a few pills more, sent the dog to Angus with a friendly kick in the butt and started walking down the lane to the spot where it met the valley.

At this point he resumed his walk onwards. He knew Bodie was somewhere uphill but didn't want to look too well informed. After two hundred yards he stopped and let his thoughts wander.

His uncertainty regarding Bodie's state of mind was only equaled, if not surpassed, by a growing confusion about where he stood in this adventure: Was he in to save the lad from MI6's predictable abuses, or to save himself from a devastating blow to his reputation? That there was no contradiction between both aims wasn't enough to clear his sense of guilt or ease his shame. He was no longer trying to convince himself that he was the only one capable of extracting precious intelligence out of Bodie's wretched memory (the lad would, or wouldn't, recover it but probably without any external interference). He just had to make sure Bodie wouldn't be tempted, or forced, to speak about their shared intimacy.

Again and again he re-enacted in his mind the painful scenes, and all their miserable details, which had so patently showed his illicit desires. Illicit, they weren't anymore for the common man under the British Law, but the common man he wasn't, and he'd never lost sight of the threat: the slightest suspicion of homosexuality would bring his career to its end and irredeemably taint his honor in his peers' eyes.

Once more he wondered what part exactly the various drugs he had been induced by Angus to take were playing in his unaccustomed emotional instability.

With an effort he gathered his wits and made the call. Bodie answered at once. "Stay where you are. I can see you."

"Me too," muttered Cowley, off the mike. He didn't need the homing device for that; the reverberation of the light on the binoculars' lens was enough. "What are you afraid of, Bodie? You're the one with the long-range weapons. If you can see me, you know I've none."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Good. Neither am I. We'll be on equal terms then, and friendly too, I hope."

The subsequent silence wasn't encouraging. "Bodie? You still with me?"

"I heard what you said."

"You agreed we had to meet. The only question now is where. Will you come to me, or shall I get to you?"

"Come."

"Where, damn it!"

"If you haven't already figured it, go straight-on to the next crossroad and turn left: the path goes uphill. I'm somewhere near the top. Call again when you'll reach the little fir copse."

"Don't play games with me, laddie; that's childish and..."

"Bodie out." The RT clinked and went mute.

"Godammit! Stupid git!" As much as he hated curses and profanities, this – really – hit a nerve. Cowley gritted his teeth, at least metaphorically, and proceeded to comply.

The path ascending to the copse was long and trying for a man whose bad knee had started to complain anew. He made a pause and swallowed another dose of pills, hoping he wasn't already in the danger zone. He was a little leery about it since he remembered having drunk some of the weird herb-tea a few times during the last few days, only to goad Bodie into taking it more regularly. What effect mixing it with the pills might have, he didn't know and Angus had omitted to enlighten him about it.

The hill he was climbing was a little higher than the surrounding ones and, at that height, trees began to give way to shrubs and heather, so the remaining group of firs stood very visible against the sky. What was still more remarkable however were, at the top, the ruins of the old chapel, which he had noticed a few days ago, at dawn, in the aftermath of a certain night's disturbing events.

Bodie was nowhere to be seen. In this environment, there was only one place where he could have sought refuge: the ruins. And that raised a question: why? Why having elected as shelter such an exposed position, which offered no advantages except prominence and a far-reaching view? It wasn't the choice of a man who wanted an open road to a quick and easy escape. It was intended for a face-to-face, man-to-man confrontation. It was obvious to Cowley that now and there were the time and place for the final explanation.