Chapter Thirty-seven: "There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground; there are a thousand ways to go home again." ~ Rumi

Darkness. I flutter my eyes open to velvet black, and close them again. Nothing. Maybe I'm dead.

No, my head hurts too much, and my stomach is horribly sick. There's no afterlife I've ever heard of where your head and stomach pound and even blinking hurts. I'm so nauseated that everything is pitching and rolling, and my head throbs with a constant low roar.

There's something close over my face, making the air stale. Plastic. No, vinyl. Reeking, like a new shower curtain. It's difficult, but I move my arm, dragging my hand upwards, until I reach my face. . . eyes open, eyes closed. No difference. But I can feel my face, I'm breathing, pushing, lifting the thick vinyl, it rustles . . . the air is so stale, like breathing into a pillow when I used to hyperventilate, like I used to sometimes before. . . Mycroft! My fingers fumble to my ear, flick the switch to hear the familiar pops and crackles.

"Mycroft," I whisper hoarsely. "Mycroft."

There's nothing but static hissing in reply. Nobody there. He's gone. He gave up on me.

That's it, I guess. I could just go ahead and die here, it's not like anyone would care or anything. Already done up in a body bag, too, nice and tidy. . . a body bag. I'm in a body bag, a plastic pouch. A zippered pouch. I clumsily run my fingers along the material in front of my face, searching. There has to be a zip. . .

The static in my ear gets louder. "So you deign to check in at last. How nice," a familiar voice drawls.

I sob with relief, but my throat won't quite let me make words. Mycroft's voice instantly sharpens with concern. "Angel! What is your status? Report!"

"I think I'm . . . I'm in a body bag," I croak. "It's completely dark. It's hard to breathe . . . I––"

He doesn't waste any time with how or why. "Are you injured?"

"No. Maybe? I can't tell. Everything hurts. But I can move my arm, at least." My searching fingers find the centre seam over my nose. "I just found the zipper."

"There will be two zip slides. Feel for the point where they meet, you'll be able to force it open it there."

It takes some poking about, but I eventually find the slides, and work my finger into the space between enough to force them apart. "I've got it, I'm pushing them apart."

Fresh air seeps in as I slowly unzip the bag, but I still can't see. I push and wriggle my way out, suddenly panicking and desperate to get clear.

"Steady on, now, steady on. You need to stay calm," the voice in my ear soothes.

I'm fully outside the bag now, shivering cold, gasping, the clammy vinyl crumpled under me on a hard, chill floor. "I still can't see. I think I'm blind. I still can't see anything, no matter if my eyes are open or shut." I almost can't form the words for shaking. "My heart is pounding so hard, like I'm dying . . . I'm so dizzy, everything is pitching about. . ." Another wave of nausea hits me, and I groan with the cramping pain in my gut.

"It's unlikely that you are blinded," his voice is reassuringly firm. "There are very few drugs with that side effect. I assume you were drugged?"

"Yes."

"Injection or ingestion?"

"It was in the bloody wine. . ." The wine Jan had been so determined for me to try. The wine he had to give me all the details about. Only lies have details.

"Then it was likely GHB; that has the side effects you describe. That won't blind you, and if the dose you consumed hasn't killed you by now, it won't. You can't see because there isn't any light."

Oh. Well, that's slightly less terrifying, I suppose. "Where am I? Do you have a fix on me?"

"I wouldn't be able to talk to you if I didn't," Mycroft chides. "You are on a rented motor yacht 22.7 kilometres northwest from the port of Den Helder, travelling at a speed of 25 knots."

"I'm on a powerboat?" That would explain why the floor won't stay still. And the constant muffled roar in my head is probably the engines.

"Yes, you are. A 22-metre Azimut70, to be precise. I have a schematic of it right in front of me."

"Oh, god, I hate boats. I hate boating."

"I don't think Dijkstra is taking you on a pleasure cruise. I imagine you are headed someplace where he hopes to permanently dispose of you."

"Great, that's just fucking terrific. Where are Jason and Aaron?"

"Following you. I'm arranging your extraction right now." Now I notice the clacking keyboard in the background; he's been multitasking the whole time.

Anger and fear twine through me. "Why aren't they here now? I thought they were supposed to be watching out for me." I know I'm being a whinging little bitch, but I don't have the energy to fight it. "I guess you wanted to be sure I was still alive before you made the effort to try and get me out, right?"

"No," he replies evenly. "We've been tracking you closely since you left the city an hour ago; however, we didn't realise that the woman accompanying Dijkstra wasn't you. She is wearing your clothing, including the white hat and red boots. He probably suspected you were under observation."

"What? He's got some bitch wearing my boots?" I love those boots.

"Distressing, I'm sure." The keys keep clacking.

I am rapidly feeling less rough, although the nausea is still gnawing away at my guts. I try slowly sitting up, but have to stop halfway and groan, clutching my stomach. I've had quite a few bad morning-afters, but none so bad as this one. I just want to curl up into a ball of misery. Instead, I push myself until I'm sat all the way up, holding my head in my hands. "So when am I getting out of here?"

"Your support team is en route. Intercept is in approximately 22 minutes."

"Can they get here any faster?"

"Doubtful." He adds, apologetically, "I couldn't have them following too closely. Smuggler's boats are often equipped with military radar and enhanced engines, so your team is going to need the element of surprise."

Bloody hell. A lot can happen in 22 minutes. "So, am I just supposed to zip myself back into the bag and wait to see what happens? Hope for the best?"

"That would be one solution. I may have a better one. . ."

There's a pointed pause. He's going to make me beg, the git. I sigh, "What might that be, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I would recommend disembarking immediately. If you'll allow me, I can guide you to the safest place to dive off the yacht undetected and, with a life jacket, you'll be able to remain safely adrift until your team can locate you."

"That's a lovely plan. I'd really enjoy following that plan. . . except that finding a life jacket and slipping overboard is going to take a bit of stealth, and I can't even stand up at the moment."

"You haven't tried yet," Mycroft points out.

"How do you know?"

"Because I haven't heard you fall down."

"You're just full of the milk of human kindness, aren't you?" He's right, though. I roll awkwardly, trying to get my feet under me. "Please don't laugh at me when I fall over."

"Pratfalls do not amuse me," he promises.

At least he stays quiet while I'm rolling around and grunting with effort. I finally give up on standing unassisted and crawl forward until I reach a wall, then use that to lean against and slowly push myself up.

It feels like a major victory when I do gain my feet. "I'm up. Didn't fall down, although I'm pretty sure my head is going to explode now." Ow, ow, ow.

"Take a moment to recover."

"If you insist." I slump against the wall, my head tucked down. "Mycr–– I mean, Argus?"

"Yes?"

"Just so you know, I really regret turning off the transceiver today at the restaurant. That was stupid. You were totally right, I shouldn't have trusted Jan at all."

"Do you understand why you trusted in him, despite my warnings?"

"He was Steen's dad, so I thought I knew what he was about." It's painful to admit being that arrogant, but it's the bloody truth.

"Sentiment, yes."

"But my feelings are usually so on the money. . ."

"Blindly following intuition, what you call 'feelings,' inevitably results in wishful thinking and sentimental bias.

"Now, you sound nearly recovered, so let's get you moving. This is your situation: There are four persons on-board besides yourself; Jan Dijkstra, his female companion, and the two men who crew the boat. The last good satellite capture showed all four up in the flybridge, so if you remain on the rear deck they won't be able to see you at all. There are life jackets stowed in a number of convenient places; you should be able to take one and slip into the water off the starboard side with an acceptably low risk of injury from the propellers."

"An acceptably low risk?"

"Less than twelve percent probability, allowing for the the speed of the boat and the height of the waves."

"Only twelve percent risk of getting minced! Thank you, Mr. Spock."

"I hope you don't think you're being original, because believe me, that joke has been done, and done," he warns sourly.

I must be feeling better, because I'm able to muster a chuckle. "I reckon it has."

"Time to get going. Are you steady enough on your feet now to stand and walk?"

"Yes, I think I can manage –– but there's a small problem." I run a hand across my bum and thigh. "I'm stark naked, not a stitch of clothing on me."

"Naturally. The less identification on a body, the better. You're lucky that they didn't think it necessary to remove your fingerprints and teeth as well."

Ewww. My whole body shivers at that thought. "Right. Okay. Well, I guess if I'm to go for a swim, clothes would just be a nuisance anyway. So, what do I do?"

"Get out onto the deck above you. From the ambient engine noise and the lack of light, I believe you are in the crew quarters directly aft the engine compartment. The best of the two exits from there is via the ceiling hatch, which will take you up into the centre of the cockpit."

"Why would I want to go into the cockpit? Isn't that where they steer the thing?"

"No," he answers patiently, "On a powerboat, the cockpit is an open-air lounge area in the back of the boat."

"Then could you just say, 'The open lounge area at the back?' I don't speak boat. I hate boats. Is there a ladder for this ceiling hatch?"

"Yes. Feel around for the bunks, the ladder is beside them."

"Right. Bunks, ladder." I feel my way along, my fingertips gliding over the smooth walls. "Hey, there's a door right here."

"Does it open with a hand-wheel or a lever?"

I feel about for a moment. "There's just a lever door-handle, no wheel."

"Then that one goes into the engine compartment, not outside. Keep searching."

There's a cupboard knob, another . . . a bedspread or blanket brushes against my knees, I feel down, and up. . . bunk beds. Just a little further on, my hand encounters the smooth, cold tubular metal of a ladder bolted to the wall.

"Got it." With one hand extended above me so I don't get any nasty surprises in the darkness, I climb up the ladder slowly, but my head starts to pound again from the effort, a wave of painful nausea twisting my guts. I gag, swallowing against the choking feeling, but there's nothing to swallow; my mouth is like a desert. I hack a dry cough, clinging to the ladder and trying desperately not to be sick.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I could just really use some water, I'm so thirsty!"

"Ignore it," he orders. "Keep moving!"

Ignore it. Right. Easy for him to say! But I keep moving. A bit further up the ladder, my outstretched hand finds the ceiling hatch. I flail around it until I can locate and turn the handle, and the hatch sighs up on pneumatic hinges to reveal a brightly-lit open-air lounge. There's a huge c-shaped banquette curving around a long teakwood table, both well-attached to the deck. Behind the seating area is open darkness, although I can see the frothing wake tumbling white behind us. The other way, toward the front of the boat, there is a smoke-tinted glass wall with a sliding glass door in it. This is a big, luxurious boat, but it's still a boat, and the disorienting sway and pitch of it are playing hell with my stomach.

It feels like we're moving fast. The wind rushing over my bare skin feels bloody cold, and I shiver with gooseflesh. At least there's way less engine noise up here on deck, that roaring down below was driving me mad. The air smells cool and fresh, the sharp sea tang blowing the cotton wool from my throbbing head.

"I'm out on the deck, there's nobody about," I murmur. "I'm closing the hatch." I roll out onto the decking and push the hatch back down, lifting the recessed handle to close it with a soft click. I glance around into the night; away from the shipboard lights there's only ink-dark water below and a starry sky overhead.

"Do everything I tell you very, very quietly," Mycroft warns. "Move slowly. Now, there are storage cupboards under the seating there in the cockpit, with life jackets stowed in them. Open the nearest one, secure a jacket, and proceed to the right hand side of the boat."

As I kneel down beside the banquette seat to open one of the clever cupboards under it, the back of my neck prickles with dread. "You're absolutely certain that Jan and the others are all up top right now, right?" I whisper. "You're sure?

"Contrary to what some people might think, Angel, I am neither omniscient nor omnipotent!" Mycroft snaps, "But I project that they are unlikely to come down whilst the boat is still at speed."

"Okay, okay." I shrug off the doomsday feeling and focus on quietly pulling out an orange life jacket, smoothing the straps and buckles with my fumbling fingers. Now, how the hell does this thing go on your body . . .

You wouldn't think a really big boat like this one could get tossed around, but we hit a patch of rough water or something and the deck under me suddenly bucks, throwing me face-down and sprawling. My stomach spasms; I can't move for the nausea, and, worst of all, this time I can't hold back the heaves. My body takes over, retching and gagging, although all I heave up is thin, bitter bile that makes me gasp and cough.

I'm so sick that it takes me a minute to realise that a man's voice is shouting loudly somewhere above me. . . Oh, god, they must've heard me! . . . I have to get off this bloody boat NOW! To hell with the life jacket, I slither and flop toward the side of the boat, gagging and coughing as I go.

I claw my way up the railing, and quite nearly make it over into the water, but a fraction of a second too late; rough hands snatch at my legs and haul me back, kicking and screaming, although I'm weak as a kitten and just about as effective.

I'm dragged through the door in the tinted glass wall and sat down on a white leather sofa, struggling against the two goons manhandling me. I start to stagger up again, but each of them have a grasping hand on my shoulders, forcing me down again. "Sit!" one of them commands in English, then they both start talking at each other in rapid-fire Dutch.

When Mycroft's voice dryly remarks in my ear, "Well, that didn't go as well as it could have, did it?" I choke back a sob. How can he be so bloody calm? But thank god he is. "Now, Angel, I want you to listen to me carefully. I am going to tell you what to say to Dijkstra, and you will repeat it word for word. No deviations, no improvisations, just say what I tell you to, and we'll see if I can give them something worth keeping you alive for. If you understand, clear your throat twice."

I clear my throat twice, although it brings on another fit of retching. The bloke on my left gives my shoulder a hard shake. "No vomit on the carpets, you!" I dig my nails hard into my palms, willing the pain to calm my over-active gag reflex, and steady myself by focussing on my surroundings.

We're in the boat's main room, I guess, and it's as posh as any 5-star hotel. The lounge area where they have me sat is tastefully done up with comfortable white leather seating and cream carpeting. Opposite is a little kitchen, partially hidden by tall oak cabinets, and next to it a dining area with a huge table surrounded by banquette seating covered in more white leather. There's a decorative half-wall partitioning off the very front, and I glimpse two overstuffed swivel chairs facing a steering wheel and a darkened control panel below the windscreen.

The glass door slides open, and in walks Jan followed by a tall, thin, very tanned woman–– who is wearing MY bloody outfit! Jan comes over to stand in front of me, but the woman goes all the way to the front and sits down at the steering wheel, flipping a switch that lights up the control panel and taking the wheel.

Jan scowls at me, vexed. "Only down for six hours! I know you swallowed the whole dose, it should have been ten at least, and maybe not woken up ever. You must be strong as an ox. This isn't good, Angelica."

Mycroft's voice in my ear is very quiet, but crisp and precise, pausing after each phrase so I can catch up and sound natural. "Say to him, 'Killing me would be very wasteful, Jan . . . I have useful information . . . and I'm perfectly willing to help you, even now, despite this misunderstanding.'"

I repeat it all word-for-word, but Jan merely gives me a pitying look that makes me want to punch him. He turns away, speaking in Dutch to the two crewmen.

Mycroft tells me, "Now say, very distinctly, 'I know where the lost Salcombe Harbour shipment ended up. I know where it is, all of it."

When this comes out of my mouth, Jan stops talking and swivels around in astonishment. I smile at him sweetly, trying very hard to look like I know what the hell I'm doing. He blinks. "What did you say?"

I repeat it once more, and the two crewmen start to freak out at each other. They're trying very hard to hide it, but it's like I just told some little boys that Christmas is on its way.

Jan covers his own excitement with a fierce frown. "How do you know about that?"

"Calypso," Mycroft has me say. "She used to hire me to work duos with her." I wish! That would have been something else. " . . sometimes we would linger together after the client left, just the two of us . . . I was there with her the night that last shipment went wrong, I was there when the Colombians phoned her in a panic. So I heard where they dumped it. I know where it is. And I know for a fact it's still there. The Russians haven't found it yet."

"Then tell me. Now. Or I'll kill you." Jan says flatly.

Mycroft instructs me, "Merely smile enigmatically, Angel. Make no answer. He's bluffing."

So I smile, and Jan narrows his eyes at me. It really makes his wrinkles stand out when he does that. I'll bet he doesn't know, but I'm sure as hell not telling.

Finally, Jan accuses, "You're lying. You didn't even know that Calypso was a government informant. You never knew her."

I know exactly what to say to that, so I don't even wait for Mycroft's prompting. "I was testing you, duh! I wanted to see what you knew before I made my offer."

"Angel, stop improvising!" Mycroft growls sternly in my ear, but I ignore him for the moment.

"What do you want?" Jan eyes me suspiciously.

"What do I want? Well, let's see. First of all, I want a bloody robe or something to wrap up in! My arse is frozen. And I want a cigarette. And a bottle of water." I raise a eyebrow at him, adding, "A sealed bottle, because you are a low-life scum."

Jan barks a laugh at me. "Ha! Yes, okay. Why not? Maybe you aren't lying. Maybe you are. We can find out quickly enough." He sends one of the crewmen bring me a robe, and as we wait, Jan brazenly eyes me, his gaze lingering on my bare breasts and tightly-drawn nipples. It's too fucking cold to be naked!

"Seems a shame to cover up that body, you know? Almost perfect. Although I did find your little flaw," he smirks.

What? It hasn't occurred to me before now, but––what if that son of a bitch raped me while I was drugged? I don't feel sore or anything, but. . . . By god, if he did I'll serve him up his own bollocks. Scrambled.

I narrow my eyes. "What little flaw?"

Jan flutters his fingers at his left ear in answer. Oh! He thinks I have a hearing aid.

"Born that way. No big deal," I shrug, and make sure to tug my left earlobe self-consciously. He's clever, but not clever enough. The crewman returns then with a plush white towelling robe, and also hands me a cigarette and a bottle of water. I gratefully slip into the robe and reach for the lighter and ashtray on the coffee table.

Jan takes the seat opposite me, leaning forward. "Well?"

Mycroft says, "Stall for time. Tell him, 'I want to enjoy my smoke first. You owe me that much.' And no more improvisation, Angel! Say only what I tell you."

I'll stop improvising when you stop being lame, mate! But I go ahead and tell Jan I want to finish my cig first, and he reluctantly agrees, so I let the seconds tick by as I chug the bottled water and enjoy quite a decent smoke. I know for a fact that it takes me a bit less than five minutes to smoke an average cigarette, and by the time I'm nearly done with this one the yacht has slowed, the engines idling down as the boat pulls sideways in the darkness. Jan says something to the two crewmen as the woman at the helm kills the engines, and the men disappear outside, probably to cast the anchor or whatever it is that boaters do when they park. I guess we've arrived, although I don't know where. I really, really hope my cavalry gets here soon.

The woman comes over to sit beside Jan, my pretty summer dress hanging off her bony-arsed body in a satisfyingly unattractive way. She's not as old as Jan, but she's not young either, and she looks at me like she could care less if they threw me overboard. Jan turns toward her. "Vera, Angelica here claims that she knew Calypso very well, very intimately. What do you think?"

Vera raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps. It's possible." I expected her voice to be shrill for some reason, but it's actually low and warm, with a strong Dutch lilt. She bares her teeth in a smile, fake-white teeth in a fake-tanned face, telling me, "I also knew Alice. Maybe not so well as you, though."

Jan says, "I want some proof." He nods at Vera, and the gaunt woman begins asking me rapid-fire questions about Calypso, from her tiny secret tattoo (Winnie-the-pooh and his honey-pot, on her arse) to how she took her tea (she didn't. Only drank coffee) ––

- and Mycroft feeds me the correct answer every time. Every time. Just how well did Mr. Holmes know Alice Potts, aka Calypso? Apparently pretty bloody well. Disconcertingly well.

Still, this little interrogation is a good thing, because the clock keeps ticking on, and every second brings my deliverance closer. I try to stay focussed on that.

Finally, Jan and Vera exchange a look, and Jan nods. "Okay, then. Obviously, you weren't strangers ––"

"How come you knew her so well, Vera?" I ask impulsively, ignoring Mycroft's exasperated "Angel!"

Vera gives me a slow deliberate blink, just like how a cat does when it smiles at you. "We worked together some, back in my whoring days."

I love the way she says "whoring" in her Dutch accent, it sounds like "hoor-ring." I'm going to use that.

"Why was she set up to get murdered?" I press. This might be my only chance to know the truth, and I really want to know. "What did she do? Jan said she got greedy so the British government leaked her personal information . . ." Mycroft remains totally silent, which I guess is not so surprising.

Vera glances at Jan, exasperated. "Some people simplify things too much!" She shakes her head. "Alice had to get more money because she was blackmailed by a filthy Russian, some gangster called Mica. He had photographs that would have caused her to go to prison, and he would only give them to her in exchange for an item he wanted her to steal from a client––"

"Who? Which client?"

Vera shrugs. "I don't remember, except he was the one she called Walrus, for his big moustache and jowls."

Big moustache? That has to be Cobb. "What happened then?"

"She couldn't manage the theft, Walrus was too clever. So the Russian told her she had to pay money instead, a lot of money, every month. Her only hope was to try leveraging her contacts for cash. Next we knew, she was dead." Vera looks genuinely upset. "Alice was a sweet, gentle soul. I hate for her to be remembered as a greedy pig. What happened wasn't her fault."

I could argue that point, having seen the photographs in question, but I'm suddenly very weary of the whole sordid affair. I can guess which contact in the British government she had tried to leverage, and I can imagine how efficiently he dealt with it. There's never any blood on Mycroft's hands. . . none that anybody can see, anyway.

Jan leans forward again, elbows on his knees. "I am thinking we need to get down to business now, Angel. Tell me about the missing shipment."

I pause, waiting for Mycroft to tell me what to say, but there is nothing, just the soft hiss of static in my ear. Oh, shit. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to get Vera to tell me about Calypso's fate after all. Mycroft was privy to every word, he knows what I would have surmised. It will literally take zero effort right now for him to just let these people kill me.

I'm giving Jan a blank stare; not good. Gotta say something. "The Colombians. And the cocaine?" Good bet that if it's smuggling and Colombians, it's probably cocaine. Jan nods encouragingly. "Headed for Salcombe. The Harbour at Salcombe. Right." Mycroft? Where the hell are you? "The shipment went wrong. And they called Calypso, because they didn't know what to do." Jan nods again, but now he's frowning; he can see my uncertainty.

So what do I do now, for fuck's sake? I just need to drag this out for a few more minutes. The boat sways and rocks slightly, and my poor stomach knots again with nausea; but this time it gives me an idea. I clutch my stomach with a cry of pain and make like I'm sick again, collapsing on the floor with a painful thud and writhing in convulsions that I hope look like a bad drug reaction.

There is much shouting in Dutch, and a pitcher of icy-cold water is dashed in my face. Son of a bitch, that wasn't what I was looking for! I keep up the show, though, since I don't have any better ideas.

Then I hear an alarm of some sort going off, and all hell seriously breaks loose. The shouting gets louder, and all four of them rush about; Jan and Vera hurry to the helm to roar the boat's engines back to life, and the two crewmen run outside and do whatever it is that boaters do to get underway.

I'll bet that alarm was a radar alert, and either the water police, or my team –– or both –– are getting near. What a wonderful thought! Keeping low, even though Jan and Vera are ignoring me at the moment, I duck over to one of the windows beside the dining table to peer into the darkness.

Far off, I can see a flashing blue light. . . make that two. . . but the engines are revving to a scream down below deck. . . I need to get off this boat, now! Before it takes off. As I'm making my way toward the glass door, though, the engine sounds change, and with a sickening lurch the big yacht gets underway, quickly building speed, going much faster than we were before.

Bloody hell. I've got to do something, anything, to slow this boat down! If I pitch myself over the side at this speed, I don't think Mycroft's original calculations will apply . . . although even that twelve percent probability of getting minced by the propellers was too high, in my opinion.

I couldn't overpower four people on my own, even if I were in top form –– which I certainly am not at the moment. Listening to the rumbling of the engines, though, gives me an idea.

I silently retrace my steps through the door and out of the cabin, back to the cockpit. The two crewmen are still somewhere in the front of the boat, or maybe up on the flybridge, I don't know; I can't see them anyplace. Lifting the hatch I came out of before, I quickly ease myself down into the darkness again, hiking up the bathrobe so I don't trip and tumble as I descend the ladder into the crew quarters.

Feeling along the wall back from the ladder, my fingertips find the door with the lever handle. It opens easily, although to step through the doorway I have to practically fold myself in two; the little door is surprisingly heavy, rounded on the edges with a thick rubber seal. I can see all this because lights automatically switch on in the engine compartment when I open the door, revealing a surprisingly large room with an engine on either side of a central walkway.

There's an incredible amount of noise in here, a roar so loud that it sets my teeth vibrating and makes my head pound. The room has crazy pipes and gauges and all sorts of blinking lights, and it stinks of petrol and exhaust fumes and hot oil. Somewhere in here there has to be an emergency shut-down, a kill-switch . . .

It's actually pretty obvious, once I stop being overwhelmed by the noise and the machinery everywhere, a bright red covered switch helpfully labelled, "Stop," and that's exactly what happens when I flip the switch.

Of course, the boat itself doesn't stop, momentum being what it is, but the engines both cut out like magic and there is blessed silence around me. I immediately close the entry door behind me and go looking for a way to lock it; there isn't one, so I creatively jam a spanner against the door-handle, bracing so it can't be dislodged. C'mon, cavalry!

It only takes a few seconds for the pounding to start on the door, and I'm glad that I've got it secured because the shouting on the other side sounds very, very ugly. I can't make out the words very well, but the rage comes through loud and clear.

The shouting stops, replaced by jarring thuds as the door is battered with something heavy. I close my eyes and hang onto that spanner. Finally, there's silence out there, but I'm not opening the door just yet! No way.

For a very long time, everything is completely quiet in the engine room, except for the humming of the fluorescent lights overhead and my own ragged breath. Hell, there could be a pitched battle up on the deck and I wouldn't know about it for the soundproofing down here. I'm going to just keep on waiting.

Although, I haven't heard from Mycroft in a while. "Argus?" I call out experimentally. "Argus, are you there?"

No answer, just empty static. I'm not really surprised. That last bit, asking about Calypso . . . that wasn't really very clever of me, I suppose. I guess I let my curiosity run things again.

Well, done is done. At least I know now, I know what happened to Calypso. Well, everything except who actually pulled the trigger ––and that's almost irrelevant. Mycroft set it up so things would ––how did he put it? –– "Follow their natural course."

I don't want to think about it any more right now. I flick the switch in my ear off and the static goes dead; then I sit down with my back against the wall, pulling my knees up and resting my head on top of them. I'm physically exhausted, fucking shattered, but . . . I'm still alive. I won. I think so, anyway.

There's a brisk rapping at the door, and a voice calls out that sounds an awful lot like Jason's. The voice calls again, and this time I'm sure.

When I pull open the little door and see my team-mates, I could just about hug them. A Dutch cop stands behind them, holding up the crumpled body bag with a quizzical look.

I pull the towelling robe tighter around myself and raise an arch eyebrow. "So this was a cakewalk, Jason? I thought I heard you say something earlier about a cakewalk. A simple assignment."

"This IS a simple one," he deadpans. "You wouldn't want a tricky one, trust me."

I search his dark face and darker eyes, but I can't tell if he's joshing me or not. "Maybe. I don't know. But, I think I've at least had enough for today. Can I go home now? Back to London?"

Aaron shakes his head as he takes one of my elbows to help me through the little door. "No, you're going to have to stay in Amsterdam a few days while the police sort things out."

"How long is that going to take?" I ask.

"It'll take as long as it takes, Angel . . ."

In the end, it took four days, enough for me to have a nice holiday. I spent the first two days pretty much asleep, then the next two wandering around Amsterdam with Jason and Aaron, sightseeing and talking. They aren't such bad blokes, once you get past Jason's Napoleon complex and Aaron's self-consciousness. Talking with them gave me a lot of things to think about.

Now, leaning over the railing of the Battersea bridge, the toe of my boot wedged against the iron balustrade, I alternate between gazing into the rolling waters of the Thames, and watching a rare sunset light up the western horizon.

I take one last puff on my cig, blowing the smoke out through my nostrils and tossing the butt down into the river. Holland was beautiful, Amsterdam was awesome, but London is . . . well, it's London.

It's home. I declined MI6's offer of resettlement, told them I'd rather just have a bit of cash and take my chances on my own.

"Really inadvisable," is what Jason told me when I said I didn't want to take resettlement.

I thanked him for his advice but stuck to my decision. All during my debriefing back in Vauxhall I kept expecting Mycroft to show up and lecture me on the danger of staying in London, but I neither saw nor heard any sign of him. My transceiver was removed by the techie with a quick pull and a pop, leaving my ear a bit sore inside, but normal again.

They let me go this morning, with neither a farewell nor a thanks except the transfer of a few pounds to my current accounts; it's not even as much money as I would have expected to make from a weekend of "hoor-ring," but, austerity, right?

I arranged for my belongings from the Dormitory to be transported to storage; my handler, Alex, asked where I might be planning to stay now, but I just shrugged. There are a lot of hotels in London. I know which ones I like, and for the next couple of months I have enough money not to worry about it. "I'm sure you lot will be able to find me whenever you need to," I told Alex; he gave me a cheeky grin but didn't bother denying it.

I phoned Sara, of course, to let her know that I am fine and to apologise for disappearing again, but I don't think she worried all that much; like always, she lectured at me for not returning her calls, but this time it felt like a formality. Big sister duty. I dutifully apologised, and that was that.

I'm supposed to go to her and Richard's place for roast dinner tomorrow, it being Sunday. I suppose they'll want to talk about their wedding plans. I take out my cigarette packet, and shred off tiny bits of the paper to drop and watch the waters swirl them away. Sara has always been hell-bent to have a normal life, but me, I don't even know what that means. I never have.

It's not that I don't know what I need to do next, it's just that it scares me. I won't have any peace until I do it, though. Might as well get it over with.

I pull out my phone and ring my favourite driver, and I'm torn between being pleased and being terrified that he's available to come collect me immediately. I was kind of hoping I could procrastinate some more.

When he arrives, I furl myself into the back seat of the car, announcing where I want to go; I still know the address off by heart, and, apparently, so does my driver. He twists around in his seat, unruly eyebrows raised in surprise. "Are you mad? I mean, are you sure?"

Looking out the window, I nod distractedly, so off we go. It's dusk by the time we arrive, and my driver gives me a searching look in the gathering twilight, street lamps flickering to life around us. "Are you sure, miss?" he asks again as he opens the car door for me.

I just smile at him and lay on another fiver for his tip. He's an okay bloke.

Walking boldly up to the shielded, ornate front door, I'm half surprised to go unmolested by a security team or some high-tech automated defence system. But there's nothing, just the flutter of a few moths around the lights at the front entry, and security cameras blatantly detailing my every move.

The shrubs and garden plantings around the entry are precisely arranged and immaculately groomed, not a leaf out of place; I don't think they'd dare. There's a doorbell. I reach out, touch it lightly, but there's no sound. Is it working? That would be weird –– I can't imagine him having a busted doorbell. I reach out to ring it again, but before I do, the heavy panelled door swings open, silently.

"Angel. Come in."