Author's Note: In regards to the unsigned reviews that I can't reply to otherwise, Josefina is indeed the grandmother of Carmen Sandiego; I have plans for a later fic involving confrontations between the Heroes and the V.I.L.E. organization. And in regards to Tiger or any other romances… I am pretty much the anti-romance writer. I happen to think Tiger is an awesome character, which is why I had her at the reunion. Anything resembling romance, particularly the Marya/LeBeau/Mavis triangle is completely meant to be tongue-in-cheek and not the main focus of this story at all.

The remainder of the evening was spent reminiscing about old missions, peppered with trying to avoid Crittendon, who was looking for Marya.

"Pity," Newkirk mused. "They'd have made the perfect couple…"

This garnered a few choice words from LeBeau, who stated that Marya did not deserve such a cruel fate—no woman did, other than Gretel, perhaps. Newkirk had to agree with that last sentiment, though he wasn't sure he'd wish Gretel on Crittendon after all.

He sighed as he introduced his colleagues to his old schoolmates, pausing to enjoy the moment as the British James met the American James. As he stared at these two sets of friends, both of which had played very important roles in his life, he soon came to realize that, for the rest of his days, he would be living two lives. There would always be the part of him that was the proud leader of the Dartboard Six—after all the years he had spent with them, he couldn't leave that part of himself behind. And then there were his colleagues from the war—his surrogate family. He couldn't deny that one of the underlying reasons he had signed on with their new endeavors was that he knew he would enjoy working with them again. He had missed them quite a lot—though he would never admit that out loud.

As the evening wrapped up at last, and the reunion attendees began to disperse, Baker and Olsen headed for Heathrow as they had been ordered to do, while Hogan and Kinch prepared to return to the hotel. Carter was preparing to go, as well, but Newkirk put his foot down. Insisting that his friend return with him and LeBeau to the apartment, the Englishman refused to take no for an answer.

Mavis didn't protest to this, though she assumed that her brother's companions would end up being as loud as the other members of the Dartboard Six when they got together. She made her own arrangements to stay with a schoolmate of her own for a couple of days who lived right down the hall and had opened her door to Mavis whenever she wished to stop by. It was for the best, she decided; the evening was not the romantic one she had been hoping for. This, of course, ended up solving the problem of convincing her to leave the next morning, so Newkirk decided not to protest too much.

Conversations between the trio went well into the night—concerning old missions and how they would deal with new ones. The next morning, after breakfast had been finished and as Newkirk led them to the magic theatre to show them around the place, the conversations continued.

"You really think you can impersonate a Russian general, Andrew?" Newkirk was asking, as they walked.

"Sure, I don't see why not," Carter replied. "I learned how to impersonate a German one, didn't I? Once you learn the language fluently enough, it's all a matter of acting like you belong there."

"I know a little Russian from talking to Marya," said LeBeau. "Do you think le Colonel will let me impersonate a general this time?"

"If they can find a ruddy short one for you to switch places with," Newkirk countered. "And 'ere we are!"

He opened the theatre doors and ushered them inside. LeBeau was muttering something in French; ignoring it, Newkirk rolled his eyes.

"So this is where you work, huh?" Carter said. "What exactly do you do?"

"It's like I told Louis; I do me own parlor tricks and 'elp Flood with 'is act. If they ask, I 'elp out others; I usually enjoy working with Warwick the Whisperer—'is act is communicating with animals and doing all sorts of tricks with them. There's one other bloke who asks for me 'elp a lot; no one knows 'is real name, but we all call 'im by 'is stage name: The Great Pandora."

"And that's a guy who named himself Pandora?" Carter asked. "He's got his Greek myths mixed up—Pandora was a girl!"

"No one told him, apparently," LeBeau mused.

"You know, 'e does come across as a little barmy," Newkirk said. "Apparently, 'e just showed up there one day during the war and started working 'ere."

"All kind of mysterious, isn't it?" Carter asked.

LeBeau and Newkirk exchanged glances.

"We received this assignment just in time," LeBeau said, with a smirk. "He still has the mind of a spy."

Newkirk suppressed a snark and led them backstage.

"I've got me own little dressing room back 'ere," he said. "It's one of the smaller ones, but, in exchange, I get a bit more money. There—look at that." He pointed to the small, wooden sign on the door with his name on it.

He unlocked it, revealing the small but well-furnished room. A tuxedo hung in a small closet, and several bags of potato chips, which Newkirk referred to as his "crisps cache," were stored in various hiding places in the room. In a large cage that was suspended from the ceiling were three white doves. They cooed as Newkirk approached them, happy to see him again.

"I'll 'ave to speak to Warwick about looking after them while we're gone," he realized, taking the cage with him. "Come on; you've got to meet the others."

"Well, we already know Flood," said Carter.

"True, but you need to meet Warwick," said Newkirk, knocking on his colleague's door.

There was the sound of flapping wings, and the door opened of its own accord—or so it seemed. A large hyacinth macaw flew from the door handle and back to its perch.

"Hey, that's neat!" Carter exclaimed. "I wonder how long it took him to train it to do that…"

He paused as he noticed that there were other animals in the room. A Siamese cat watched him from the dresser in front of the mirror with its blue eyes, and a Springer spaniel looked up at the arrivals lazily. Several more macaws, along with smaller parrots, peered at them from hanging perches, one engaging in acrobatics to show off.

"And he works with all of these?" Carter asked.

"Not just these," Newkirk said, hanging the doves' cage on a free hook. "Until recently, 'e worked with a white tiger, too. Just don't mention Pandora in front of 'im, otherwise, 'e gets furious. Pandora commandeered 'is tiger for the 'turn the lady into a tiger' trick, and Warwick is still extremely upset about that. Poor bloke is pulling a lot of strings to get another exotic animal for the act…"

"And it's not going well," a new voice said, entering the room. "Hallo, Peter. Are these those two war chums you keep going on about?"

"'Allo, Warwick. Yeah, they are—Louis and Andrew. I was telling them all about you."

The Frenchman and the American exchanged greetings with the animal whisperer.

"So, I take it you weren't able to get another animal?" Newkirk went on.

"I must have called every blooming zoo in southern England; they aren't willing to part with any of their animals, let alone a big cat," he said. "Maybe I should go for a chimpanzee."

"There's a great chimpanzee in the Hammelburg Zoo in Bavaria," Carter said, almost immediately. "His name's Freddy; it wouldn't hurt to ask."

Newkirk bit back a smirk, recalling the impish chimp that had somehow acquired the rank of sergeant.

"I can vouch for that chimp, Warwick," the corporal said. "If you 'ave any luck getting 'im, let me know. Listen; I'm wondering if you'll look after me doves for some time. I got a second job, but I still want to work 'ere, so…"

"Say no more," Warwick said. "I'll treat them as though they were my own—"

"Oi, look at this!" came Sergeant Flood's voice. Holding a newspaper in his hand, he burst into the room and caused the annoyed Siamese cat to flee from its spot on the dresser and scare the daylights out of the Springer spaniel, who yelped as the cat bounced off of him; the spaniel ran to LeBeau, who spoke softly in French to comfort the dog. The macaws squawked angrily at Flood, irked by the disturbance, and one Amazon parrot chided, "Bad boy! Bad boy!"

The sergeant ignored them, showing the assembled group the story in the paper.

"'Violent robbery in Hyde Park,'" Newkirk read. "When was this?"

"At one in the morning," Flood said. "According to this, the lady who was attacked said she was attacked by a man in an RAF dress uniform who was able to leap over a wall in a single bound to make his getaway!"

"Blimey, some bloke must've gotten smashed at the reunion last night and robbed this bird," Newkirk murmured, looking at the paper. "But 'ow did they jump over a wall? Was the bird tipsy, too?"

"Not at all," said Flood. "She was completely sober when she made 'er story. They're calling this thief the Springheel Jack II."

Newkirk let out a low whistle.

"What's a Springheel Jack?" Carter asked.

"It's a fire-breathing, 'uman-like creature what could jump like 'e 'ad springs in 'is shoes," Newkirk said. "The sightings were all in the 1800s, and the thing was never caught."

"And so they think this was someone trying to imitate the Springheel Jack?" LeBeau asked. "Or is it its offspring?"

"They aren't sure," Newkirk said, finishing the article. "If you ask me, it was a drunken prank. The bloke will turn 'imself in once 'e sobers up."

In all honesty, Newkirk couldn't be bothered with it; as far as he was concerned, it couldn't possibly concern him and what he had to do with his new assignment.

He didn't know how wrong he was.

After touring the theatre, Newkirk realized that they still had quite a while before the appointed lunch hour. Knowing that Roger and Philip usually spent the latter half of the morning playing cricket in the park, the corporal decided to invite his guests to go and watch the match, as he usually did. While Carter immediately accepted Newkirk's offer, LeBeau politely declined, insisting that he needed the rest of the morning to ensure that the lunch he had in mind would reach perfection.

Having received the keys from Newkirk, the chef headed back and soon absorbed himself in preparing the meal. It was like old times, he realized, cooking for his best friends—ensuring that they had the strength to handle the missions that would come their way. It was a thankless task at times, particularly when he had to contend with the petty complaints, but he knew that it was one that was just as important as any others; a well-fed team was more efficient and quick-thinking than a hungry one.

He was jarred from his thoughts as he heard a knock on the apartment door. He hadn't expected them back so soon, but when he opened the door, he was even more surprised to see that it wasn't Newkirk and Carter, but a woman.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle," he said. "Can I help you?"

The lady looked at the number on the apartment door.

"I'm sorry; is this the apartment of Peter Newkirk?" she asked. "I am a reporter, and I wished to speak with him…"

LeBeau now recognized her as the woman who had briefly spoken to Newkirk the previous night. He was now highly curious as to why she was interested in interviewing him, as well as how she had gotten her hands on his address.

"This is the apartment of Monsieur Newkirk," LeBeau said. "However, he is not in at the present moment."

"I see," she said. "It seems I made a wasted trip. But if you can tell him that Señorita Sandiego came by, I will appreciate it." She cleared her throat several times. "Pardon, Señor, could I trouble you for a drink of water?"

"Not at all," LeBeau said, and he went to get it for her. In truth, he was glad for an excuse to get away from her; something about her made him uneasy, but he couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was.

He paused for a moment, glass of water in hand, as he realized that he was starting to act the same way Newkirk did when Marya was concerned. But that was different, wasn't it? Marya was on their side—General Barton said so! This strange woman was exactly that—strange.

Pulling himself together, he took the glass of water back to the doorway, where the lady was still standing. Grateful, she drank the water, leaving a set of lip-prints on the glass from her freshly-applied lipstick. She handed the glass back to him, thanked him, and left soon after, leaving the Frenchman to stare at the retreating lady and shake his head, baffled.

He soon returned to his work in the kitchen. As more time passed, he soon forgot about the woman, and was eventually putting the finished meal out onto the table when he heard Newkirk and Carter arguing outside the door. LeBeau blinked, highly curious and looking to find out exactly what had happened.

"I was just trying to get into the spirit of the game!" Carter was saying. "We do exactly the same thing when we're at baseball games."

"Cricket is not baseball!" Newkirk countered, opening the door. "And don't forget to mind the carpet when you come in."

"Mind the wha—? Oof!" Carter yelped, as he found himself sprawled on the floor.

The two corporals exchanged glances and helped the sergeant back on his feet.

"Still the same old André," LeBeau mused.

"I blame jet lag for that," Carter said, dusting himself off so as to regain his dignity.

"And I suppose you're going blame jet lag for what you did at the game?" Newkirk asked. He turned to LeBeau. "Louis, tell 'im. Tell 'im that cricket is a dignified sport, and that you do not yell, 'Heeeeeeey, batter, batter, batter!' at the batsmen!"

LeBeau burst out laughing, "You mean he really did that?"

"And 'ad the gall to refer to a beautiful six as a 'grand slam,' or something like that," Newkirk added.

"I told you, I was trying to get into the spirit of the game!" Carter said.

"To get into the spirit of the game, one must be familiar with the terminology!" Newkirk said. "You wouldn't see me calling a ruddy 'ome run a six if I went to one of your precious baseball games!"

"Gee, I didn't even think you'd go to a baseball game…"

"That's an argument for another time," the East Ender countered.

"Looks like we just missed something," Hogan's voice came from across the hall.

"Right on time," Newkirk commented on his arrival. "Oh, Colonel, when you come in, don't forget to mind the—"

He was cut off as Hogan stumbled on the carpet and nearly tripped; the colonel managed to regain his balance just in time.

"…Carpet…" Newkirk finished, sheepishly.

"You know, Newkirk, you'd better get that repaired before someone other than us trips and ends up suing you," Kinch advised, gracefully striding over the ruined part of the carpet.

"I will, I will," the corporal said. He turned to Hogan. "Did the telegram come in, Sir?"

"It did," Hogan said. "I'm looking forward to discussing this over lunch. LeBeau, what have you got for us?"

"Ratatouille for starters, coq au vin for the main course, and café liégeois for dessert; I figured a coffee dessert would be best to prevent jet lag from interfering with the mission," the Frenchman said.

"Always thinking," Hogan said, with approval. As LeBeau served out the meal, he drew out the telegram. "Right, here's the score. For phase one of the mission, General Barton wants us to investigate a recent string of thefts at the Schroeder Corporation. It's a very prestigious company that works to develop revolutionary vehicles and other advancements in electronics."

"Schroeder?" Carter asked. "But… that name sounds…"

"German?" Hogan finished. "Yeah; their headquarters are in Heidelberg. Several known communist agents were seen around the area before and after the robberies took place. The head of the company, a Mr. Georg von Schroeder, has all the details, including descriptions of suspicious people caught loitering near his building."

"But, Sir…" said Newkirk. "You mean to tell me that we're actually going back to Germany?"

"And this von Schroeder character—how do we know he is trustworthy?" LeBeau asked.

"Before you go jumping to conclusions, Georg von Schroeder temporarily shut down his entire company once the German army started growing in the 30s. He had his employees either go into hiding or flee the country, while he took all of his company's engineering secrets and headed for England to help our side during the war. I remember once that Hochstetter mentioned that there was a price on his head."

"And after the war, he came back to Heidelberg and reopened his business?" Kinch asked.

"That's the general idea," Hogan said. "We need to meet with him and do a little investigating into who has been stealing his technology."

"Go back to Germany, after all we did to get out?" Newkirk asked again. "Blimey, Sir; I know I agreed for the missions and all that, but…"

"Hey, it won't be all bad," Carter said. "It's not like Hochstetter's out on the streets, waiting to throw us all into one of his cells."

"Actually, Hochstetter's the one in the cell," Hogan said. "He's serving a sentence in a Heidelberg prison for war crimes."

LeBeau applauded at the news, and Newkirk cheered up immensely.

"Well, Guv, if that's the case, then I'd be only too 'appy to go back there," he said. "If for no other reason than to pay a visit to the major, stand back and appreciate 'ow I'm the free man and 'e is the prisoner, and then proceed to thumb me nose at the old fool."

"Save a spot for me; I will join you," LeBeau said. "And I will be the one to dance and step on his toes!"

"I'll do my General von Siedelberg bit—just to rub it in," Carter agreed, with a grin.

"And then we'll tell 'im that we've surrounded the place with a ruddy ring of steel!" Newkirk added.

"Hold it," said Hogan. "We've got more pressing matters while we're there, though we will be visiting Hochstetter. According to General Barton, we have some questions to ask him; apparently, he's been visited by a few communist agents on a regular basis and having long talks with them."

"Why would Hochstetter talk to them?" Kinch asked. "He's against everything they stand for!"

"That's one of the things we need to ask him," Hogan said. "I know he'll never switch to the communist agenda, but there's every chance in the world he'll play along with them long enough to get something he wants. But we need to get to Heidelberg as soon as possible, according to what the telegram says. So, in exactly…"

Hogan trailed off, freezing as he noticed a wire running under the front door of the apartment. He crept over to the torn part of the carpet and lifted it from the floor, revealing the hidden microphone underneath.

Never had silence sounded so ominous than at the present moment.