London, England:  Feast of the Venerable Bede, 1968

Raisa Ivanova practically breathed fire as she strode into her office in the Soviet Embassy.  Mikhail Mikhailovich Scharmanski and Gennadi Aleksandrovich Zhulin, two tall, regular-featured, Russian men, glanced at each other.  Zhulin asked quietly, "What's the news, Comrade Ivanova?"

She glared at Zhulin.  "I've just been dressed down--again--by Comrade Bunitskaya.  Blamed for the failure of the weekend's attempt on Hogan."

"We didn't execute that one," muttered Scharmanski.

"Not only did it fail, it cost us Kornilov."  Ivanova sucked in her lower lip and bit it.  The two men kept their faces composed.  "Despite the fact that Bunitskaya plays her own game—the result being our demise--we continue in our mission, comrades."  Ivanova answered their unspoken question.  "Where do we stand?"

"Marko Khartagian is our sniper; he's going to take out the target while he's watching his son ride," responded Zhulin.  "And of course I will be there to follow through if necessary."

"That's nice."

Scharmanski added, "And for a backup, plastic explosives on the brake lines.  We'll wire it so that when he steps on the brakes at speed, there'll be nothing there.  He'll lose control and crash."

She snapped crossly, "And what good does that do us?  It could be weeks or months before he stands on the breaks at the right speed.  Anything less than 40mph won't guarantee his death."

"He's leaving from the arena for the Lake District on his honeymoon.  Hogan drives like an Englishman--fast on these narrow country roads.  A loss of control at 60mph, and he goes into a stone wall, so common in the countryside."  Scharmanski smacked his left fist into his right palm in emphasis.

Wagging her platinum blonde head, she mused, "That should do the trick.  Especially since nobody will be there to save him."  She gave a tight-lipped smile that accentuated her frigid eyes.  No one will be there to save you, either, Bunitskaya.  Giving Vlad to the other side was a mistake.

*****

Hogan sighed nervously as they walked toward the stables.  Patrick had insisted upon their seeing Nimue, his new horse, up close.  The thought gave Hogan the shivers.  Aside from the fact that I hate horses, Patrick, I'd like to throttle your Aunt Angharad.  When questioned about "his" horses--there was no way Patrick could've afforded them on his own--his son had confessed that his aunt had given him both Bedievere and Nimue as Christmas presents.  Even if I confronted you, Angharad, you'd only look up at me, give me that enigmatic smile of yours, and say, 'That's what you get for being such a blithering idiot, boyo.'  He shook his head and recognized that he took as much abuse from Angharad as he did from Maggie. Sisters!  What do you do with them?

Just outside the stables, he took a couple of deep breaths.  Suzanne took his arm in hers, trying to comfort him.  He patted her arm.  "I'll be all right."

"Absolument, Robert."

He knew she didn't believe him.  "I promised Patrick I would be here--to meet his horse and to watch him ride.  I figure he picked show jumping so I wouldn't panic so much."

"Trust him, cheri."

Hogan exhaled sharply.  "Yeah."  He wasn't about to argue with his new wife; a quarrel was no way to start off a honeymoon.

They'd only gotten married that morning--with his children as witnesses.  Patrick had beamed with pleasure after signing the certificate. Well, it's not every day you stand up for your old man.  Renate had seemed more ambivalent.  She's still not too sure about this.  Oh, well, she's just going to have to get over it.  Hogan's patience with his daughter had reached its limit. 

"Dad! Suzanne!"  Patrick's baritone, slightly deeper than his father's, sang out.

Hogan squared his shoulders and followed Suzanne over his son. Patrick held the bridle of a seemingly enormous, dapple-grey horse with a black blaze and one black stocking.   The mare snorted and tried to step back at their approach.  "My God, Patrick, she's a giant!"

"She's 16 1/2 hands high, Dad, and all thoroughbred."

"Is that why she's so nervous?"

Patrick looked at his father's rather pale face.  "No.  She knows you're afraid of her.  She picked up the scent."  Nimue tossed her black mane and tried to move backwards again.  Patrick held her firmly.

"Why aren't you riding your other horse, Patrick?"  Suzanne tried to deflect the current of nervous energy.

"Bedievere is too placid in temperament, a little too slow for show jumping.  Nimue is younger and full of spunk.  She's got the speed; we've just got to work on our precision.  Bedievere's better at the hunt.  At least right now.  He never seems to tire and has the surest feet I've ever seen."

"And Bedievere is the one that dumped you," Hogan added dryly.

"Lucinda practically put her hand in his eye.  If I did that to you, you'd at least step back." 

Suzanne stepped closer to Nimue and raised her hand as if to stroke her nose.  Patrick forestalled her.  "I wouldn't do that.  Nimue's a nipper, the one thing I don't like about her.   Isn't that right, old girl?"  Nimue whinnied as Suzanne moved back to her husband's side.

"She's a nice horse, Patrick, but I think we'll go find our seats and wait for you to show us what she can do."

Hogan practically collapsed in his seat. Suzanne leaned over him, "Robert, he's going to be fine."  She sat next to him, pulling him by the arm as close to her as possible.  "Stop worrying."

"Can't do it, Suzanne."  And then there is the other thing. He scanned the arena.  Bernie, Mary, and Francis Coopersmith were all out there somewhere.  And Lord knows how many of the earl's lot.  GCHQ had taken the bait beautifully, passing on all the necessary intelligence to Suffolk.  Some days, that man reminds me of Pavlov's dog.

A new, American voice broke his concentration.  "Hey, Boss."  Mary Kaiser looked at Suzanne.  "Mrs. Hogan."

Hogan craned his head around, only to snap it back to keep from laughing at her.  After a few moments, he asked, in carefully measured tones, "Who are you today?  Scarlett O'Hara?"  The frilly, floaty green dress seemed so out of character, and the matching hat was really over the top.

"How I am supposed to know what you wear to these things?  I'm from Upstate New York.  We go and bet on the harness races.  We don't watch the horses jump up and down with prissy little riders on their backs and behave as if we were at a tea party."

"Tell that to Patrick.  I don't think he'd be pleased."  Hogan closed his eyes in pain, recalling the last verbal confrontation his secretary and his son had had.  "On second thought, don't.  Bernie and I've got better things to do with our time than break up fights between you two.  Anyway, I suppose you want to tell me something."

"Just here to protect you, Boss." She cut off his protests.  "You forget I'm just as much a field agent as Bernie and Fran--even if I do sit in the office as your secretary.  I keep up my skills." 

Hogan heard the touch of frost in her tone.  "Fine."  He turned back around to see an unknown rider knock poles down at the water jump.  He glanced at his program.  Patrick would soon be up.

*****

Marko Khartagian, a slender young man from Armenia, took up his position on the opposite side of the arena.  He'd been planted two weeks earlier among the stable hands.  Fortunately, he knew about horses, and they'd all been lovely to him.  He'd carefully hidden his weapon and silencer in the tack room, retrieving them only now.  Khartagian got down on his belly, put the rifle on its short stand, and fixed his target within the crosshairs.  Now, he'd wait until the son appeared on the scene to distract the target's attention.

*****

Patrick Hogan began his second run of the competition and dropped a bar on the second jump.  Mistimed that one.  Nimue took to the next two with flying colors only to pick up too much speed and have to be restrained at the next one.  Two poles this time.  Get your mind on the task at hand, James Patrick!  He managed to clear three more without fault, but this ride wasn't going to produce anymore points than the last one, improving his standing not one whit. He allowed Nimue her head a little in anticipation of the water jump, but he caught something out of the corner of his eye.  Why is that man lying down on the gangway?  Before he even fully understood, he'd turned Nimue towards the man, touching her flanks with his heels.  She bolted.

*****

Marko Khartagian heard the thundering hooves before he saw the horse bearing down on him.  Instinctively, he ran. 

*****

Mary twigged to Patrick's actions.  Shoving Hogan and Suzanne down, she pulled her walkie-talkie out of her purse.  "Bernie, Fran, the east gangway!  Now!  A sniper being chased by horse and rider!"  Mary had her own pistol drawn.  A good thing, since Gennadi Zhulin bounded down the stairway opposite to her.  She saw him pull his piece.  She drew into a proper stance, with the free hand supporting her gun wrist, and dropped the KGB agent before he even had a chance.  Looking for other hitters, she motioned to Hogan.  "Let's get the hell outta here."

*****

Khartagian thought his lungs were going to burst.  He didn't look back, but the sound of a galloping horse came ever closer. If only I can make it over the fence.  People yelled and screamed around him.  Oblivious, he focused only on the fence.  Suddenly, a white hot pain flared through his upper body.  Khartagian glanced down to see red spreading from a shoulder wound.  I can't let it affect me.  It does not matter!  It does not matter!  It did matter.  He ran right into the fence, but with his shoulder shot, he couldn't make it over.  He turned to face the horseman who'd pulled up sharply on the reins.  The huge horse reared, and Khartagian thought for sure the flailing front hooves were going to smash his head like a melon. They missed him by inches. The sniper tried to move sideways; the horse danced in front of him.  After a few moments, the Armenian gave up.  The rider had remarkable dressage ability, and the cold, deadly look in his fathomless black eyes turned Khartagian's stomach.  He was greatly relieved when two American agents, both sucking wind, both with weapons drawn, came up.  The sniper sank to the ground in surrender.

*****

Suzanne Hogan had had enough of her husband's brooding silence.  "Robert, everyone, except the assassins, is uninjured.  Frightened, yes, but perfectly all right."  

"I don't want to discuss it."

She was ready to strangle him.  Unwilling to let go, she said bluntly, "Had not Patrick driven off that sniper, you would be dead.  Be grateful.  I am."

"Suzanne, what he did was so incredibly idiotic.  He could so easily have been killed."  Hogan was happy to focus on the road before him.  A curve came up; he downshifted.  The burgundy Jaguar saloon performed smoothly, rode amazingly well. 

"And that's why you almost tore his head off."  Suzanne would never forget Patrick's crushed expression--or the flowing tears.

Hogan gripped the wheel tightly.  His knuckles showed white.  "All right, Suzanne, I'll admit I was too hard on the boy." The deeply wounded look, those lustrous black eyes brilliant with tears, had made an impression.  So had the willingness, despite the emotional display, to stand up for himself.  Hogan had been torn between terror and pride.  Patrick is SO like his mother--even down to daring, stupid stunts!  "But he needed to know that what he did would have gotten him killed had he not been so lucky.  A more experienced agent--someone like Bernie Mays or worse, the earl--would have stood his ground and shot the horse.  A tumble from a horse at full gallop would've resulted in serious injury if not death.  And if the fall didn't kill him, the assassin would have finished the job.  No, Patrick was just damned lucky."  Hogan started shaking again.  Concentrate on the road, Rob, or you'll be in a ditch before you know it.  He shifted up to fourth gear.

"The difference between bravery and foolhardiness depends on one's success, Robert, and not only do you know that, you've lived by that."

Hogan snorted.  If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black.  "Not anymore.  Amateur hour ended many years ago.  And I've gotten older, if not wiser."  Today's agent makes the WWII operative look like a babe in the woods. The amount of training is simply orders of magnitude more in depth and intense. Conditions and technology demand it. 

He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly before adding, "Suzanne, if I have to choose between Patrick or myself taking the dive, it's going to be me.  No question.  You don't like that, he doesn't like that, but that's the way it is."  He hoped that would put an end to this discussion. 

"Robert, contrary to what you may think, I do understand.  He's your son, and you'll guard him to your dying breath.  You're as protective as any lioness with cubs."

He chuckled softly before downshifting again.  He hated the blind curves of English country roads.  Thankfully, they hadn't seen any sheep.  "Make that a lion with cubs.  Until very recently, I've been missing a lioness."  He waggled his eyebrows at her.   She gave a slight head toss.  "Seriously, I've had be both mom and dad.  And let me tell you, that's hard duty."

"You've done a wonderful job, Robert."

"I had help.  Robbie and Judith, Winifred Trelawny, Dick and Margaret, but most especially Angharad."  He shook his head.  "She was a God-send when I got Renate."  His sister-in-law had taken his daughter to her heart, without question or fuss, just as if she'd been Miri's.  Renate called her Aunt Angharad, too.

Keeping silent, Suzanne gave his arm a gentle squeeze and saw the small smile. Suddenly, she yawned.

"Tired, love?"

"Oui," she mumbled at the end of another yawn.  "It's been a draining day."

"Not exactly what I had planned for our wedding day."  He heard her giggle softly; she settled against the tan leather.  "Why don't you take a nap?  Since we got  such a late start, it's going to be another hour before we arrive."  He had a good straightaway.  Back up to fourth gear.  He glanced over to see her close her eyes.

His wife had no sooner fallen asleep than another blind curve came up.  This one wasn't as tight as previous ones, so Hogan simply backed off the accelerator.  His eyes narrowed in consternation as he saw the flock of sheep crossing the narrow road. They were moving from pasture to pasture and had the right of way. The stone wall on the left side of the road only complicated matters.

"Dammit!" he swore loudly, slamming on the brakes.  He felt the color fade from his face when he heard the faint popping sounds.  His foot found no hydraulic pressure. Oh, Christ, the sheep or the wall?!  He managed to downshift to third before striking the first sheep.

Jolted awake, Suzanne didn't scream, though fear suffused her face.  The bonnet and undercarriage of the car began to fold under. Hogan managed to shift down to second.  He tried to get down to first, but the saloon plowed into a large sheep and bounced off towards the wall.  The left side of the car sheared the wall, catching just enough to spin the Jaguar out of Hogan's control.  Finally, the saloon bounced to a stop.

Bleeding profusely from a cut on his forehead, Hogan looked up from the steering wheel.  Suzanne lay unmoving next to him, and a mangled sheep draped across what was left of the bonnet. Fading out of consciousness, all he could think was Rah, rah, sis-boom-baa!

*****

Raisa Ivanova waited impatiently at Heathrow to board the Aeroflot flight to Moscow.  Comrade Andropov was not going to be at all pleased by Bunitskaya's interference. It had proven particularly costly.  But at least the mission had--finally--succeeded.  Hogan was dead and no longer a menace to Soviet plans.

A nasal British voice spoke distinctly in her ear.  "Please come with us, Miss Ivanova."  She stiffened as she felt the cold steel of a Browning 9mm in her back.  From under her lashes, she glanced at her captors--one on either side of her, both tall, beefy, and unyielding.  Standard British issue.  Relaxing slightly, she seemed to acquiesce.  As the two plainclothes men each took an elbow, Ivanova stomped hard on the instep of the man on her right and drove an elbow into his midsection.  As he doubled over, she forced him into his colleague, knocking both over like bowling pins.  Hurdling the two downed agents, she sprinted for the car park.  

A single gunshot rang out.  Ivanova toppled over; momentum crashed her into a glass door.  The earl of Suffolk looked down on the Russian.  "Bad move, old girl."

Panting heavily because of the chest wound, Ivanova glared upwards.  "I have diplomatic immunity, and you have just created a diplomatic incident," she managed.

"Hardly my dear.  On either count."  He watched the eyes narrow to slits.  "Your government has disavowed you completely.  You are merely an assassin who will stand in the dock at Her Majesty's pleasure"

The coldly civilized tone got through her pain-fogged brain.  She took in the faint smile and realized she'd lost.  The two plainclothesmen arrived, stood guard over her; she moved her tongue to a back molar.  She never thought she'd ever have to use this, but better poison than Interrogation at the hands of the enemy.  Her tongue pushed against the false molar, but it jerked forward as the earl roughly pried her mouth open. 

"I don't think so, Miss Ivanova. You have far too much to tell us."  The earl jerked his head and the paramedics took over.

*****

Mary Kaiser stepped lightly into her livingroom, pulling her dark green terry robe tight about her waist.  She then flipped the ends of her towel over her head, down her back.  "Any news?"

"The purple headdress just makes it," Bernie deadpanned from the breakfast bar where he sat in pyjama trousers and undershirt.  He put up his hands to ward off her evil glare.  "Seriously, babe, nothing new.  He's four hours overdue at the hotel…."

"It's a safe bet he'll never check in."

"Aren't we the pessimist?  Anyway, the local authorities haven't found anything, so they've widened the search to include the whole shire.  Nothing yet."

The phone cut off any reply.  Bernie grabbed it on the second trill as Mary threw herself on her Danish modern sofa.  Hugging herself, she closed her eyes, listened to her lover.  "Bernard Mays, Inspector Rowan."  Silence.  He began popping his jaw.  Mary sighed.  He's upset.  This cannot be good news.  "I see, Inspector.  No trace of Robert and Suzanne Hogan."  Silence again.  "Thank you, Inspector."  He put the phone down.

"Well?" Mary pounced.

"They've found the saloon.  It's at a garage in a small town.  Brakes had been blown…."

"Four separate plastic explosive charges, one detonator with a centrifugal switch," she hissed.  A very professional job.

"Exactly.  But the car's not totaled.  From what Inspector Rowan can put together, the chief lost the brakes and plowed into a flock of sheep before hitting a stone wall."  Mary rolled her eyes, made an unladylike noise in exasperation.  "There is blood in the interior of the car, and since the windscreen--excuse me, the windshield--didn't break, we can be pretty sure that it's human."

"How much blood?"

"Apparently, lots of it on the steering wheel.  Not so much on the passenger side.  They're checking the local infirmaries and cottage hospitals for the chief and his bride now."

Mary felt herself losing control.  I don't want you to be dead, Boss.  I can't face the thought of you actually being dead.  She remembered how caring he'd been when Bernie'd come back from the Middle East in critical condition, not expected to live. I cried on your shoulder like a little kid when you told me.  She'd realized he'd known about their liaison from the beginning.  He'd kept quiet, neither embarrassing them nor passing judgment on them. She shook her head, trying to dispel her new habit of thinking of Hogan in the past tense.  "Well, I'd better call Sir James."

"What for?  There's nothing he can do."

"Boss' standing order:  if anything happens to him, I'm to notify Sir James.  He gets the job of telling Boss' children."  She paused. "I'd say something had had happened."

"Yeah, but we don't know what.  For all we know, he's in a local hospital."  Funereal silence fell between them.  He licked his lips.  "Better safe than sorry, I guess.  Go ahead."  God, she can jump a conclusion. 

*****

In his pyjamas, Robert Hogan, his head pounding, slowly made his way to the drinks cabinet, poured himself 3 fingers of Irish whiskey, and immediately drained half of it.  It has been one miserable day:  2 attempts on my life, the 2nd one injuring me and Suzanne; a major row with Patrick, the car a probable write-off, dead sheep and rising insurance rates. What a helluva day!  He drained his whiskey completely before hopping over to his desk to dial Mary.  The line was engaged.  This is just perfect!  Every time I try to call, it's busy.  He slammed the receiver down, but remained standing at the desk, his right foot raised behind him.

The door to the study opened, and Hogan looked up to see his son enter with a sandwich and a glass of milk. He smiled fondly.  "Midnight snack, Patrick?"  The kid's got two hollow legs.

Patrick looked over, startled. He spluttered, "What are you doing here, Dad? I mean you're supposed to be on your honeymoon in the Lake District."  He gave his father the once over.  "You've looked better."

Hogan responded sourly. "No kidding. I look like a raccoon."  His broken nose had blackened both eyes.  The cut above his left eyebrow only added injury to insult. 

"What happened?"  Patrick's voice barely hid his anxiety.

Hogan didn't feel like going into details, not wanting to scare his son any further.  "Car wreck."

"Are you two all right?  How'd you get home?" He tried to keep his voice level.  Setting down his snack, Patrick walked over to his father and saw the upheld, taped ankle. He exhaled in irritation.  "Dad, you need to elevate that foot and stay off of it as much as possible. Frankly, you should be in bed."  Shepherding his father over to the sofa, Patrick put a pillow under the severely sprained joint.

The boy's been taking bulldozing lessons from Dick.  "We've got lots of bruises, several cuts, and some severe sprains.  Both Suzanne's wrists, my ankle. That's it.  Between the two of us, we make a whole human being.  And we took a coach to Victoria Station."  Hogan leaned back against the sofa; lassitude began to overwhelm him, scattering his thoughts. He looked up at his worried son, gave him a tired smile.  "Patrick, be prepared for some real silliness.  Suzanne on painkillers sounds like a 16 year old gigglepuss."  Tittering constantly, she'd been enormously suggestive when he'd undressed her and put her to bed.  I'd love to see what champagne does to her.

"I wouldn't have guessed that."  He watched his father drift closer to sleep; the head started to nod limply toward the chest.  "That's it, Dad, you're going to bed.  Where you belong."