Howard Moon, secret agent, opened the heavy oak door and walked into the paneled confines of his chief’s office. His nerves were tingling; the static electricity from the new carpets was a constant problem.

“Thank God! There you are!” boomed a deep, fruity voice.

Behind a broad desk of dark wood, strewn with papers, a burly, well-coiffeured man was sitting, combing his moustache. A magnificent example of facial hair, mused Moon, something of an expert in the matter.

“I’ve been waiting all morning,” continued the bellow. “I’ll have the chicken mayo, go easy on the pesto. And hold the gherkins this time…”

Moon frowned.

“It’s Moon, sir. Howard Moon. You sent for me.”

The burly man waved a hand dismissively.

“Whatever. Take a pew, Moon. And if you want to take your jacket off—maybe loosen your tie a little—don’t stand on ceremony, man. I’d have no objections. I’ll be removing some garments myself later, no doubt. I find it helps to deal with pressure….”

Moon seated himself in a winged leather armchair opposite the desk and contemplated his boss. ‘B’ was by reputation a tough cookie, and rumoured to be difficult to get to know. Moon had only just worked out the quirks of ‘B’’s predecessor, ‘A’—himself a recent appointment—when the incumbent of the top post had changed yet again. Poor man, mused Moon. Too early a death, choked by his own tea and biscuits in this very room—what a way to go. There were undoubted dangers in their very secret service, but they did seem to be running through the alphabet a trifle quickly these days.

“B’ finished with the moustache and favoured Moon with a hard stare.

“Right. Tell me what you’ve found out about our target.”

Moon cleared his throat.

“Well, sir, I’ve had my best informant working on this. Mr Big is a self-made millionaire with a number of landed estates in various remote parts of Europe. Estates that seem to require a lot of building work most of the time. He’s not seen out much, and he has the aura of a mystic about him. But he’s fond of giving large parties at home for celebrities—MPs, musicians, actors, comedians and such like. Keeping his philanthropic profile high….”

“B’ splayed his hands on the desk and leaned over.

“What’s your lead?” he bellowed.

“Big’s made his money in confectionery and fancy baking, sir. He likes to pretend that he gives much of his profits to charity but I believe he’s stockpiling flapjacks for a nefarious purpose. All his recent shipments point to this. But what that purpose is, I’m not yet sure”

“Good work, Moon! We have suspicions that he plans a coup against this government. If he succeeds, there’s no telling where he’ll stop. It’s your mission to discover how the flapjacks are involved. There’s every likelihood his secret plans are stored at his Croydon mansion.”

Moon nodded gravely.

“Indeed, sir. And there’s a party there tonight. I intend to inveigle my way in and get sight of those plans.”

“I like your thinking, Moon.” ‘B’ clicked his fingers in a gesture of approval.

“This is deadly serious,” he continued. “Already we believe he has infiltrated this very organization to try to thwart our work against him. Penetrated our defences, and at the most secure, the most secret point…”

Moon looked shocked.

“Sir..! Not ‘A’’s biscuits….?”

“B’ dropped his gaze and sighed. “A terrible end…” he whispered.

Then he fixed Moon with a look of dramatic intensity.

“I’m sorry to say, Moon, that we may have a double-agent in our midst. Someone who is prepared to pervert themselves for an evil end, to bend their loyalties both ways…”

Moon rose, and stood proudly before his chief.

“They won’t last long, sir, whoever they are. We’ll get him. Or her. Or them. Depending on the circumstances.”

“Good man! That’s the sort of spirit I like to hear!”

“B’ rose and clasped Moon’s hand. His grip was strong as he pumped Moon’s arm in a generous handshake.

“The country needs brave men like you, Moon. Particularly those with deep, brown eyes like yours.”

He squeezed Moon’s hand hard in a manly gesture of camaraderie.

“What’ll be your disguise for tonight, then?”

“Oh, it’s black tie, sir, as usual…”

“Comme d’habitude, eh, Moon?” ‘B’ chuckled to himself. “And I’ll bet you look good in black.”

“B’ walked around his desk and passed Moon a slip of paper.

“Here’s your chit for your gadgets and weapons.” He delivered a friendly slap on the back.

“What will you be carrying underneath that suit tonight? Some hefty hardware, I should imagine….?”

“Just my usual equipment, sir,” rejoined Moon.

“B’ nodded thoughtfully. They walked to the door together, ‘B’’s arm resting at Moon’s hip in a brotherly fashion.

“This mission is vital for the safety of the country. I’m entrusting it to you, Moon. But you understand that I can’t assign you a partner? The fewer that know about this within our organisation, the less chance of fatal betrayals.”

“Quite, sir. I prefer to work alone in any case. I don’t like emotional complications in my work.”

“I know your attitude, Moon and it does you credit. Though it’s a sacrifice to be sure, to deprive yourself of human company, keeping your destiny in your own hands. Well, you only have to ask, man, and I’ll be right behind you. Be assured of that.” He paused.

“Except that if anything goes wrong in this little caper, the department will of course have to deny all knowledge of your existence….”

Moon nodded grimly.

“Of course, sir.”

“B’ gave Moon’s hip a final squeeze of solidarity.

“Good luck, Agent Moon. I only wish I were coming with you.”

As Moon left the suite of offices, ‘B’’s booming laugh could be heard echoing through the corridors. Such strength of character, he mused, to keep his spirits up in such desperate times for the service. Just another facet, perhaps, of the all-round enigma that was his chief.

He thought he’d enjoy working under this man.

Later that evening, Moon stood amongst the crowd of partygoers in a glittering orangerie. Contrary to his expectations, he was finding it difficult to tear himself away from Mr Big’s champagne reception. Glamour held no fascination for him. He had lost count of the number of parties that his job description had required him to crash, to use as a means of infiltrating some megalomaniac’s world-domination fantasy. Well, three actually, none of them complete successes, to be honest, especially the time he had had to dress as a cocktail waitress. The amount of tips he had received that night had been a disgrace, and had necessitated a fairly stiff letter to the head of HR (herself not an entirely easy woman to get along with).

But tonight he found his attention wandering. The stage had been set for some live music extravaganza. He found his gaze locked on the movements of one of the performers. It wasn’t his type of music, to be honest. A Ligeti string quarter, or a strong dose of John Coltrane, was more his thing this time of an evening. But whatever the style of music this was, it paled into insignificance compared with the sheer magnetism of the lead singer, gyrating across the stage clad in a skin-tight black cat-suit covered in spangles. He had commenced the set wearing a bowler, but the whole crowd had ignored him until he had summarily, and with superb judgment, cast it into oblivion. And now, tossing his raven locks, he held the whole crowd in his spell, Howard Moon included.

Moon drew closer to the stage, hypnotised by the show. He asked several of the glamorous women clamouring for his attention who this extraordinary person was. When he had convinced them that he could not, in fact, top up their martinis, nor did he have any of those delicious anchovies left, they told him that this was some warm-up act called ‘Noir’. Not that it made any difference to Moon, well-versed in seeing through disguises. He knew there was more to this ‘Noir’ than met the eye.

He saw the singer glance his way, and then saw that gaze return again and again throughout the song. Some innate subconscious mechanism prompted him to drag himself away, not get involved, and absorb himself in the mission for the evening. That, and the miniature alarm clock attached to his thigh. As he made his way through the crowd, picking up empty glasses as he went, he was only slightly conscious of a fracas on stage as ‘Noir’ was replaced by the main act for that evening. “Howard Moon” he told himself, “you can’t afford to get distracted….”

He paced carefully along the thickly carpeted corridor to where his research had told him Mr Big’s office was situated. That same research, from his best informant Bobby Fossil, told him that Mr Big would by this time be waiting in the orangerie for the headliners of the evening, a music parody double act, much admired amongst the chattering classes. The secret plans would be there for the taking.

He stealthily entered the suite of rooms, feeling the tension throbbing, though that was not an unusual sensation for a secret agent. He made his way between the marble pillars, wafting clouds of incense, or something, away from his eyes as he went, moving steadily towards the wall safe he knew would contain the plans. He already had the combination, reliably provided by Fossil and ironically the same number as the local minicab firm. This was a piece of cake….

He swung back the frame of the Mona Lisa (the original, by the way; that was obvious) to expose the large knob of the safe. He flexed his fingers, steeling himself for some sensitive twiddling. But just as his hand reached out, so the light snapped on. Mr Big, all four foot eleven and a half inches of him, stood in the doorway, turban at a rakish angle.

“Grab him”, he said to one of his gorillas. Who actually was a gorilla.

Howard Moon felt his arms pinioned to his sides.

“So, Mr Moon…” began Big.

“Do you expect me to talk?” scoffed Moon.

“No, Mr Moon, I expect you whimper like a girl until all your important code words and secret thoughts are in my power,” said Mr Big, picking up a hookah pipe and puffing absently, as his gorilla wrenched Moon’s arms painfully backwards.

“Hey, Boss” said the gorilla “I finish this. You go see that special act you like. You know, music parody, funny songs, dorks in New York…”

“Nah,” said Mr Big, “very derivative. It’s lost its charm, if it ever had any. I’d sooner watch her Majesty’s finest secret agent squirm. Or failing that, this jerk-off. Get him ready, Bollo”

Moon felt his dress shirt ripped from his back. He momentarily worried about the hire fees until there, in his field of vision, were the pliers wielded by the fanatically dedicated gorilla. And he heard Mr Big snicker. He knew then he had more to worry about than Moss Bros.

“In your own time, Bollo…” said Big casually.

“No!” shouted Moon. “don’t kill me! I’ve got no end of secrets…..”

Suddenly from above a shape descended, swinging both ways from a cable, sinuous and lithe. It swung right and caught the gorilla a hefty kick under the jaw which laid him out flat, releasing Moon completely. Then on the backswing, the figure slammed into Big, who was lifted from the ground to connect with the wall safe, and subsequently collapse to the carpet, unconscious, his head protruding from the frame of a da Vinci masterpiece.

The figure hit the floor and righted itself.

“All right? Time we hot-footed it out of here.”

Moon grabbed the slim arm of his rescuer. It was the lead singer, Noir. He was even more captivating at close quarters.

“Why are you here?” he demanded. “What do you know about Mr Big’s operation?”

“Easy, tiger” purred Noir, tossing his raven hair and smiling seductively “Only that the ball-bag doesn’t pay much. I was just in here practising while those Kiwi gits occupied the stage. Everyone will be wanting a bit of a dance later. That’s when my moves will come into their own… I deejay too, by the way”

“Hah! Practising?” scoffed Moon, still holding Noir’s arm. Noir only drew closer. Moon could feel perfumed breath on his cheek.

“Well, the whole ‘fly by wire’ thing’s quite a crowd puller. Used it on lots of occasions. It really gets people going.”

He looked directly at Moon, who felt himself drawn into the depths of the magical blue eyes.

“I don’t trust you,” said Moon, feeling himself crumble at the sensation of a tongue flicking at his ear, and the stroke of a hand at his thigh. “I think you work for SMERSH!”

“Excuse me!” said Noir, pulling back slightly to favour him with a look of disdain. “As if. And anyway, I’ve never liked instant potato. Not something the seventies should ever be proud of.”

“So, what’s your angle?” Moon ventured, man of potential action at all times.

“Eager, aren’t you? All in good time. Besides…” He gave Moon a flirty look. I don’t even know your name.”

“The name’s Moon, Howard Moon,” came the reply. It was repeated often as both collapsed in a tangle and was eventually smothered in shag-pile carpet.

[nextpage title=”Chapter Two”]

Chapter Two

Although it was only a few moments in Noir’s embrace, Moon found himself wishing it could be an eternity—he was lost in a paradise of caresses and pliant lips. But suddenly he came to his senses, pushing himself away from the lithe body that twined around him.

“No, sir! My apologies, but this is all wrong….!”

Noir sat back on his heels, adjusting his cat-suit at the shoulders where Moon’s wild, wandering hands had pushed the fabric aside. His eyes were hooded, but a smile quirked at his lip.

“What’s up, tiger? I don’t usually get many complaints about my floor-show…”

Moon rose, and adjusted his own clothing further.

“Howard Moon does not kiss men, sir. Please forgive my momentary lapse of concentration, but I emphatically state, Howard Moon does not kiss men!”

“Oh yeah?” Noir dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “Look, Howard, if that’s your momentary lapse, let me know when you’re on your next half-hour tea-break. ‘Cos you have serious potential.”

“That’s potential I don’t need unleashing…” muttered Moon to himself, turning towards the unconscious Big and the wall-safe.

Noir was on his feet now, and he drew close to the tall agent.

“I’m quite good with leashes, too…” he murmured in Moon’s ear. Moon shrugged him off.

“Look, I am extremely grateful for your intervention, sir…”

“‘M’name’s Vincenzo.”

“Vincenzo… Vincenzo? Oh, okay, Vincenzo. But I really need to concentrate on the business in hand.”

Noir scrunched up his brow in a frown.

“Really? I thought that was what we were doing…”

Moon ignored him.

“I need to get this safe open. Stand aside, sir… Vincenzo, I mean. I don’t want innocent bystanders injured.”

In response, Noir drew even closer, peeking over Moon’s shoulder as the agent stepped over the prostrate body of the multi-millionaire to square up to the safe with its combination lock. A loud snore from the other side of the room confirmed that the gorilla was still out for the count.

“You gotta number…?”

“Indeed I do, sir” whispered Moon, stroking the large knob gently.

“No, I mean your ‘phone number…”

“Step aside, Vincenzo!”

Noir sighed theatrically and moved back. But as Moon placed his ear to the safe and listened to the tumblers fall as he manipulated the knob, he felt Noir pressing close to him again, craning over his shoulder. And there was something hard jutting against his buttock. He froze.

“Vincenzo, what’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That.” Moon gestured blindly, eyes averted.

Noir’s gaze followed the pointing hand.

“Oh, that’s my thing…”

“Pardon me?”

“My thing. Sorry, it’s always getting in the way. It’s a bugger to conceal in a cat-suit, let me tell you.”

He registered Moon’s doubtful look.

“It’s my thing to operate my fly-by-wire.”

Moon huffed.

“Just stand clear, please, Vincenzo.”

But he felt resigned more than irritated as Noir bundled up again, pressing close against the agent’s back. They both heard the final tumbler click, and the small door sprang open. Two pair of eyes—one blue, one brown—peered into the little safe.

“Wow,” breathed Noir. “What a lot of boring things…”

The safe contained nothing but a bundle of papers. Nevertheless Moon grabbed them and scanned them with a look of triumph. He swept clear a space at Big’s desk and laid the papers flat. Then, from the heel of his shoe, he produced a miniature camera.

“What’re you doin’?”

“Just a few snaps, Vincenzo,” replied Moon distractedly. “Then the plans can go back in the safe and it’ll seem like nothing’s been disturbed…”

“Won’t the unconscious gorilla be a bit of a giveaway?”

Moon looked up. Noir was smirking. Moon frowned in return.

“Microfilm is… umm… easier to carry. Look, just keep watch, will you? While I finish up.”

Noir pouted and sauntered to the door.

“What’re they plans of, anyway?”

“If I’m right, they’re…” Moon hesitated, and gave the spangled figure, now lolling casually by the door jamb, a penetrating look.

“Look, Vincenzo, you’re a civilian here. Best you don’t get involved.”

Noir inspected his nails.

“Oh, okay then. Helping secret agents escape from a pincering’s all in a day’s work for me…”

Moon opened his mouth to protest, but suddenly Noir jerked upright, his eye pressed to the edge of the door. Still in that position, he started signalling frantically to Moon.

“What’s the matter?”

“Shit, shit, shit!”

Noir flew across the room, leaping over the snoring Bollo, and grabbed Moon’s arm.

“It’s Sable!” he hissed, cheek to cheek with Moon. “Big’s right hand man! He’s a sadistic psychopath—even worse, he can be ever so sarcastic! Come on! We gotta get outa here, Howard!”

“One last page…”

“No time! Come on!”

Moon pushed the agitated figure aside and the camera clicked again. Noir immediately grabbed the papers, hurled them back into the safe and slammed the door.

“Satisfied?” he snapped. “Honestly, do you not know the word ‘timing’?”

There was a rap at the ornate doorway. Noir and Moon held their breaths. A pause, then a voice, deep and monotonous.

“Sir? It’s Sable, sir. They’re waiting for you in the orangerie.”

Two snores were the response; a snort from the gorilla and a huff from the now turban-less figure huddled under the safe, a picture-frame around his neck.

“We haven’t really left this room as we found it, have we, Howard?”

Moon looked sideways at his unexpected sidekick. He had no idea at all, this cat-suited idiot. It was all a great game to him. He didn’t realise that Moon’s expert eyes, scanning the room, had detected only one escape route.

“Come on,” he hissed, exasperated. “Through the windows!”

“Are you kidding? It’s a twenty foot sheer drop to the terrace. Which is swarming with security.”

Moon gaped at him.

“I… ummm… happened to notice when I was on the wire…”

There was a further rap on the door.

“Sir? Sir, are you all right?”

There was no answer to that.

The door burst open. On the threshold stood a tall man clothed from head to foot in black—black hat, black suit, black shirt. And he was black. His eyes were like pieces of jet, their stare piercing. Behind him stood yet more black-clothed henchmen.

“Sir!” His gaze took in the prone figures of Big and Bollo, and the tall, shirtless agent standing in the centre of the room, in the embrace of a wild-eyed beauty. He did a double-take.

“What the…?

“Noir!“

Noir squeezed Moon’s arse with his free hand.

“Oops, spotted! Hold on Howard, here we go!”

And suddenly Moon found he was being hoist upwards, held fast by Noir’s surprisingly strong arms, the dancer himself being pulled skywards by his fly-by-wire mechanism.

In the room, all hell broke loose. The many henchmen rushed in to revive their boss and his gorilla, whilst the man in black reached inside his jacket and pulled out a Heckler and Koch handgun. Moon recognised it immediately. A good choice of gun, well-balanced, an attractive shade of charcoal gray, and available with a free silencer in a very good deal currently at GadgetsWorld.

“Shit!” muttered Noir as bullets started to zip around them. He swung the cable so that they twisted away from the gun’s aim. Moon made a mental note; clearly the balance on this gun was not as good as the advertising claimed, if their assailant was unable to hit them at such close range…

The skylight was in reach. Moon scrabbled for the edge of the roof and pulled away from Noir, just as the other elegantly twisted to deposit his shapely arse on the edge of the window and scramble to his feet. Bullets still whined through the opening.

“Genius!” He reached down and pulled Moon to his feet.

“Come on, Action Man! Let’s get you and your happy snaps out of here…!”

And Howard Moon, secret agent, found himself running over moonlit rooftops hand-in-hand with a man he had only just met. He felt an adrenalin rush unlike any other, despite his numerous brushes with danger. There was something special about this assignment, he could tell. Just what that was there was no time to establish. Lights were appearing on the terrace beneath, and he could see men running about madly. The tall man in black strode purposefully among them, scanning the rooftops. He heard him shout:

“There they are! Fire at will!”

Immediately, bullets started zipping around them again. Moon lurched forward, pulled by Noir’s grasp.

“Where the hell are we going?”

“This is how I came… arrived, I mean! We can get back to the orangerie this way!”

“But then what? We’re three storeys up!”

The cat-suited figure turned unexpectedly and Moon cannoned into him. Noir grabbed Moon’s waist and Moon held Noir’s shoulders, steadying each other. Noir’s extraordinary face was lit dramatically by the moonlight, and he was grinning from ear to ear.

“You’ll think of something, Howard!”

He ducked his head forward and planted a quick kiss on Moon’s lips. Then suddenly he was off again, dragging a dazed Moon behind him.

The roof was a maze of turrets and mock-Tudor chimneys. Noir charted an expert course between the obstacles, nimble and sure-footed despite his heeled boots. Moon’s attention, when it wasn’t taken up with spotting the progress of their pursuers, was concentrated on keeping pace with the lithe limbs and rounded haunches of the figure in front. He wished he had more opportunity to enjoy the view.

From the roof. The view from the roof, he meant. Of course he did.

It was almost a romantic sight. The full moon bathed the whole mansion in its milky rays, so that the shadows in their path were dark as ink and as sharply defined as a knife-edge. Stretched out all around were the twinkling lights of that fashionable part of South London—he could see Crystal Palace with its tower winking provocatively, Thornton Heath, Norbury… even as far as Purley. All those genteel homes, with their comfortable law-abiding inhabitants, thought Moon. They had no idea of the evil skullduggery being perpetrated in their midst.

A hail of bullets from the evil skullduggers put paid to his reverie.

“Shit! They’re ahead of us!” yelped Noir.

There were shouts now, closer than before.

“And behind us,” added Moon, spotting dark shapes now threading through the chimney maze. That was not a whimper, he told himself sternly.

“Okay, change of direction!”

His hand was grabbed again. He didn’t complain. Well, there wasn’t time, was there?

Suddenly, Noir braked sharply with a shriek, arms outstretched. Moon only just avoided hitting him. He found himself teetering on the brink of a dark chasm. It was a split in the roof between two halves of the building. They could see nothing beneath them, and the next part of the roof was a good six feet away.

Moon gulped.

“How do we…”

Noir glanced back with frantic eyes, gauging their lead. Then he looked at Moon.

“We gotta jump, Howard.”

“I don’t think…”

“Come on, Sundance! It ain’t that bad!” The grin was still in place but the dark eyes were serious. He squeezed Moon’s hand.

“Put the wire on your belt, okay? It’s attached to me. It either of us slips….”

“… then we’ll go down together” finished Moon automatically, less than enthralled by the prospect.

Noir only tutted.

“Howard, just try to keep focused, yeah? Plenty of time for that later.”

Then he drew back as far from the edge as he could squeeze between the masonry and ran into the darkness. Moon braced himself against a chimney, his hand on the wire.

Moon was convinced he saw him fly; the moonlight glittered on his spangles, his boots were a blur of silver. There was the sound of something hitting tiles, a yelp, and suddenly Noir was facing him across the chasm, panting, but with his grin still intact.

“Easy peasy! Come on, Howard, time to fly!”

Moon saw Noir lean back against the bricks on the other side, his hand tight around the cable. He scrambled back along the roof. His heart was in his mouth. The chasm looked enormous. There was nothing in his current stash of gadgets that would help with this. The digital semaphore flags, the combined GPS device and calculator, the laser beam pocket torch, the Swiss Army Stiletto (complete with tool to remove the stones from horses’ hooves)—none of these were designed for this predicament. The prototype personal glider came closest, but he simply wouldn’t be able to get enough height. There was only one thing for it…

“Howard, you fruit loop, jump! They’re coming!”

He ran at the gap and launched himself into space. He saw Noir’s eager face, and his hands reaching out for him. Bullets whined past him and he flinched in mid-air. And missed his grasp completely.

He landed heavily, on his stomach on the very edge of the roof. Winded, he immediately slipped downwards into the chasm, only his fingers holding him back from certain disaster. Dazed, he hung there, hearing shouts getting closer.

Then suddenly Noir was in his field of vision, face determined. Strong hands lifted him by the arms, hoisting him upwards and dragging him back into the cover of the chimneys. Being manhandled by Noir like this was getting to be a familiar feeling. And oddly, Moon had ceased to question it.

One last heave, and Noir collapsed on his back, pulling Moon on top of him. And Moon came face to face, so to speak, with the bulge in Noir’s cat-suit that was his thing. And he saw the fly-by-wire device as well.

He looked up. Noir had an eyebrow raised.

“You gotta one-track mind, Howard…”

“I… ummm… excuse me, sir, but I didn’t… “

“Come on, you spanner…”

They were up and running again. The glow from the lighted orangerie illuminated the night sky in front of them. Behind, they heard the muffled cries of the henchmen foiled by the gap in the roof. Breathless, they edged out onto the last parapet overlooking the main courtyard.

Sable and his men were already there, looking upwards. Even from where he stood, Moon could see the sarcastic smirk on the black-suited man’s face. His blood ran cold. There was no telling what someone like that would do if he got hold of either of them.

“Shit,” said Noir flatly. For the first time that night, his voice sounded less than cheerful. “What now, Indy?”

Moon gauged the distance. His car was parked beyond the orangerie. If they could get to that, they were home free. But getting to the orangerie was the next step. And they also had to outwit Sable.

Time for Gadget Number 12: Prototype Personal Glider.

He turned to Noir and started to undo his belt. The other’s eyes widened.

“Howard, I know the situation’s hopeless but to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I’m in the mood…”

“Shut up, Vincenzo. This….” he teased a length of fabric out of a compartment in the leather belt “… is the Prototype Personal Glider. With the right climatic conditions…”

“You’re going to climax?”

“I said ‘the right climatic conditions’. Given those, I should be able to achieve a smooth glide over the orangerie and from thence to the car park. That’s where the Focus is waiting…”

He started strapping the fabric to his arms.

“Howard, I think that look went out of fashion in about 1902. When people realised you actually needed an aeroplane to fly…”

“Not at all, Vincenzo! This had been rigorously tested by our gadgets department. I’m told it unfolds and refolds perfectly. It’ll be easy to pack up later.”

“But has anyone actually flown it yet…?”

Their eyes locked.

“Ah… ummm.. Thing is, it’s tested for one….”

A pause.

“Oh.”

“Vincenzo…”

“No, ‘s’all right, Howard. I’ll take my chances back across the roof…” Noir looked away, biting his lip. Suddenly all his sparkle seemed to fade; even the cat-suit looked dull.

Moon felt he had been punched in the gut. He rallied. This was not how a field agent should be behaving, for god’s sake… But the man had saved his life. And, somehow, continuing this eventful night without Noir seemed completely out of the question.

“Vincenzo…” He held out his hand.

The other looked up from under his fringe, then his face split in a wide grin.

“Genius!”

He leapt into Moon’s arms, and, staggering from the blow, Moon launched them both off the roof slightly earlier than intended.

Not that it would have made much difference. Immediately they were tumbling earthwards. Wind rushing past his ears, Noir’s face pressed into his neck and arms squeezing him tightly enough to crush his ribcage, Moon caught a glimpse of the triumphant look on Sable’s face as they plummeted downwards. But then suddenly the specialist material kicked in, inflating enough to produce some lift. Moon’s arms stretched out, trailing the fabric, and as it filled they began to glide, soaring out of Sable’s grasp at the last moment. Guns were wielded again, but to no avail; Moon and Noir were already sailing upwards out of range.

But sluggishly. Very sluggishly.

“Don’t think…” gasped Howard “… we’ll make it beyond… orangerie… Too heavy…”

He got a dig in the ribs.

“Speak for yourself, porky. There’s not an ounce of fat on me…”

Their flight stuttered, the fabric started to tear. The glowing panes of the orangerie roof were beneath them, and beyond they saw the lights of the dance floor and the DJ booth. Crowds of people were dancing. They looked at each other. There was no need to speak. Howard closed his arms, and they crashed through the roof.

The multitude below parted like the Red Sea as glass fragments showered on them from above. People started running madly for the exits, screaming “terrorists!” and “performance artists!” with equal degrees of fear. The music blared on and the dance floor lights flashed over the strange intrusion from above.

With the glider snagged on the broken panels of the roof, Moon and Noir hung suspended, twisting and spinning, the spangles on Noir’s cat-suit turning them into a giant mirrorball. The sight was enough to quell the panic. People stopped running and started to point and applaud instead. Until, that is, the main doors crashed open.

Sable marched in, his gun at the ready, his henchmen packed behind him, a gorilla by his side. An extremely pissed-off gorilla, if his expression was anything to go by.

Noir and Moon gazed down between their feet at the upturned faces. Then they looked at each other.

“Only one way to go, Howard. We can’t go back up…”

“He can’t shoot us in front of everyone…”

“Huh, wanna bet?”

Moon looked up.

“I need to slash…”

“Try to hold on, yeah?”

“No, I mean slash this cord. Hang on….” He reached down inside his trouser leg, Noir’s eyes widening again, and pulled out a slim weapon.

“My Swiss Army Stiletto! Which also has…”

A bullet zipped past his ear.

“Fuck’s sake, Howard! Cut it now[!”

Moon’s arm flashed upwards, cutting the cord, and once again they tumbled towards the ground, clutching each other, neither bothering to stifle his howl of panic.

Moon squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the fatal smash on the marble floor. And then he hit something soft, breaking his fall, and he felt himself bounced back up and then sideways to land smack on the marble, Noir on top of him. They both scrambled up to see a prone gorilla lying next to them. The crowd erupted, clapping and cheering, pushing forward with shouts of “Bravo!” and “Encore!” to slap the pair on the back, overwhelming Sable and his team in the process.

One man shoved a business card under Noir’s nose.

“Splendid performance! Never seen the like! I’d be happy to represent you. Do you have an agent?”

Noir grabbed Moon’s arm.

“Yeah, I do, thanks. This is him. And we gotta go. Bye!”

And Moon felt himself dragged through the ecstatic crowd.

“Which way?” he shouted.

“Make for the stage!” gasped Noir. “We can get out through the wings and into the car park!”

Onward, onward; people parting grudgingly to let them through. The stage at last; they leapt up, scattering DJs. Disoriented, Moon looked round for Noir and caught sight of a round arse pointing skywards as Noir rootled around behind the drum-kit and instruments still in position on the other side of the stage. Exasperated, he marched across to extricate him when a sudden surge in the crowd caught his eye. People were recoiling back in distress to let one man stride through; Sable—and his gun was pointing direct at Noir.

For a second, Moon froze, eyes locked on the sarcastic psychopath on the dance-floor. He could see the man’s trigger finger pull back….

Noir was upright now, a bowler hat in his hand.

“Knew it was here somewhere, Howard!”

Howard leapt for him. He grabbed the bowler from his hand and with a vicious flick of the wrist he propelled it towards the crowd. It sliced through the air, skimming over countless heads, to hit Sable square on the forehead before he could fire, or even duck. It knocked him out cold. He toppled backwards, and the bullet went through the roof.

Noir gaped at Moon.

“That was my hat!”

The agent just grinned. Noir looked delighted.

“So the bowler’s a multi-purpose accessory? Genius! I tell you, I’m bringing the bowler back. It’s an uphill struggle, but I’m committed now!”

The gunshot created further panic—the crowd erupted again. People were running everywhere and now the remaining security guards from outside were rushing into the orangerie to join their colleagues. In the midst of the disarray, Noir and Moon slipped out through the backstage area to find themselves in the car park. They raced over the gravel to where the Focus stood gleaming in the lamplight.

And stopped short. Moon’s car rested on its wheel rims.

“I take it, Howard, those tyres were not like that when you drove here?”

“They were onto me,” muttered Moon. “Onto me from the start…”

He gave Noir an apologetic look.

“We need some more transport, I’m afraid.”

Noir grinned.

“Leave it to me.” Then he had Moon’s hand yet again, dragging the agent off to a remote corner of the car park where a dilapidated VW van sat huddled against a fence.

“My van! Or rather, our van—the band’s. Okay, yeah? Come on, Howard, let’s go!”

“What about the rest of the band?”

“Oh, they’ll still be back there trying to pick up the bar staff. Don’t worry about them.” He swung himself into the passenger seat.

“Don’t you…” began Moon.

“Nah, I can’t drive. I’m the frontman.”

Frowning at that non sequitur, Moon jumped in. Noir produced keys from the glove-box. In a second the engine was revving. Not powerfully, but revving nonetheless.

“Hold onto your hat, Vincenzo!”

Noir opened his mouth to remind Moon that his hat was back on the dance-floor when the force of van’s acceleration drove him back into the passenger seat. Gravel spat from under the tyres. The headlights cut the darkness and lit a path to the main gate. Noir clung on for dear life. The van had never gone so fast.

The gates were in sight. Moon gunned the engine more.

“We’re gonna crash, Howard!”

“I’m bluffing them—they’ll open up, just watch!” grinned Moon, a wild delight in his eyes as he grasped the steering wheel. A delight which quickly faded. The staff at the gate showed no sign of moving.

His foot hit the floor as he applied the brakes and the van slewed to a halt in a cloud of dust and stone chippings. Four burly guards advanced on them, guns at the ready. Moon gulped.

He felt Noir lean over him and saw him flick the headlights to full beam. The guards threw up their arms, suddenly blinded. Then Noir was leaning out of the window.

“Open up, you fools! It’s Mr Sable!”

Moon looked at Noir in amazement. It was a passable imitation of the henchman’s clipped accent and deep tones. Though he was beginning to think Noir could get away with anything, he surely wouldn’t with this?

But the guards were already rushing back to the gate. Moon wasted no time in hitting the throttle to power through the widening gap as the gates were hauled open. The van picked up more speed, taking corner after corner on two wheels, tearing through Big’s parkland and into the night.

Suddenly they were on the open highway, tarmac purring under their tyres. Moon glanced anxiously in the rear-view mirror, but there was no sign of pursuit.

He looked at his companion, who already had his feet up on the dashboard. They exchanged delighted grins.

“Right, squire, where to?” asked Moon playfully.

Noir twinkled at him.

“Take me to the ends of the earth, Howard! To infinity and beyond! To heights of ecstasy we’ve never before encountered…”

“Well, I… er… ummm…”

He looked over. Noir was smiling the broadest smile imaginable.

A smile that made his stomach flip, in a way no agent’s stomach should ever flip….

“‘S’all right. Howard! First we better get to Shoreditch. I’ve got a hideaway there.”

[nextpage title=”Chapter Three”]

Chapter Three

Turning off the Commercial Road, with its hustle and bustle and vibrant nightlife, the van threaded its way through quiet, dark streets. Workshops and factories stood cheek by jowl with fashionable new developments and cutting-edge industrial conversions. Moon could tell he was in an area full of exciting new artists and other creative types. Noir would fit in well there.

On Noir’s instructions, he swung the van into a dark yard.

“Park over there, yeah?”

The van huddled back into the shadows, as if in its natural habitat. Noir was the quietest he’d been the entire evening. Moon noticed him look around carefully before he punched some numbers into an electronic lock and opened a heavy door set in the corner of the yard. Directly behind the door was a dimly-lit elevator. He hustled Moon in and quickly pressed more buttons on yet another pin-pad. The elevator hummed and the door opened again on the second floor. They stepped out, straight into Noir’s apartment.

Noir touched some switches on the wall and the lights in the room lifted gently to reveal a long, elegant living area, with black leather couches and dark curtains, and cream rugs on the polished wood floor. Over in one corner a kitchen gleamed with chrome and marble. There was a large plasma screen on one wall, and on the other, a sophisticated sound system and racks of CDs.

Noir looked at Moon, a smile on his lips that was almost shy.

“Welcome to my world, Howard.”

Moon frowned.

“I know they’re on to me, so my flat’s out of bounds. But are you sure this is safe? Sable doesn’t know about it?”

“Nah. Very few people know about this. I don’t use it all the time, but it’s my special place. And I’m very choosy about who comes…” the look turned cheeky “I mean, who visits here….”

He turned away quickly and cleared his throat.

“Anyway, do you want a drink? I’ve got gin, and beer.” He walked over to the kitchen, where Moon could now see that the predominant piece of equipment was an enormous refrigerator.

“And I’ve got long-life milk, so there’s tea.”

He opened the freezer door and extracted a packet of frozen pastries, tossing them onto the counter.

“Sorry there’s not much food. I don’t eat a lot…”

“Beer would be nice, thank you.”

Noir pulled a couple of bottles of Cobra from the ‘fridge and opened them, handing one to Moon. Then did a double-take.

“Oh my word, look at you! Still no shirt! You can’t flaunt yourself like that all the time, Howard—I won’t know how to control myself!”

He ducked into an adjoining room, which Moon imagined was the bedroom. And then sternly told himself to un-imagine it again. There was some rustling, and moments later Noir emerged with a box in his hands. Again the brash, confident demeanour had switched and he looked somewhat diffident.

“Look, I bought this ages ago, ‘cos I liked it. It’s not my look, mind, but I just thought… I thought, one day, maybe I’d meet someone who’d look good in it. Had to imagine how big they’d be, of course…”—the old twinkle came back briefly—“…and their chest size as well…”

He handed the box over.

“Look, it’s just a shirt, yeah? Not a glass slipper or anything…”

He shrugged as if to himself.

“I’ll just get these rags off. They’re filthy. See you in a mo.” And he disappeared into the bedroom.

Moon opened the box. Inside was a shirt, still in its tissue wrapping; a cowboy-style shirt, in extra-fine cotton with a silky sheen to it. It was black with subtle dark red piping. He removed some pins and slipped it on—it fitted perfectly. And he could see himself in any of the various mirrors that adorned the walls—quite a few, now he came to notice them. It wasn’t a style he would have chosen for himself, but he saw that in fact it looked pretty good on him.

He was interrupted by a low whistle behind him.

“Oh… my… god. You look amazing, Howard.”

Howard Moon, secret agent, blushed. He blushed, dammit!

Noir sidled back into the room. He picked up the pastries and shoved them into a microwave, setting it to defrost, and then retrieved his beer from the counter. He was now wearing a black robe, tied matter-of-factly in a hard knot at his waist, his feet bare. His face was clean of make-up. Moon noted the subtle difference. He looked more real, more masculine, more… capable. When he wasn’t looking direct at Moon there was a kind of bleakness about his eyes. But however male he looked, Moon had to acknowledge that he was no less attractive.

“It’s a nice shirt, Vincenzo.”

Noir opened his mouth as if to say something, and then shut it again. He moved closer, still looking the agent up and down.

“Seriously good, Howard.”

Moon took another gulp of beer. Noir gave him a tight smile.

“Hey, Howard…”

“Hmmm…?”

“Don’t mark me down as just a cheeky tart.”

“I wasn’t…”

“Yes, you were. And I don’t blame you. I do tend to overdo it a bit, sometimes. I find it helps in difficult situations. It’s a bit of a screen-saver with me…”

Moon frowned.

“Don’t you mean ‘default setting’?”

Noir shrugged.

“I wouldn’t know, Howard. I don’t take much interest in that sort of thing. Technology’s just a tool, you know.”

He leaned in. His breath brushed Moon’s cheek.

“You’re different. You’d be good with tools. You know, gadgets and science and stuff, I can tell…”

His eyes looked irresistibly deep and dark. Moon was willingly drawn into them.

“…It’s quite a turn-on, actually…”

Noir’s lips were parted, his eyelids flickering. Moon could feel the heat radiating from him. It was impossible not to draw closer. And closer. And then…

There was a loud ‘PING’.

“Get down!” shouted Moon, pushing Noir roughly down onto the floor, and then throwing himself over the other man, shielding Noir’s body with his own.

“Don’t move!” he hissed in Noir’s ear. “We need to gauge where that came from!” His ears strained with the effort of listening for intruders.

Noir’s voice was a bit muffled.

“Christy, Howard. I know they say danger’s an aphrodisiac, but I think the microwave’s on our side…”

Moon froze, realising his mistake; realising also how his broad body perfectly covered the slim back under him, the curve of Noir’s arse fitting snugly against his pelvis. He got up hurriedly, brushing off his trousers. Noir rolled over but stayed sitting on the floor with his beer, smirking. He raised his bottle in a toast.

“Here’s to your lightning reflexes. I know I’m gonna be safe with you, Howard.”

The smile was affectionate, though.

“Right,” he continued, “What’s next?”

Moon frowned. Noir was altogether too proprietorial about this assignment. Still, he had contributed quite a lot that evening. He pulled off his shoe.

“Show time!”

The heel clicked, and a slim beam of light shot out. Moon directed it at one of the few stretches of wall not chosen for a mirror. The light hit the plaster and resolved into an image.

“What’s that?”

“We’re looking at the photos I took this evening, Vincenzo.”

“ I repeat, what’s that?”

“Well,” Moon squinted “it’s a floor plan, or a building plan. Looks like some kind of factory.” The images clicked on.

“And these are the individual rooms, or maybe processes. Look, here’s some kind of manufacturing machinery.”

“I think I’ll wait for it to come out on DVD, Howard…”

“But if I’m not mistaken…” continued Moon, as much to himself as to Noir, “… this is where I need to go next.” His eyes lit up with the promise of a new challenge. “This is where Big is manufacturing those suspicious flapjacks. These plans will give me a clue to finding out exactly what they’re turning those flapjacks into…”

Noir snorted, and turned it into a polite cough.

“Suspicious flapjacks… This is why people were trying to kill us tonight, was it, Howard?”

No answer…

“Howard? Howard? Howard!“

Moon was staring at a diagram on the screen.

“What’s up, Howard? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

Moon started out of his trance. He shook his head distractedly.

“It may sound innocuous to a civilian like you, Vincenzo…” Moon reached out impulsively and gave Noir’s arm a comforting squeeze “… but I can assure you, there is a very dastardly plot afoot.”

Noir looked pointedly at the hand on his arm, and Moon jumped back as if scalded. The other man grinned.

“I’ll believe you, Howard. But I suppose now you’re gonna tell me that I need to stay clear, yeah? That this is no place for an innocent bystander, etcetera, etcetera…?”

“I’m sorry, Vincenzo, but it’s true. You’ve been an amazing help tonight….” Noir looked at him from under his lashes and Moon felt his heart flip again “… and I can’t thank you enough. But neither can I endanger you further…”

“But I could help, Howard! I got the van and everything..!”

“I’m sorry, Vincenzo. It’s just too risky.”

Noir bit his lip and nodded, as if sagely agreeing.

“But you’ll stay here tonight, yeah, Howard? Just for a few hours…?”

The eyelashes fluttered.

Moon took another gulp of beer. This was getting difficult. All his instincts as an agent cried out for him to be cautious, but he felt himself rushing headlong into something new and exciting and fulfilling and utterly right. So it couldn’t possibly be a good idea. All the more so, because there were some things about this set-up that simply didn’t add up….

“Vincenzo, there’s something I need to ask you.”

“Yeah, Howard?” The tone was cautious, the blue eyes still looked limpid and guileless.

“I don’t understand why you were ‘practising’ fly by wire in Big’s office. It’s a long way from the venue. Tell me what you were really doing there. Please.”

He saw Noir’s face change the moment he said the words. A quick flash of worry, although the man had tried hard to hide it.

“Nah, Howard, honest. It’s the best place I could find. His office has a really high ceiling. I know, I’ve been in there loads of times.”

Moon felt his gut twist. However much he wanted to believe this story, he could tell the man was lying. He reached out and grasped Noir’s forearm again, much harder this time, drawing Noir towards him. He knew he had to make himself angry to keep any kind of objectivity on the issue.

“You’re hurting me, Howard. Did you mean to do that?”

He’s making it sound like an invitation, the… the bitch! Keep focused, Moon!

“I think you need to tell me the truth, Vincenzo.”

The blue eyes turned on him full beam. He steeled himself against what was turning into a powerful onslaught of Noir charm. Then suddenly he saw those same eyes fill with tears. It caught him by surprise. He let go Noir’s arm and the other man brought both hands up to his face, stifling a sob.

“Vincenzo…”

“It had to be you, didn’t it?” Noir had turned to him now, eyes blazing. “It just had to be you, to find me like that!”

“What are you talking about?”

Noir stared at the floor, as if debating with himself, then he looked up again, defiance only just covering pain.

“I was thieving, all right? I’m a thief. A cat burglar. It’s what I do. Well, there’s the band, too, but it’s the thieving that pays for all this…” He waved his hand dismissively to indicate the flat.

“The stupid thing is, I wouldn’t normally have chanced turning Big’s gaff over—too risky. But I was pissed off, right? The bastard owed me! He’s a tight little git, and I hadn’t been paid for three gigs! I’ve seen that office, and its antiques and safe and stuff. I figured there might be something there I could filch. Get what’s due to me.”

He glowered at Moon, who was looking on, dumbstruck.

“I’m a thief, all right? Quite a good one, actually. But of all the nights I choose to go thieving, and look what’s happened. I meet you. The one person, the one man I would give anything to see me at my best. And you see a common burglar.”

“Vincenzo….”

“Don’t you fuckin’ pity me! I don’t want your middle-class morality here, mate! I earn good money, and I rub their noses in it, these jumper-up wankers. I steal from the rich and give to the less rich—eye eee, me. I’m like Robin Hood, except with a better sense of colour coordination.”

He rubbed his hand across his face.

“Think what you like of me, but don’t think I’m some sort of enemy to you. Cos I’m not, all right?”

He was standing square to Moon now, hands on his hips, eyes blazing.

“Vincenzo… I… this job I do…”

“Right. You don’t trust me now, do you? Now you know I’m a criminal. Fine, don’t.”

“Vincenzo…”

“Oh, I get it… I’m beneath you, right? We’re ‘different worlds’, yeah? Some shit like that. You fighting for Queen and country and me a common thief…”

“Vincenzo…”

“Yeah, well, it’s not Vincenzo, either…”

Moon’s jaw dropped.

“What?”

“It’s not Vincenzo. That’s another lie. For a bit of class, a bit of mystery. M’names Vince, okay? I’m Vince. Just Vince.”

Moon stretched out a hand and Noir batted it away.

“Vincenz… Vince, you’re not giving me a chance…”

“Chance to do what? Look down your nose at me? Look, I see now, this wasn’t going to work, was it?”

“What wasn’t? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You an’ me. Even just tonight. I couldn’t even have you for that, I couldn’t…”

Noir turned away, his face working.

“Vincenz… Vince, I explained. That can’t happen. I don’t…”

The other spun back again.

“Don’t kiss men? Yeah, like hell you don’t!”

“I don’t like your insinuation, sir. Howard Moon is his own man…”

“‘Your own man’?” The voice was sneering. “What’s that, a euphonium?”

“…euphemism…”

“Age has got nothing to do with it…”

“Will you just shut up and listen, you silly tart!”

They both stopped dead. Moon had shouted those last words and now they sounded ridiculous as they rang in the tense air of the apartment. Noir was biting his lip, anger in his face. Moon was nonplussed. He put his shoe back on, as a preliminary move.

“Well, perhaps I’d better go…”

“Oh no, you don’t. That’s my shirt you’ve got on. You can just take that off!”

He reached out and grabbed Moon’s arm and Moon jerked away from him, genuinely angry now.

“Don’t touch me!” he spat “Don’t ever touch me!”

Noir grabbed his arm again and again Moon wrenched it away. Then Noir grabbed hold with both hands.

And then Moon had him in his arms. Howard Moon, who did not kiss men, had him pinned to the wall, one hand at the back of his neck, the other on his jaw as they kissed; kissed angrily, viciously, sloppily, deeply, their movements slowing as Moon ground his body into Noir’s, forcing his leg between the man’s thighs, and feeling the other man’s lean frame pressing back. Noir’s hands were everywhere—under the shirt, in Moon’s hair, sliding over his arse. Moon moved his own hands down the long back, feeling the bones of Noir’s spine and the jut of his hipbones. He twisted in Moon’s grasp and suddenly Moon was the one with his back to the wall, Noir pressing into him again. He could feel his own erection straining, rubbing against Noir’s hip, and Noir’s cock hard against his thigh.

He broke the kiss, holding him back. The other man whined petulantly.

Moon grinned at him, unable to suppress the growing sense of euphoria.

“Vince, what’s that?”

“What’s what, Howard…?” There was exasperation in the tone.

“That.”

Noir followed Moon’s gaze and looked up again. His eyes started to sparkle, the joke sinking in.

“Oh, that’s my thing, Howard. It’s a bugger to conceal when I’m kissing you, let me tell you…”

Still grinning, Moon pulled him back into the kiss, but this time it was Noir fending him off, mumbling against his lips.

“No, Howard… yes, come on…. no, in here, with me… now… “

Moon had ceased to care about the rights and wrongs of the situation. He was doing what he had sworn he would never do—let his guard down on an assignment, allow himself to get distracted—and now he was being sucked into a whirlpool of desire and delight. And he couldn’t give a damn.

They were still kissing as they stumbled into the bedroom. It was hung with dark drapery and the bed had a cream satin cover. He was trembling; Noir was trembling too, though he tried to act casually as he pushed Moon gently down into the sea of cream, pillows like waves around him.

Noir was above him. He saw his own hands—hands that appeared to be acting of their own volition—fumbling with the knot in Noir’s belt, and then the man was naked. He gasped at the sight before him—raven hair, white skin, full cock. He wanted his hands, his mouth, on every part of him. He reached out to pull him closer but Noir evaded him, ripping at the buttons on the shirt to tear it from Moon’s shoulders.

“Vince ! It’s a lovely shirt!”

“Sod the shirt! I want what’s underneath!”

More fumbling—desperate, hasty—and then he was naked, too, Noir’s hands all over him, mouth on his neck, his nipples, his belly. Nothing in his training as an agent had ever prepared him to deal with the sensations flooding through him, threatening to carry him away altogether.

It must be like a drug, he though vaguely, his mind in turmoil as Noir’s tongue stroked his inner thigh and long fingers closed around his hardness. Like a drug you want, you need, more and more of.

He looked down to see his cock slide into Noir’s mouth. At that point he knew for certain that even the Advanced Training module was seriously lacking in some respects.

He was lost now, he knew it. Nothing existed except the heat and the pressure, and the weight on his thighs. Yet all at once the glorious sensation of Noir’s mouth around him came to an abrupt halt, Noir sliding back up his body to wrap his tongue around the agent’s ear. His breath was hot.

“Touch me, Howard. Need you to touch me…”

There was one thing Advanced Training did prepare an agent for, and that was to adapt to any situation. Moon lost no time in pushing the willing Noir onto his back in the cream waves and grinding their hips together as he kissed him long and hard. Even so, he was grateful for the guiding fingers that led his own hand down to Noir’s groin.

But nothing could have prepared him for the delight of seeing Noir’s ecstatic reaction to his touch, writhing and moaning beneath him as he stroked and pulled. Noir opened his eyes—deep like the sea—and said to the drowning man:

“Together, Howard. Take us together…”

He twined fingers with him around them both. Noir’s head was thrown back against the pillows, his eyes unfocussed, Moon pressed his face into the hot skin of his neck. It didn’t take long, Noir bucking up against him and gasping as warmth spilled over their hands and onto Moon’s belly. It was enough to tip Moon over the edge, and he came in that moment, crying out something incomprehensible and undoubtedly profane, his face against the black hair. It was release unlike he had ever known. He sagged against the other man, his breathing still laboured, and then slumped, face down, beside him. He could feel light kisses on his hair, his neck, his back; and he knew this was what he needed to feel whole, to feel real.

Eventually he rolled over again, to see Noir gazing at him, eyes unreadable for a moment until a flirty smile disguised all. He trailed his fingertips over Moon’s forehead, down over his nose and lips to follow the line of his chin. Sated as he was, Moon’s body still thrilled to the touch. The fingers stroked down his neck and chest, and then paused at his shoulder.

“That’s a pretty sensational scar there, Howard. Were you doing something extra dangerous?”

Moon felt himself blush a little.

“Well, I couldn’t tell you, Vince. Official Secrets and all that. But it did involve a Ukrainian beauty, a whip and some hot jam…”

Noir’s eyes popped.

“I had no idea you secret agents were quite so kinky. I’ll remember that if I ever want to give you a present…” He sighed thoughtfully, still stroking his fingertips up and down.

“I think I should get a scar too. I’d look well dangerous then…”

Moon caught his hand and turned to face him.

“No! You don’t want a scar! I don’t want you hurt…”

The words were out before he’d had a chance to think about them, and he instantly regretted how they sounded—needy and possessive. But Noir hardly seemed to notice. He was smiling sleepily now, as if intoxicated.

“No-one like you, Howard” he slurred, putting his free hand out to stroke down Moon’s cheek. “Nothing will ever be like that…”

Moon wanted to advise him that it was important to keep an open mind and a sense of perspective in everything, but the glow of pride stopped him. Noir turned to rest in the curve of Moon’s body, his arse once again fitting snugly into the arc of Moon’s pelvis, and Moon drew him close, drinking in the proximity, the warmth, the scent of him. He kissed Noir’s neck. The other merely murmured, already dozing, and stirred fretfully.

“Don’t go, Howard…”

“Vince…”

“I meant…” the blue eyes struggled open. “I meant, don’t go without saying goodbye.”

Moon smiled sadly, the words bringing him down to earth more successfully than any talking-to he could give himself.

“I won’t, I promise.”

Noir settled again, his breathing soon evening out. Moon steeled himself to stay awake. Now the tension and confusion had dissipated, maybe he could plan his next steps.

It was futile. He was asleep in moments.

He was conscious of movement. He opened one eye and saw the room touched by very early light. Noir was moving quietly around, back in the robe. He pushed himself upright.

“Vince?”

The smile was warm, and regretful.

“Thought you’d like some tea, Howard. Before you leave.”

Moon rubbed his face.

“What time is it?”

“Around five. I got croissants, too.”

Moon smiled and held out his hand. Noir took it, and squeezed his fingers. He sat on the bed and put a mug of tea on the bedside table.

“Vince, you know I have to go.”

“Yeah, Howard.”

A resigned smile.

“It’s been wonderful. So wonderful, I’d like… I’d like to stay here. Forever.”

Noir looked up, deep sadness in his eyes.

“Yeah, Howard?”

“But I can’t. I’m an agent. I have a mission and it has to be completed.”

“Yeah, Howard.” The melancholy in his voice was unbearable.

“Oh, Vince. But I’d like to see you again. Please. Later, when this is all over.”

Noir smiled shyly.

“Look, Howard, have some tea. It’s getting cold.”

Moon picked up the mug and took a couple of sips to please him, but Noir just pursed his lips in disapproval.

“Come on, you need your brew, I can tell! Can’t be a top agent without a good cuppa inside you…”

It was an attempt at cheeriness but there was a wobble to his lip.

“Oh, Vince…” Moon took the mug again and gulped down half—anything to make him smile.

“I meant what I said, you know. I really want to see you again. Let me come back to you later?”

Noir pulled his hand away and stood up.

“Sorry, Howard. There is no ‘later’.”

His voice was cold and flat.

Moon frowned. This wasn’t the reaction he’d hoped for. The reaction of the room wasn’t as expected, either. It seemed to be slipping sideways. Or the bed was, or he was. He tried to put the mug down but missed the table completely. It hit the floor, spilling tea all over the cream rug.

“Vince, what are you talking… talking about…? Vince…?”

Noir was wavering in his vision now. He tried to reach out for him but could not seem to move his arms. Noir bent down towards him and he felt methodical fingers take his pulse and then lift his eyelids, holding each open in turn for a few seconds. Then a hand stroked his brow.

The features were blurred, and the voice was still flat, but there was no hiding the pang of regret when he spoke.

“I’m so sorry, Howard. There is no ‘later’. There can’t be.”

And then Moon’s world went black.

[nextpage title=”Chapter Four”]

Chapter Four

He was awake. He was cold. He was on the hard ground somewhere. Somewhere that smelt….

With superhuman effort he managed to crank open one eyelid, but the view was far too blurred. He closed it again and forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

He was awake again. This time, after a period of intense concentration, both eyelids lifted, though they felt as heavy as lead. He focused. Yes, he was still on the hard ground, sitting upright, propped up against cold metal with his legs stretched out in front of him. He raised his eyes further upwards, trying to ignore the throbbing pain that coursed through his head as he did so, and recognized the angles and chipped paintwork of a skip. The smell filling his nostrils was a combination of something noisesome that had been dumped there—he preferred not to ponder that point too far—and gin. Lots of gin.

The gin was him.

He looked down at himself again. Black shirt, black trousers, black shoes; all soaked in gin.

Hang on… clothes?

The results of the past… how long?… started drifting back in pieces. When he squeezed his eyelids tight again, shutting out the painful daylight, all he could see was a tangle of pale limbs on a bed, or the flash of blues eyes, impossibly close. The thoughts swirled around inside his head, and his brain tried to grab them and make some logic out of the chaos, but too slowly, too slowly.

Clothes. Someone had dressed him again. Dressed him, poured gin all over him, left him like a drunken down-and-out on a side-street next to the rubbish.

A side-street where? He craned his neck again. A bit of blue sky showed between dilapidated buildings. Possibly Shoreditch still? Who knew?

Shoreditch. Why Shoreditch? Why gin? Why were the clothes such an issue? Why……?

Oh god.

The swirling thoughts started to link together, his brain finally making a flying tackle and catching hold of their coat-tails.

A party, a theft, a chase. A man, a bed, a betrayal….

He clamped his eyelids shut again but that just made the images worse. Now they rushed through his head like an old cine film, over and over—a chase, a man, a bed, a betrayal. Faster and faster and faster and faster and…

He twisted suddenly to one side and threw up.

When that nasty interlude was over, he actually felt a bit better. He rolled back again and tried to pull himself up against the skip. It was no use; his hands could barely grip the metal sides. He pushed himself painfully to his knees and hung there for a moment on all fours, panting like a dog with the exertion.

People. People might help.

“Help?” he croaked feebly. Then again, “Help?”, a little stronger this time.

Beyond the buzzing in his ears he could hear no answering voices, no hurrying footsteps, but there was a rustling. He looked up.

Around the corner of the skip poked a russet muzzle and sharp ears. A ragged-looking fox was regarding him warily. He looked ill-kempt and hungry, but his eyes were clear amber.

Moon reached forward a hand.

“Help?”

The fox scarpered.

Moon sat back heavily against the skip. He reconsidered his clothing. The dress-suit trousers, the black cowboy shirt (now horribly soiled), his once-shining shoes…

Oh god, again.

He reached gingerly down and pulled off his right shoe, flicking the heel to one side. The hidden compartment was empty. The miniature camera with its hoard of pictures was gone.

He let his head drop backwards to connect painfully with the side of the skip. And again. And again.

Oh, the shame. Seduced, stripped, drugged, robbed. One of Her Majesty’s finest secret agents, taken like a novice by a common thief. His career was over; he was a disgrace.

The common thief had re-dressed him, though—was that a moment of wry compassion, or simply rubbing in that that he was such a sap? Had re-dressed him in that captivating cowboy shirt.

Not the only captivating thing. He tried not to pay attention to it, but part of him hurt badly. Not just his wounded pride. No, the part of him beguiled by dark lashes, and the feel of a soft mouth, and smooth skin against his skin, and an infectious laugh, and the warmest smile he had ever seen…..

All a lie.

He reached down and flicked the heel of the other shoe, and with laboured fingers activated the tracking device hidden there. Then he lay back against the skip again and waited for the cavalry.

It might have been an hour, it might have been ten minutes, it might have been half a day; there was no way for him to tell. A few cars sped by, but no-one stopped. Two women tripped past on high heels, and gave his gin-sodden form a wide berth with audible sounds of disgust. Then a black cab chugged slowly down the street, its light off, the driver peering from side to side. It stopped next to Moon and the driver leaned out of the window.

“Oi, guv’nah! Wanna lift?”

Moon looked wearily back at an imbecile grin.

“C’mon guv’nah, shift ya’self! I ain’t go’ aw day!”

“Fossil, that is the worst accent you have ever attempted…”

The driver’s grin just broadened.

“I’m a cockernee, I’m a cockernee… C’mon, Moon, shift your ass. Boss-man wants a word.”

“And so, sir, I woke to find myself dumped in the street and the miniature camera missing. Special Agent Fossil, my temporary assistant, found me by using the shoe tracker. I estimate that it was some four hours since I had last…” He faltered, his boss’s stony silence unnerving him, “…since I last saw the thief, Noir”. His voice tailed off, and he sat on the edge of the winged leather armchair, awaiting the explosion.

B remained silent. His brows were knitted. He stared impassively at Moon and Fossil, leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled together, his eyes dark and brooding. Finally he spoke, his voice icy.

“It doesn’t surprise me that you managed to get hold of the plans, Moon. No less than I expected. But to lose them again in such a shoddy, amateur way…” He glared at Moon, who cringed inwardly. The reprimand was justified. He could sense Fossil gloating as he slumped in the neighbouring armchair, gleefully muttering “shoddy” and “amateur” over and over to himself. Worse, the Special Agent felt obliged to pipe up.

“Also, sir, I was told by Tech Division to inform you that Agent Moon first arrived in that general area at one a.m., sir.”

B raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed? So how do you explain this elapse of time, Moon? Between arriving at this… person’s address and being found by Fossil?”

Moon felt himself blushing again. So far his account had deliberately omitted certain key events of the evening.

“I… I may have fallen asleep for a while, sir…”

B rolled his eyes toward heaven.

“You were intent on making it easy for him, weren’t you? First, you obligingly have a nap, and then you allow yourself to be drugged. Did you tie the camera up with a pink bow?”

Fossil snorted.

“Great joke, boss sir! Pink bow! You got it there, boss!”

“Shut up, Fossil! Go sit in the corner!”

Fossil’s expression slumped like a kicked dog’s and he shambled to the far corner of the room where he could still be heard muttering “amateur” to himself.

B rose and paced the room. Moon still faced front, but tried to watch his boss out of the corner of his eye. He felt the man stop behind him and tried not to jump as two beefy hands clamped onto his shoulders.

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed in you, Moon. I expected better. I had plans for you, big plans. I thought you’d work well under me. I sensed a strong urge—a need to serve—that could be assisted by my guiding hand, encouraged to grow….”

Moon sat frozen, feeling B’s fingers and thumbs kneading his shoulder and neck muscles, and wondering whether this proximity counted as punishment. It certainly felt like it—what was coming next? This wasn’t the former, warm, man-to-man bonhomie—quite genuine, he had been sure—that B had dished out. Right now, he might even call his boss sinister. He unconsciously shrugged his shoulders to rid himself of the probing hands, but they only gripped harder. Then he felt B lean down and the man’s hot breath close to his ear.

“But now, I’m far from sure. Realistically, I should drum you out of the Service…” Moon gulped, both at the thought of his fate and the feeling of B’s fingers.

“…drum you out, if it were not for ONE THING!“

Moon leapt in his chair at the shouted words. He saw Fossil in his corner jump as well at the suddenly booming voice.

“You were taken, Moon. And taken by a professional.”

Moon wondered briefly, and ashamedly, in what sense B was using the verb “to take”.

“Since you first debriefed to Intel Division this morning, we’ve done a bit of research based on the descriptions you’ve given. No ordinary thief screwed you…”

“Sir, I must protest…”

“…shafted you, had you…”

“Sir, I assure you, nothing like that…”

B wasn’t listening. He hit a button on his desk and blinds thudded into place, darkening the room. A second button, and a slim beam of light leapt from the computer console of B’s desk and resolved itself into a large projected image on the opposite wall.

Moon stared open-mouthed at the life-sized picture. It was of a pale young man with striking eyes, heavily rimed with kohl, black hair artfully mussed over his forehead, a green leather coat pulled tight under his chin. The look he was giving the camera was both pure catwalk and pure sex, and it was clear he knew the effect he was having on the lens.

You were creamed, Moon,” continued B, seemingly unconscious of Moon’s discomfiture, “but creamed by one of the best. Behold Vincenzo Noir…”

Moon gaped.

“Vincenzo?”

“Vincenzo Noir. Masquerades as an entertainer—singer, comedian, model, actor, what-not—but in reality we know him as one of the most successful independent industrial spies around. He steals commercial secrets and sells them to the highest bidder. We’ve long suspected his expertise—ever wondered why Wispas disappeared for so long?—but he’s never been caught red-handed.”

B reached for a cigar.

“Now, my guess is, he either cottoned on that you were after something important, or he was after Big’s flapjacks secret himself. And now he’s got his hands on those plans, the cat’s out of the frying plan and into the bag!”

“But sir,” breathed Moon, still staring transfixed at the familiar face, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, “what could he hope to do with them? There was little of commercial worth in those plans, I’m sure.”

“Maybe not, Moon!” bellowed B, “but strategically, as a matter of national security, they are priceless and there are any number of enemies of this proud country’s democracy that might jump at the chance to cause mayhem and disruption….”

Moon frowned.

“How do we now that’s what the plans are about, sir?”

B waved his hand on a dismissive gesture.

“Use your head, man! Everything you’ve uncovered so far—flapjack shipments, high explosives concealed in the packaging, a high-profile delivery schedule—all these point to a dastardly scheme to destabilize this fair nation. He must be stopped, Moon!”

“‘He?’ You mean Noir, sir?”

B stabbed the air with his unlit cigar.

“Find Noir and you will find the plans and those who would execute them. And whether or not he still has the plans when you do, eliminate him.”

Moon spun round to face his boss. Whatever shame and hatred he had felt at the sight of Noir’s smirking face dissolved in a flash with the stark horror of B’s command. Moon struggled to keep his voice even.

“Kill Noir, sir? But he’s just a thief.”

“A high-rolling thief who has caused us, and is still causing us, no end of problems. The world would be better off without him. I want him dead, out of our hair. That’s a direct order, agent Moon.”

“Sir”, confirmed Moon, his voice bleak.

“Then you need to track down the real purpose of those plans.” B glowered at Moon. “I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself, man. Now get going. I want a report first thing tomorrow morning. Oh-six-hundred hours. And I want Noir’s head on a plate.”

B leaned over his desk and clicked off the projector beam. The ethereal image flickered and disappeared. Moon felt his heart sink to his boots. He remained staring at the blank wall until he felt Fossil grab his arm and pull him out of B’s presence and into the anteroom.

“Whaddaya playin’ at, Moon? Don’t piss off the main man, for cryin’ out loud! You gotta get that ladyboy!”

Moon suddenly snapped out of his introspection, slightly shocked to find Fossil’s idiot face at such frighteningly close quarters, grinning at him insanely. But B was right. Dear god, even Fossil was right. Vince Noir was causing everyone no end of trouble, Howard Moon in particular. He need stopping. And Moon would take more than a professional satisfaction at being able to pay back with dividends the humiliation he had suffered at this man’s hands…… oh, his hands, his fingers, his lips, his tongue….

Moon shook his head violently to dispel the treacherous images. This was espionage at its most clinical and brutal—kill or be killed.

And Vince Noir had just run out of time.

[nextpage title=”Chapter Five”]

Chapter Five

The late summer sun had dropped below the Richmond horizon when Secret Agent Moon steered the motor-pool Ka quietly into a secluded section of the Royal Park. The day had been full of frustration. Noir had proved elusive; no matter how much Fossil, with all the energy of a newly-promoted special agent, had trawled the social networking sites and entertainment blogs, there had been no sightings. Making matters worse, to his shame Moon couldn’t remember his way back to the flat, and the GIS readings of the previous night were imprecise.

Moon tried a different tack. With his head still throbbing from Noir’s Mickey Finn, he surveyed in minute detail the information he could find on the Service database about the Big Bakery industrial empire, using all he could muster of his brain cells to find a link between Big’s various establishments and the detailed plans that had been projected the previous night on the wall of that fateful apartment. He privately disagreed with his boss—Noir could be off anywhere brokering a deal with the shadier side of business and assorted European megalomaniacs. That wasn’t going to help get to the bottom of Big’s deadly game—he would do better to focus on the source of the plans. He was still haunted by the terrifying details he had spotted in one of the drawings…. Plus, he thought briskly, this way he was less likely to run into Noir again, a desirable outcome in all senses.

One location had seemed to match all the specifications—a factory in the South London suburbs which was now out of production and apparently on the market; hence Moon’s rendezvous in Richmond to await Fossil’s arrival, bringing suitable transport and equipment for covert entry.

Moon scanned for movement in the Park. There were few other vehicles on the road, and only a couple of parked cars in view. He made a circuitous path to check their inhabitants, in both cases being driven away with cries of “Piss off, you old perv!” ringing in his ears. He discounted the vehicles and checked his watch again. The rendezvous time had been and gone. Where was Fossil? No other traffic was now visible. The situation seemed to make his headache worse—there was now a dull hum in his ears that was getting louder, and louder…

He looked up. Among the scattered stars and assorted aircraft wending their way towards Heathrow, one light appeared to be getting bigger, and brighter. And the hum in his ears became a screech and a clatter, and a sudden downdraught blasted his face along with the surrounding bushes and undergrowth.

The courting couples scarpered as a small helicopter made an ungainly, lopsided landing in a blaze of lights and the blast of a siren.

Moon stood back, aghast. Surely… surely not….?

The rotors slowed and stopped. The siren blared cheerfully for a final time and a maniac face, wearing a leather pilot’s helmet, goggles and an idiot grin, appeared at the window.

“Whatcha think, Moon? Some getaway vehicle, yeah?”

Moon sighed heavily.

“Fossil…. what in the name of Charlie Parker have you got there?”

“See?” Fossil leapt out of the cockpit and patted the helicopter’s side enthusiastically.

“See? Helichopper! Perfect for sneaking up on folks. You’re in the sky, yeah? They’d never look for you there! Then I winch you down on this skipping-rope-box-machine…” He kicked a cable attachment on the helicopter’s undercarriage.

Moon passed a weary hand over his forehead.

“You don’t think that maybe, just maybe, they might hear us coming?”

Fossil’s grin widened, then dipped as the thought sank in, and then disappeared altogether. He scowled and pointed an accusing finger at Moon.

“I don’t want that kind of talk from you, Moon! You weren’t in ‘Nam! You don’t know the hell these babies and I went through!”

“Oh, can it, Fossil! You were never in ‘Nam, unless that’s an oriental restaurant on the Old Kent Road. Shut up and tell me what equipment you brought.”

Fossil adopted a hostile, haughty air, his gaze averted.

“Skipping-rope-box-machine.”

“And what else?”

“You wanted more?”

Moon forced himself to start counting to ten.

“Oh, I got more skipping ropes, too. The ones with the fish hooks in them, yeah? For swingin’ from the chandeliers…”

Ropes and grapnels. Good.

“And I got this belt for you. They said it’s got all these special…”

Fossil started poking at the buckle, and Moon grabbed the belt from him.

“Yes, it’s got special features,” he affirmed. “Features that don’t need to be activated right now…”

Fossil rummaged in the cockpit again.

“Oh yeah, and there’s this gun…” Moon took it and strapped on the shoulder holster.

“… and this bag of socks and pants…”

“Huh?”

“Oh, sorry, no, that’s my laundry.”

Moon heaved another sigh of exasperation.

“I’ll take the car, Fossil, and you stay with the helicopter. Rendezvous in…” he considered “… three hours. Earlier, if I radio.”

“Okay, Moon.”

“Right, synchronise watches. What time do you have?”

Fossil considered.”Well, the big hand is on…”

Moon grabbed his wrist. “Eleven-fifteen… that’s close enough.” He shook his colleague’s arm. Fossil was still frowning at his watch. He looked up at Moon.

“Okay, I’ll see you later, Fossil.

“Hey Moon, Boss-Man says don’t forget the-head-on-the-plate.”

“I won’t,” replied the agent, grimly.

He climbed into the Ka and started the engine. Fossil saluted, grinning, then waved frantically at Moon, who wearily wound down the window.

“Hey Moon, when I rendezvous, you think I should bring the helichopper?”

Moon sighed.

“Yes, Bobby, why not? It might come in useful.”

Then with a spurt of gravel from under the Ka’s tyres, he was gone.

Clouds were gathering as Moon arrived at the run-down trading estate. The deserted factory looked more like a prison in the fitful moonlight, tall and forbidding, surrounded by a wall topped with razor wire. He could see unlit searchlights on tall poles, trained on the inner compound. A few lights shone weakly around the inner walls, but the strongest were at the main gate where they illuminated two signs; one saying “The Big Flapjack Factory” which had a “Sold” sticker across its face, and the other declaring “This site is protected 24/7 by Killemhall Security plc. Don’t even think about it.”

Moon didn’t need to think about it. He parked the Ka at a discreet distance behind some storage containers, and with his canvas bag of equipment skirted the outer wall until he found what he was looking for—a junction in the razor wire. With a final check that he was unobserved, he opened his kitbag and extracted a small crossbow. Deftly he loaded a coiled rope topped by a grappling hook, took aim and fired.

The impact of hook on wall made an unwelcome clatter. Moon held his breath, but there were no signs of movement within the compound, and no more lights appeared. He took up the slack in the rope and started to climb.

It was a tough vertical ascent, but the newly-developed Velcro-inspired grips on the soles of his shoes were a great help. Somewhat breathless he gained the top of the wall. Still silence all around. He swung the kitbag off his back and reached in again, and, with a certain amount of distaste, extracted a bundle—Fossil’s dirty underwear, purloined from his laundry bag. He balled some of it up and chucked it as far as possible into the compound. Instantly an array of searchlights snapped on, illuminating that part of the courtyard. But the only movement was an opening window and a large shape leaning out.

“Nothin’, Boss. Mebbe them urban foxes…”

A fainter, lisping voice could be heard as well.

“Bollo, you ball bag, how do foxes get through that perimeter…?”

“Some dem got special powers, Boss…”

The two heads withdrew, and the searchlights snapped off again. Moon gingerly skirted the razor wire at the top of the wall and lowered himself quietly down the other side, taking care to keep in its shadow. At the bottom he grabbed the rest of the underwear and hurled it at random. Again the lights snapped on, and as they did, he raced in the opposite direction from the shadow of the wall to the building facing him. No sooner had he gained the other side he heard the window open again, and a muffled “Bloomin’ foxes….”

The ruse had worked. He skirted the wall looking for a doorway, aiming for a side of the building away from where he had heard the voices. It was a long building but at last he turned a corner to find a line of loading bays, empty but for one truck, all in darkness. He climbed the ramp to inspect the doors and, locating a lock, he reached into his belt and extracted a small golden capsule from the lining.

“Almost indistinguishable from cod liver oil,” he thought proudly. “What a triumph of technology!”

He pushed the capsule into the lock and turned his head away from the instantaneous bright magnesium flame. The lock sprang open immediately and he slipped through the shutter.

Once inside he found the loading bay dimly lit by moonlight filtering through windows set high in the roof. He trod carefully along the shadowed margin, his mind working overtime, recalling the layout of the factory from the captured plans. If he was correct, the loading bay should lead to a large manufacturing area containing mixing vats, ovens and packing machinery. And somewhere on an upper level in this vicinity lay the mysterious fabrication area that he particularly wanted to take a look at; where he felt the worst of Big’s secrets lay. Not before time, Moon took his Smith and Wesson from the shoulder holster and screwed on the slim silencer. Best to be prepared….

A low hum emanated from the bakery area. A disused factory that was still making flapjacks? Something was surely suspicious. He slipped through the plastic screens separating the two parts of the plant and stood motionless, assessing the scene. Sure enough, in the deserted bakery the fluorescent lighting still burned. He could see it boasted twenty or so large ovens, each of which was fed by a conveyer belt connecting it to a large mixing tank where, Moon guessed, the dough would be mixed and then extruded into metal grids producing flapjack shapes that then passed through the oven on the conveyer belt, and presumably, emerged as cooked flapjacks on the other side, to be fed automatically into a packing machine. All this machinery lay silent but clearly some had been recently in use—the air was warm and the smell was delicious.

At the end of the closest packing machine lay three pallets, each holding a block of eight large rectangular flapjack boxes with the “Big” logo emblazoned on the side (“contents: 64 assorted flapjacks”). They were arranged on the pallets in such as way as to leave a gap in the middle. Moon glanced up towards the roof. Beyond the fluorescent lighting he could see a system of gantries and chains, presumably for conveying sacks of oats, flour and so on around the factory to be tipped into the vats.

On one side of the building was an open staircase leading upwards, and he could see a door at the top. Stealthily he crept along the factory floor and, ducking down so his head was below the railing, he climbed up the steps.

He paused at the door at the top, but hearing no movement inside he tried the handle and it opened softly to reveal a long room, lit but apparently unoccupied. On his right were rows of cabinets flanking a gigantic map of the world, subtly illuminated in glowing reds, greens and purples. Moon squinted at it. The purple lights seemed to indicate places where Big’s empire had a commercial presence.—most of Europe and the US glowed violet, with further large blobs in Australia and the Far East. A subsidiary map showed the British Isles in large scale. On this, golden lights marked the location of Big’s various properties; the Croydon mansion was visible, as was this factory. He also noted with puzzlement a gold spot in the sea just off Land’s End, at the tip of England, but dismissed it as an irrelevance, and turned his attention to the other side of the room.

This was dominated by an enormous glass screen, completely blank, above a bank of controls and swivel chairs. There was the faint hum of computers, but another sound, too. He moved cautiously into the room and along the far wall, using a line of filing cabinets as a blind. The noise sounded like an exasperated muttering, with every now and then a recognizable word, generally an expletive. He drew closer, all his agent’s senses quivering; suddenly he knew exactly who he would find at the end of the room.

The man had his back to Moon. He was on his knees, bent double in front of some filing cabinets, arse in the air, battered silver heels neatly tucked under his legs. Sheets of paper lay all around. Oblivious to Moon he leafed through another pile of paper and there was the sparkle of a silver scarf as he ruffled his black hair in irritation.

Moon was barely breathing. He raised the Smith and Wesson, taking aim at the raven tresses. His boss’s words came back to him: “his head on a plate, Moon!” And here he was; Noir, offering himself up as a sacrifice and not even aware that Moon was behind him, ready to deliver the fatal blow. What revenge it would be for last night’s humiliation! Vince Noir might be an expert at dancing and drugs and sex… Moon quickly deleted that last word from his internal monologue… but an industrial spy was no match for…

Hang on! Moon released his trigger finger. If the plans had been all he needed, why was Noir in the factory now, rifling through documents? As usual, nothing about Vince Noir was adding up…

Freeze!” he snapped. “Get up!”

The crouched shape indeed froze.

“Make your mind up” it said. “If I freeze, I can’t get up, now, can I?”

“Shut up! Hands behind your head! Now get up—slowly—and turn round!”

Noir dropped the papers he was holding and did as he was told. Moon registered with cynical pleasure he look of shock in his eyes as he realized exactly who was holding a gun on him.

“Howard! How did you..? You weren’t s’posed…!

“Shut your mouth. Keep your hands behind your head. I ask the questions.”

There was a pregnant pause. Noir cocked an eyebrow.

“Well, then? What d’ya want to know? What’s a pretty boy like me…”

“Shut it, Vince-whatever-your-name is, or I’ll shoot you here and now!”

Noir simply smiled his Cheshire cat smile and lowered his arms.

“Nah, you aren’t gonna shoot me, Howard. It’d make too much noise…”

“This gun has a silencer, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah? The GadgetsWorld deal? Very unreliable model, that one.”

Moon’s eyes involuntarily flicked to the gun in his hand, and, seizing his chance, Noir leapt past him, haring for the door. But although Secret Agent Moon might have been caught out by one of the oldest tricks in the book, his reactions were like quicksilver, yes sir. He spun round and launched himself at the fleeing figure, grabbing at the back of his black embroidered matador-style jacket, and pulled him down onto the floor. For what seemed the umpteenth time in twenty-four hours, Howard Moon lay stretched out on top of Vince Noir. This time, though, Noir was playing no games. He twisted violently under Moon’s weight, kicking and scratching in a strangely silent wrestling match until he heard the click of Moon’s revolver by his ear, and felt cold metal at his temple. He stopped wriggling. The two men glared at each other.

“Start talking, Vince. What are you doing here?”

“Ummm… supplementing my income with a bit of office temping?”

Moon thrust the silencer up against Noir’s throat, pressing viciously against his carotid artery.

“Talk, you treacherous bitch!” He was having difficulty controlling his anger, and he jabbed the gun again. “You steal the plans, you dump me in a skip, you end up here…”

Noir’s eyes widened, a picture of wounded concern.

“Howard,” he rasped “I could never, never have dumped you in a skip…..”

Moon hesitated. The unprofessional part of him wanted so much to believe Noir.

“….you’re far too heavy to lift. That’s why I left you next to one.…”

That did it for Moon. He pulled Noir’s head up by his collar and slammed him back against a filing cabinet. Noir yelped.

“Always a joke…” Moon tried to sneer but he couldn’t hide the raw hurt in his voice. “Always a lie… you’ve never spoken one word of truth to me, Vincenzo Noir. Not even your name.”

Moon suddenly felt disgusted with himself, showing his weakness like this. He allowed Noir to shake himself free and haul himself into a sitting position, back against the cabinet. He sat there rubbing his neck

“No, Howard, I never lied to you about that, not really. I’m Vince for short but my real name is Vincenzo…”

“Vin-cenzo !” The other spat out the word contemptuously.

“It’s true, actually. My grandmother was French.”

Moon leant in and jabbed the gun again.

“You’d better tell me something interesting pretty soon,” he growled, “because I have a specific order to kill you and I’ve already waited too long.”

Noir glared back at him, eyes dark.

“Well, best get on with it, then. ‘Cos I’ve got my own orders, and you’ve been living on borrowed time for the last twenty-four hours.”

Moon gaped then quickly covered it up with another grab at Noir’s collar.

“Right, I’ve had enough of you…”

Noir held up his hands.

“And how about some information about you for a change? Your name is Howard Tommy Jerry Moon—god and your parents alone know why, but I suppose they knew what they were doing. You’ve worked for Her Majesty’s Secret Service for the last fifteen years, after a brief spell as a warden in a safari park. You graduated from stationery and filing to become a full agent ten years ago. You are a highly skilled exponent of the martial arts use of wind instruments, a crack shot, a deadly swordsman, and you hold the Service record for the fastest man ever to crochet an emergency parachute out of raffia. You speak fifteen languages, though, let’s face it, not always comprehensibly. Your interests are jazz, art-house cinema, Russian novels… but mainly jazz. In short, you are one of the hardest-working, most dedicated agents in the Service; you don’t always succeed in your missions, but you never, never give up…”

Moon was nonplussed, and somewhat narked at the implication that he was a less than successful secret agent.

“How do you…?”

But Noir hadn’t finished.

“… and I have my orders to kill you.”

“What the hell…?”

Moon gave up, and just let the other man talk. It seemed the easiest option at that moment.

“My name really is Vincenzo Noir, and I’m a Secret Agent, too. With Her Majesty’s Secret Service: Fashion Division.”

Moon’s mouth dropped open again. He relaxed his grip on Noir’s collar. The other sat back against the cabinet again and folded his arms.

“I’ve been working on the Big case as well, though from a different angle. One that has an immediate bearing on your personal safety.”

Moon finally regained the power of speech.

“Fashion Division?” he spluttered. “That’s a Service myth! There is no such thing as Fashion Division—it was created as a funding diversion, to confuse the Treasury!”

“That’s our story! We put it around to divert everyone else. Fashion Division certainly does exist! Dozens of hand-picked agents who infiltrate all walks of public life, and some private ones too, come to think of it.” He beamed proudly. “We are the most secret part of the Secret Service!”

“Bollocks! It doesn’t exist! I’ve never met anyone from Fashion Division!”

“Of course you haven’t! We don’t go round flashing our credentials to all and sundry! Or even our identities for that matter! We work in complete secrecy. No-one ever knows our names—if they did, it would be Curtains for us…”

“So why are you telling me now?”

“To try to convince you I’m not your enemy, you lump! We’re on the same side!”

“Yeah? So why did you try to leg it back then?”

“You might remember that sodding great gun in your hand…?”

“And why did you drug me and steal the plans?”

Noir hesitated, looking uncomfortable.

“I wasn’t happy doing that, Howard. But this is a long story, and we don’t have much time, You gotta trust me!”

Moon snorted with derision.

“Look, Howard, I’m serious. Your boss, Colonel ‘B’—he gave me a direct order to stop you getting the plans. And if you did, I was to kill you and take the plans to him…”

“You lying…!”

“I’m telling the truth!”

Moon sneered. “So you had orders to kill me… you weren’t very successful there, were you?”

Noir looked away, frowning. “No,” he said softly. “No, I could have. Could have very easily put something else in your tea… you weren’t ever gonna wake up. But I couldn’t.” He looked back again, his gaze intense.

“I wouldn’t. Ever.”

“Oh, spare me ‘Hearts and Flowers’!”

“No, I mean it!” Noir was suddenly blazing. “How could I? Howard Moon: Secret Agent. A colleague. We’re in it together! It’s your dirty boss you need to watch out for….”

Moon suddenly leapt back into action at the slur. He slammed Noir back against the cabinet again.

“You dare malign my boss! A fine officer! An honourable man!”

“I promise you…!” Noir was twisting in Moon’s grasp trying to turn his head from the pressure of the gun barrel. “I promise you, ‘B’ is up to no good! Work with me and we’ll bring all of them to justice! I need your help, Howard! I came back here to try to find out whatever’s going on but—oh, hell—to be honest I haven’t a clue what to do. I can’t read those plans. I don’t understand what they mean!”

“Hah! If you were a true agent, you would have spent an entire morning in your basic training learning to Read and Interpret Plans…”

“Yeah, maybe you did, but for us it was optional and I chose to do Lethal Uses of Hair Grips, which, by the way, was a lot more fun.”

“Oh, really? So you swung into here tonight on a fly-by-wire cable made of hair grips, did you…?”

“Duh! No, I requisitioned one of your personal gliders….”

Moon was flabbergasted.

“What? How did you get into HQ to do that?”

“Dressed up as a tea lady, like we always do. Tea lady, cleaner, security staff… it’s a doddle getting into your building…”

Moon suddenly leapt to his feet, hauling Noir up at the same time. Taken by surprise, Noir didn’t resist as he felt his jaw clamped in Moon’s fist and Moon’s gun hand against his head.

“There’s one way to test this for good!” hissed Moon. “Retina scan!”

Noir squinted at the wristwatch thrust in his face.

“No, Howard that’s not gonna work. The watch won’t tell you anything…”

The watch flashed, and beeped. Moon peered at the dial and looked up, triumphant.

“You’re not in the records, Vincey….”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Howard! We’re not in the Service files. Fashion Division is too secret even for that!”

“Oh, please! Not that pathetic excuse!” He dragged the gun around to Noir’s temple again.

“Right,” he said, his voice hard. He knew this dialogue had gone on far too long, and he also knew he had an order to fulfil. His finger tensed on the trigger. They were face to face, hip to hip, with Moon the dominant player.

Noir just closed his eyes. He didn’t wriggle, he didn’t fight, he didn’t whine. He just breathed slowly in and out, then opened his eyes again, the plea in the dark blue clarity striking right into Moon’s heart.

“You’re making a big mistake, Howard, really you are. But if this is it… well, I’m sort of glad you’re the one.”

Moon felt his resolve weaken. His hand trembled slightly. The blue eyes snapped.

“Well, get on with it, for fuck’s sake! I ain’t got all night!”

Neither of them had, in fact.

Voices. Voices in the building, voices outside the room. Moon released his grip on Noir inadvertently as he cast around him to locate the sound, but the other didn’t attempt to get away; rather he pressed closer to Moon, mouth against his ear.

“Sounds like Big,” he whispered.

A second, much deeper voice joined in.

“Oh shit,” intoned Noir. “Sable.”

They exchanged a look, then both dived for the cover of the filing cabinets.

“What do we do?” gasped Noir.

“What do we do?” repeated Moon, sarcastically. “This isn’t a double-act!”

“It could be! C’mon, Howard, we’re better off working together…”

“You’re a lying charlatan, Noir…”

“Air ducts!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Air ducts! Up there, in the roof.” He pointed upwards helpfully. “We can wriggle through the false ceiling and get out that way!”

“You’ve had training?”

“Well, not that particular module, to be honest. I think that day we might have been doing Lip Gloss As A Weapon. But I’ve seen it done in loads of movies…!”

Moon squinted upwards and pointed.

“There’s a panel…”

“And there’s another! Genius!”

They jumped up, and Moon was the first onto a cabinet. He shifted the ceiling panel easily and slipped into the ceiling space, to be surrounded by aluminium piping, electric cables and insulation. He shuffled his body around, spreading his weight on the ceiling joists, and craned his neck to see through the gap. Noir was still trying to get his panel to move, thumping on it with his fist. He looked over at Moon.

“It won’t shift, Howard!”

Moon looked towards the far door. He could see the handle turning and it start to open. He knew he had to harden his heart. The ceiling panel was in his hand, ready to slip back into place.

Noir stopped thumping, and looked at him wordlessly, seeing the hesitation in his eyes.

“C’mon, quick!” Moon heard himself say it.

There was a crash as Noir jumped onto the next cabinet.

“Thanks, Howard! Here I come! Oh shit, no—close it up!”

There was shouting. Noir was suddenly out of his eye-line and he could hear his boots slamming on the metal cabinets as Noir ran along them. But all at once there was a gunshot, a yelp and a slithering crash. Moon slid the panel open as far as he dared and strained to see into the room. He spotted Noir some yards away, sprawled on the floor, obviously victim of a fall when he had tried to dodge Sable’s bullet. But the way he leapt to his feet again meant that Sable’s aim hadn’t improved any.

But then there was another gunshot, and a ricochet off metal, and a shocked silence. He felt his blood freeze.

Sable was speaking.

“It’s that whore Noir, sir!

Big’s voice chimed in.

“Vince, you gotta nerve! I always treated you good and you betray me! You stole from my safe, you break into my factory… where’s it all gonna end? I think Bollo oughta pull your arms out their sockets, teach you a lesson. What you doin’ here?”

It was a strong speech for someone with a lisp.

But Noir was talking now in an unfamiliar wheedling, ingratiating voice. Moon peered through the crack to see him standing with his back to the cabinets, hands in the air, and Sable’s gun aimed pretty accurately at him.

“Yeah, I know, Mr Big. I gotta confess, I did a little pilfering. I only wanted to see whether them plans had a commercial value. And now I know they do, I thought we could talk, man to man…”

“Man to man!” The sneering voice was Sable’s. Noir made a face at him and turned back to Big.

“Yeah, man to man, you an’ me, Mr Big, Not this nonce here. Maybe see if we can get to an arrangement. ‘Cos I’m holding the plans in a safe place right now…”

Sable suddenly struck out. For a moment he obscured Moon’s view and the agent could see nothing, just hear a scuffle and a cry and another crash. Then he could see Noir again, back sprawled on the floor, blood on his mouth, Sable standing over him with the predictable Heckler and Koch pointed at his heart. His voice was harsh and grating.

“I thought I’d spare you this nonsense, sir. I know for a fact this man is an agent with Secret Service Fashion Division. He’s here to thwart our plans. I recommend getting rid of him, and as soon as possible.”

Noir was silent. Moon saw his raise his eyes very slightly to the ceiling, as if expecting… hoping…. for something. Then his eyes dropped again, and there was a small defeated sigh. Moon felt sick. His own enemy had confirmed Noir’s story—whatever canker was eating away at the heart of the Service, it had betrayed both him and Noir.

But that wasn’t the only betrayal. He knew he had to get to the outside world if he was to have any chance of crushing Big’s plans, but it had shocked him that he had done nothing to help his fellow agent. No lightning rescue, no sudden crash through the ceiling to confront his foes, as Noir had clearly hoped for; the sort of spontaneous madcap thing that Noir himself would have no doubt done if he had been in Moon’s place. He was disgusted with himself, and his old-woman caution and reserve. His hand involuntarily gripped his left wrist in a Chinese burn of self-admonition.

And to rub salt into the wound, he could hear Sable talking again.

“You here on your own, Noir? Got that loser Moon in tow?”

“Fuck you, Sable, you sadistic nut-job. I work alone. No-one with me, yeah?”

His voice was cut short by another yelp. Moon saw Sable standing over him again, and Noir’s hand braced on the floor; it was bloody.

Big stretched out an arm, pulling Sable back.

“That’s enough! We don’t have no real proof, Sable.”

Right on cue, the far door burst in and the gorilla henchman lumbered through. In his hands were Moon’s rope and grapnel.

“See, Boss? Just found this on perimeter wall. Secret Service issue. We got an intruder…” He stopped, suddenly noticing the figure on the floor. “Oh, you found him?”

“Yeah, I think we have our secret agent all right,” smirked Sable, kicking roughly at the man beneath him. He turned to Big.

“You believe me now, sir?”

Moon could hardly breathe. His own equipment had served to confirm that Noir was an agent, putting him in even deadlier danger….

“Oh well,” said Big, “I was gonna say ‘kill him’ anyway…”

[nextpage title=”Chapter Six”]

Chapter Six

Sable bent down and hauled Noir up by the collar of his jacket.

“Good,” he said. “Not before time.”

The man looked dazed, eyes glassy from the blows. Sable spun him so that he collapsed face first against a filing cabinet, limp. Moon knew that it was time for decisive action. He reached into his shoulder-holster for the Smith and Wesson, and found it… gone. At that very same moment he spotted the gun lying on the floor below by the filing cabinet where he had left it in a moment of imbecility.

Oh no. No chance of a tricky shot to take out Sable before he could terminate Vince Noir.

Horrified, he watched as Sable pressed the Heckler and Koch against Noir’s head. Then he trailed the gun through Noir’s hair and down his back, licking his lips. Moon could see Noir shiver at the touch; he shivered too.

The gorilla cleared his throat noisily.

“Boss, we gotta timetable to keep…”

Big, bored with the drama, had been staring dreamily at his coloured maps. He turned his head back.

“Too right, Bollo, an’ that means no time for any of your kinky stuff, Sable. A straight bullet to the back of the head will do.”

Moon bit his lip hard. He grasped at the sides of the ceiling panel, full of indecision. Betray his presence to stop the cold-blooded murder of one man, or live to warn colleagues about the likely massacre of many, many more? In a fraction of a second his memory played over moments from the last twenty-four hours. Noir was certainly a loose cannon, but there was one constant. There had been plenty of times when he could have left Moon to be picked off by Sable’s men—in Big’s office, on the roof, at the Orangery—and moreover he’d had a direct order for Moon’s execution. All right, so maybe he had thought that keeping Moon alive might help get to the bottom of the whole mystery, but, truth to tell, Moon couldn’t have been essential to Noir’s plans, and yet the man had spared him time and again.

Mind made up, Moon gathered himself for a crashing entry through the ceiling panel when Sable turned to Big with an ingratiating smile.

“Indulge me, sir? It would be a real pleasure to give Mr Noir here a fine send-off tonight. Putting him in lights, shall we say?”

Big adjusted his turban.

“All right, I s’pose, as long as it don’t louse up the schedule.”

“Sir,” intoned Sable. “The last packages are nearly ready to be transferred. You and Bollo can leave almost immediately. All I need to do then is set the explosives here—Noir can be left in the middle of it. It won’t affect the schedule at all.”

Bollo huffed his disapproval, muttering “Loose ends…” but Big flicked his hand dismissively.

“All right, Sable, you can have your fun, but the time stays set for 2 o’clock. We’ve done a lot of calculations about how long the fire services will be deployed here. I don’t want timing problems here messing up tomorrow morning.”

“I assure you, sir, Wandsworth will never have seen the like!”

Big slapped Bollo on the back.

“C’mon then, you hairy half-wit. Sort Sable out, get the rest of the packages finished and then we can go.”

He walked towards the controls under the blank screen on the other side of the room and hit a button. The screen lit up—it was in fact a huge window, giving a panoramic view of the factory operation, the ovens and vats spread out on the floor some thirty feet below.

“We’re state-of-the-art here, Vince,” said Big conversationally. “Needs very little manpower. The trucks simply unload the oats and stuff at the conveyer belts outside, and at this level the sacks get hooked up onto the cables. Then they can go to whatever vat needs them and just get emptied out. See?”

He pressed another couple of buttons and machinery whirred. An empty hook on a chain motored past the window. Big pressed another button and it whirred back again. He made it do this a couple of times, smiling absently at the show.

“See?” he repeated. “Simple. Two men…” Bollo coughed “… two workpeople can run this factory on their own. I’m very pleased with it. It’s been a very good operations centre as well for this current enterprise. Shame it has to be blown up, but that’s the way the flapjack crumbles…”

He ambled over to the cabinet where Noir still lay sprawled, his arms stretched out in front of him, Sable’s gun at his head. Big patted the shapely arse.

“Nice knowing you, Vince. We all enjoyed your fly-by-wire. Pity it was one tour only…”

He turned to Bollo.

“Help Sable with Noir, then join me in the factory.” And the little figure wandered dreamily out of the office.

Moon was in a quandary again. Sable and Bollo together would be too much to deal with. He’d have to follow them.

Sable dragged Noir’s arms off the cabinet and, swiping him across the head again with the side of the gun, he gestured to the gorilla.

“Get him into the conveyer room. We’ll deal with it there.”

Through the ceiling panel Moon could see Bollo lift Noir and the progress of the latter’s legs as he was dragged across the room, putting up no resistance. Sable followed with the gun still trained on him. They disappeared from view.

Moon shuffled desperately round in the ceiling space and started to head in the same direction, careful not to keep too close in case his scrabbling could be heard, but at the same time anxious not to lag too far behind.

He heard a door open and close below him, and in the ceiling void he found himself balanced on some particularly large joists at the edge of an expanse of roof space that had a completely different, and far less complex, configuration of wires and pipes. Here the ceiling housed the upper parts of heavy machinery and steel cable—presumably the system of pulleys for the sacks that Big had described. It was far easier and quieter to move through. He tracked the sound of movement and muffled voices below and, locating another removable ceiling panel, he crouched down to get a view.

He could see into another long but spartan room, dominated by a row of conveyer belts leading from the back wall. Each belt ran to the wall opposite where large openings gave a view of the factory floor beneath. This would be where the sacks would be hoisted out over the factory floor to be transported to the vats.

Sacks. And Vince Noir.

Noir was lying on the conveyer belt, struggling feebly, Bollo holding him down while Sable strapped plastic webbing around his wrists. With a vicious twist Sable finished the job and hauled Noir’s arms above his head to loop the webbing over the first available hook in the pulley system. Immediately the mechanism, automatically gauging Noir’s weight, whirred into life to pull his body upwards. He hung suspended, his toes only just grazing the conveyer belt beneath him.

Sable’s face wore a grimace that he probably called a grin. Bollo looked at the prisoner and then at his colleague.

“Huh. Why you do this?”

“What, Bollo?” asked Sable absently, not taking his eyes off Noir.

“This. Hurtin’ people.”

“Because it’s fun, Bollo old friend, because it’s fun.”

Sable turned and patted a furry shoulder. Moon could see the gorilla flinch slightly.

“Now run along and finish the pallets for Mr Big. I’ll be down shortly.”

Bollo shuffled out. Moon braced himself; now, maybe, was the chance to take Sable. But his foe was speaking again.

“You comfy there, Vincenzo?”

“Fuck you, Sable” came the muffled reply. Noir’s head came up from his chest. “If you’re gonna kill me, just do it, yeah? And stop wasting my time…”

Sable laughed unpleasantly.

“Oh, I intend to, sweetheart. But you’re going to have to wait for that. I’ve got some other priorities.”

He reached out with the gun again and trailed the barrel down Noir’s cheek, his throat, and through the buttons of his shirt, opening it to reveal the skin underneath. Moon clenched his fists in silent frustration. He saw a sharp intake of breath from Noir as the gun passed over his right side. Sable paused, and shifted the material aside. A wide bruise showed purple across the white flesh.

“Oh sorry,” he purred. “Did that hurt?”

And he drew the gun back a fraction and slammed it down again on Noir’s ribs.

Noir gave an animal-like howl of pain and twisted on the hook. Sable was laughing. Noir pulled his head up again and Moon could see his eyes—blazing with anger.

“That’s right, you nonce,” he hissed. “Laugh it up. But we all know the real reason you need to do this, yeah? You pretend the ladyboy disgusts you, don’t you, big macho man and your big macho gun? But we both know you want me and always have, and it drives you insane ‘cos you never will…”

Sable moved swiftly again, and Noir’s speech was interrupted by another yelp. Breathlessly he continued.

“You fuckin’ hypocrite. I wouldn’t let you anywhere near me…”

Sable pulled the wire taut and pushed his face close to Noir’s, gripping his chin tightly.

“In case you haven’t noticed, slut, you don’t have much choice right now.”

Their eyes met. And Noir spat at him.

There was a flurry of movement below; Noir’s legs twisting violently, Sable’s arm thrashing, a medley of harsh cries. Moon was at his wit’s end. He pulled at the ceiling panel…

Then suddenly an echoing shout came from the factory below.

“Sable, get a move on! Wha’s keepin’ you?”

The tussle below stopped, Sable stepping back briskly. Noir’s shirt was wide open, and an ugly red weal showed across his stomach. His nose was bleeding, but Sable was mopping at his own cheek. From the satisfied smirk on Noir’s face, he must have bitten him.

“Just finishing up, sir” shouted Sable after a pause. He glared at Noir.

“Not to be, sweetheart. Your loss. Now I have to plan your departure.”

He gestured to the factory.

“See down there? Those pallets are the last shipment from this factory. As well as luscious apple-and-sultana, cherry-coconut and rum-and-raisin flapjacks, those pallets contain high density plastic explosive, enough to bring a building down. We’ve been developing this variant here especially. Shipments of flapjack bombs have been dispatched to every government building in the capital, so the Civil Service can snack away while the MPs are all on their summer break. Then tomorrow, explosions all over town will signal the beginning of a coup, and our takeover of this country.”

Noir sniffed.

“Oh yeah? You and whose army?”

“Why, us and Mr Big’s army, of course. Thousands of specially-trained troops recruited from Big factories all over the world, currently waiting for the word at Mr Big’s island retreat…”

Moon couldn’t help a gasp of realization. The map… the golden light in the sea off Land’s End…

“You see,” continued Sable gravely, “it’s the Big Scilly Army.”

“You said it, mate,” muttered Noir.

In his ceiling hideaway, Moon shook his head. Those poor islanders; first they have Prince Charles to contend with, then TV vicars, and now this….

Sable pressed a conveyer belt button and the pulley started to whirr.

“The explosions will be seen as a terror attack. But with the MoD, the Admiralty, the Treasury and the Department of Work and Pensions all destroyed, the country will be in disarray. So in steps Mr Big, as a public-spirited saviour, to restore calm, confidence and order with his private army…”

“And take over,” muttered both Moon and Noir, in unison.

Exactly,” smiled Sable. “Good plan, isn’t it?”

He tightened Noir’s bonds again.

“But we’re getting rid of this factory, just in case any discredit could fall on Mr Big later.”

“Oh, as if it could,” sneered Noir quietly.

“And so,” concluded Sable triumphantly, with a final vicious tug at the fastening, “tonight at two a.m. this factory with be razed to the ground by a positively cataclysmic explosion involving all our spare flapjack bombs. It’ll divert the attention of the fire and rescue services and will mean that the capital will already be in a right state before the real offensive in the morning. South West Trains and the District Line will be seriously disrupted for starters…”

Noir rolled his eyes.

“A big shock to everyone, I’m sure…”

Sable wasn’t listening. He beamed at Noir.

“And you? You will be dangling your bollocks right over that bomb. All right, sweetheart?”

Moon saw Noir glare back at Sable, and then swivel his eyes towards the floor beyond the doorway. As well as the three pallets awaiting transportation, directly beneath the observation window was a black cube a foot or so across. Various wires and mechanisms were protruding from it. Noir turned back, still looking defiant.

“You’ve not reckoned on the Service, Sable. We’re on to you. You’ll never get away with it!”

Sable stroked the gun down Noir’s jaw again.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart. The Service is ours. Your Chef de Chefs has been very helpful all along. This wouldn’t have worked without his involvement. In fact, on his suggestion we’re taking those last three packages to your beloved Service HQ, as a sort of insurance measure. Not that we’ll need them—our plan is foolproof.”

Moon closed his eyes in despair. Noir had been right—‘B’ was a traitor, and Moon had played right into his hands.

Sable pressed another control and the pulley wound Noir out of the doorway. Moon watched him disappear, his heart in his mouth. Noir’s departing glare at Sable was soon replaced by an anxious look down between his dangling feet at the hard concrete far below, and the box of explosives.

Sable peered out of the doorway and flipped him a salute.

“Sayonara, Vincey…”

Moon waited for the sound of the door closing. There were still voices in the factory but a quick check of his watch showed that it was only one-fifteen. Once Big and his team were clear, he could winch Noir back in and they could get out in time to beat the bomb and alert the authorities to the impending coup. After a quick peek to check no-one was still around, he pulled away the ceiling panel and uncurled his long body to drop stiffly, and a bit awkwardly, feet first into the conveyer-belt room. He crept to the pulley doorway and, pressing flat against the wall, he peered out.

Big and Bollo were standing over the far pallets, Big gesticulating; Sable wasn’t in sight. Noir was twisting this way and that on the chain, looking down and around him.

“Vince,” he hissed. “Vince!“

Noir looked up and back at the doorway. Astonishment, delight and horror swept across his face in split-second succession. It was the horrified face that started mouthing words back at Moon, illustrating with gestures to make up for the absence of a bellow.

Howard! (hair toss) Go, Howard! Go! (hair toss, hair toss, with something like a silent snarl).

Moon mouthed back.

Don’t worry! (happy grin) When they’re gone (point downwards) I’ll (point to chest) get you (point to Noir) back in here! (point to floor).

Howard! (cross-eyes) Get out! (hair toss) Get police…

“HOWARDLOOKOUT!”

Noir’s yell echoed around the factory. Moon waved his arms frantically. Don’t shout! he tried to mouth, when something whacked him over the head.

He landed on his back on the conveyer belt. Through wavering vision he gazed up at a tall, black figure towering over him, holding Moon’s own gun.

“Well, well. I did wonder who owned the Smith and Wesson,” smirked Sable. “Thought it wasn’t girly enough for…” He looked up at the figure on the pulley.

“Your boyfriend’s here, Vincenzo” he called pleasantly. Then he raised the gun again, and with a snarl brought it back down on Moon’s dazed head.

[nextpage title=”Chapter Seven”]

Chapter Seven

The wind was swaying the palm trees and his hammock kept rhythm—except that he was too high up to be in a palm tree. No, he was high in the rigging of a three-decker in the Caribbean, swaying side to side at the mast-head as he scanned the horizon, his dark-haired cabin-boy calling to him from the deck below. His naked, dark-haired cabin-boy—they weren’t usually naked, were they? Even in the nineteenth century? His naked, dark-haired cabin-boy called sweetly:

“Captain, captain…”

“Wake up, you knob-head, we’re gonna die!”

Moon shook his head and the last of the Caribbean vanished. He was still swaying though, except now he was in mid-air, suspended from a hook, thirty feet above a time-bomb. And Vince Noir’s enormous face was pressed right against his own.

“Howard, you berk! This is no time to be unconscious! Wake up and help!”

Moon pulled his head back and tried to focus. Noir was now straining up to try to reach at the bonds that held them. He was jerking his body in an attempt to get a finger-hold on the webbing around the hook.

“Vince! Vince! What are you doing?”

Noir kept jerking.

“Trying to get off this thing, of course! What’s it look like?”

Moon looked down and then up at the webbing again.

“But if we get off the hook, we’ll land right on top of the bomb!”

Noir stopped jerking, and followed Moon’s gaze.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

“You’ve got to think, Vince! We need to weigh up the possibilities! The main thing is to plan ahead!”

“Bollocks! Win or lose, the main thing is having a go. At least I’m doing something…” he jerked again. “Anyway, right now, it ain’t gonna shift, whatever!”

He relaxed with a huff and hung stretched out, panting. Moon looked at their bonds. He had obviously been tied up with the same plastic webbing as Noir and his hands looped over the same hook. The position of their arms meant that their bodies pressed together along their entire length, chest to chest, groin to groin, give or take a slight difference in arm length. He was aware of Noir’s toes brushing his ankles. Noir had his chin resting in the hollow of Moon’s neck. His exhaled breath tickled Moon’s skin, and he felt the other man’s smile in the same way. Noir pulled his head back, a rueful grin on his face.

“You know, Howard, if it weren’t for the bomb and everything, this would be quite a pervy situation.”

“Yes, Vince,” retorted Moon testily, literally staring down his nose at him, “but there is the bomb and everything. Where’s Sable?”

“Oh, they all went ages ago. About an hour…”

“An hour? An hour? Then the bomb’s about to go off!”

“Wha’? Oh, well, maybe not an hour then. It’s just felt like ages, what with you being out for the count and my arms hurting.”

Moon struggled to see his watch. One twenty-five. Okay, still thirty-five minutes to go, thank the patron saints of bebop….

He looked at the pulley again, and then further along the cable, to where it led above the first mixing vat.

“Can we make this thing move?”

“What?”

“Can it move? Is it a free-running pulley or is there an automatic braking system?”

“Just what I was wondering myself, Howard…”

Moon ignored the sarcasm.

“Look, if we manage to get off the hook here, we can only fall onto the bomb, or onto the concrete…”

“Or I could fall on you, and you could cushion my fall…”

“True, Vince, but we couldn’t guarantee that outcome, could we?”

“Good point, Howard. So what’s the option?”

Moon jerked his head.

“See that vat? If we can get the pulley over there…”

“Oh, right, and fall on some nice spiky metal instead? I’ll go with the fifty per cent chance of dying on concrete, thanks!”

“Not if we’re lucky—remember, they’ve just been making flapjacks.”

“And?”

“Look, just trust me. Swing with me…”

“Howard, all in good time. Ours is a new relationship…”

“Agent Noir! Concentrate!”

Noir looked sheepish.

“Okay, what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to swing, forward and back. See if this thing will edge along the cable.”

Noir looked up through his lashes.

“I love it when you’re all dominant, Agent Moon…”

And so they set up a rhythm, hardly shifting at first. Moon arched his back and bumped Noir with his chest, and Noir did the same in return, if anything with an exaggerated grind. Without thinking about it, each hooked a leg around the other’s thigh, pulling him close.

The power in the action built up. Suddenly the pulley lurched and shifted a fraction.

“Yeah! Yeah! That’s it!” howled Moon in triumph. “Harder, Vince! More!”

Noir was too engrossed in the task to come back with a risque retort. He arched his back and pressed hard into Moon, his face serious. The pulley shifted again, and then began to move in earnest.

By now their motion was describing a reasonably impressive arc. Moon felt the air rushing past his ears, Noir’s body warm and supple against his, his chin hooked at Moon’s neck just as Moon’s pressed into Noir’s throat. There was something about this that was so very… very… Noir was right, though pervy wasn’t the word that Moon would have chosen.

He felt Noir’s head pull back. There was a wild exhilaration in his eyes, and something like confusion.

“I dunno about you, Howard,” he panted, “but if we don’t move soon, there’s gonna be an entirely unexpected outcome to this…”

“More, Vince, more! Harder! C’mon, push! Push!”

“Shaddup, Howard! What you playin’ at?”

“Yes! Yes!” howled Moon. “It’s OK, you can stop!”

Noir, his face red for all sorts of reasons, looked over his shoulder to see the huge mixing vat looming under his feet. Their aerial swinging slowed in a few moments, during which time Noir’s eyes never strayed from their gaze down into the cavernous interior of the vat. To Moon’s intense relief, he saw there what he had been hoping for; the vat was about half-full of mixture. It looked like…

“Porridge. Is that porridge?” Noir’s voice had a dangerous inflection to it.

“It’s flapjack dough. Oats and sugar and syrup and flour. Hopefully a fair amount. So when we get off this hook, it’ll break our fall…”

“You have to be joking?” Noir’s look was glittering.

“See? Planning ahead works. This is our best bet, Vince. A fighting chance…”

Noir rode straight over that.

“Not only,” he continued, his voice low and threatening, “is this jacket Dior Homme and a delicate wool-silk mix, but…” his voice started to rise in pitch “…you’re asking me to take a dive into…” he paused for maximum effect and pointed with his chin “… carbohydrate of plague proportions?”

Moon looked pityingly at him.

“Oh, shut up, you Fashion Division ponce! We may never get off the hook anyway!”

Noir sniffed derisively.

“You mean, you haven’t got a plan, Howard?”

“Oh, I’ve got one, it just may not work…”

“Howard, on your current record, that’s not much encouragement.”

“Oi! We’re only in this mess because of you!”

“I beg your pardon! I didn’t leave my gun on the floor, did I?”

“That’s because you didn’t bring one. You didn’t even bring your lipgloss!“

They glared at each other. Moon took a deep breath.

“Vince, we haven’t got much time. I need you to do something.”

Noir narrowed his eyes.

“You’re pretty supple, aren’t you?”

“I am a dancer, as well as a Secret Agent, you know.”

“Quite. Do you think you could manage to… undo my belt?”

“What with? My toes?”

“I was thinking, your mouth?”

“Howard, you’ve flipped…”

“No, listen to me. Inside my belt, next to the buckle, there’s a pouch containing some capsule explosives.”

“Sodium flashes?”

“Magnesium mini-flares, in fact, but same principle. If you can get one out, we can try to get it into the pulley mechanism—blow it up.”

“Blow our hands up, you mean!”

“Not if I put it in high enough.”

Noir considered.

“Okay. You need to walk up me.”

“Pardon?”

“Walk up me. With your legs either side, so your waist gets close to my face.”

They both took a grip again on the webbing to lift themselves and Moon pushed his hips away from Noir and clasped the other lightly around the thighs with his calves. Laboriously he shuffled his legs upwards, leaning his torso back as far as possible.

“Okay, okay!” yelped Noir excitedly, staring in fascination at the lap thus presented to him.

“Which side of the belt?”

Moon gestured with a shrug of his head.

“Okay, here goes…”

Noir pulled himself higher on the hook and leant forward, his upper body curling. His face was in Moon’s groin.

“Careful, Vince. Whatever you do, don’t bite the capsule, or damage it in any way. Or drop it. Or swallow it. Or…”

Noir looked up sharply.

“Okay, okay, in your own time, Vince.”

He felt the pressure of Noir’s face against his regulation neoprene trousers and his belly beneath; he felt the warmth of his breath, the movement of his mouth. He felt…

“For god’s sake, Vince! Hurry up!”

There was a muttered “fuck off” from somewhere on the region of his genitals.

Moon tried to concentrate on the moves Noir needed to make—the technical moves. That’s what he needed to think about; not the sensation, but what Noir was doing. First he needed to nuzzle up against the webbing belt to turn it slightly and reveal the slit. The slit in the material. Yes, he could feel that happening. Then his teeth—no—tongue would probably be the best way of extracting the capsule. Yes, he needed to move his tongue over the… slit… and inside the pouch, manoeuvre a capsule to the front and put it between his lips—or teeth?—no, lips would be better; softer, more delicate, more…

There was a lot of hot breath being exhaled in that area now, surely far more than was strictly necessary? He could feel something lightly stroking against his waist, so warm it was almost damp, moist, and… then a sudden pressure as Noir’s face pitched in further, and all at once the warmth was gone and Noir’s head was up again, and a capsule was between his lips.

“Mmmph.”

Moon whooped with relief.

“Well done, Vince!”

“Mmmph, mmmph?”

“Okay—you need to get it into my hands—or yours.”

“Mmmph.”

He saw Noir take a further grip on the webbing bonds and haul himself up. Moon let go with his legs so as not to impede his progress. But the level of exertion was too much for the exhausted man. He slumped back again and the capsule wobbled dangerously in his mouth.

“Okay, Vince, okay! Keep calm! You’ve done enough, little man.”

Noir looked up in surprise.

“Time for me to step up to the plate.”

Their faces were back on a near level. Moon was focused on the golden capsule. He saw Noir’s lips draw back in a kind of smile, and flicked his eyes up to see Noir looking at him with real intensity. They held the gaze for a moment, and then without any prompt from Moon, their faces touched, noses brushed, and their lips met. Moon felt the cool pressure of the capsule, a complete contrast to the heat of Noir’s lips around it. He opened his mouth a little and felt the capsule being pushed in, followed by a sweet touch of Noir’s tongue. Moon closed his lips instantly.

“Okay?” asked Noir anxiously.

“Mmmph.”

Moon grasped the webbing again and tried to pull himself upwards. It was agony. He could get a good part of the way but his fingers were still far from reach.

“Howard! Push against me!”

He looked down. Noir had braced himself on the webbing and had brought his knees up at right angles to his hips.

“Like a step!”

Moon took another grip on the webbing and pushed his feet against Noir’s thighs. The resistance this offered was just enough to get him that extra few inches higher, and with a grunt of both pain and triumph he crushed his mouth against his battered, numb fingers tangled up in the webbing bonds; the capsule was there.

He didn’t pause to regroup. He pushed once more against the man beneath him, ignoring his strangled cry of pain, and got just enough leverage to raise his wrists and allow his fingers to reach the pulley mechanism. There was no time for subtleties. He rammed the capsule in and then let go, dropping as far as his bonds would allow him to keep his hands away from the magnesium explosion.

There was a searing pain in his arms as they took his weight again, and he heard Noir cry out piteously, but the sudden flare of the capsule brought an immediate relief; their arms dropped away from the hook, released from the damaged pulley. And they dropped away from the hook as well.

It was not a long drop, a potentially fatal falls go, but long enough for suitably unprofessional howls of shock and panic from both of them. For a split second Moon thought “Oh Christ, we’ve missed the vat…” but that very thought came to an abrupt end as he made one of the most extraordinary emergency landings of his life. The sensation was mind-blowing—it was like falling into an enormous feather quilt which cushioned you perfectly, but then instead of supporting you, started to consume you. It was an aspect of falling into flapjack dough that he had failed to take account of in his plan.

“S’like quicksand!” shouted Noir, stating the obvious “Fuck, I’m gonna die in oatmeal! In neutral colour! Help me, Howard!”

Moon kicked out, thrashing with his bound hands. The webbing bonds fractured and parted, and his arms were free. Apparently something similar had happened to Noir’s hands as well, as he could see them flailing independently just above the surface of the mixture. Only his hands….

Instinctively Moon dived, only to be met by a wall of porridge. He dragged himself up again, spluttering, and instead grabbed a waving hand, whilst he himself caught hold of one of the pipes that ran down the inner wall of the vat. He hauled himself to the side and started pulling on the hand. The man was a dead weight in the oatmeal, but with a supreme effort Moon managed to get hold of his coat collar and drag his head to the surface. Noir emerged unrecognisable, only blue eyes and a spluttering mouth evidence that there was a man beneath the cake mix. Moon couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter. He pulled Noir close to him and helped hook one of his oatmeal-coated arms onto the pipe for support.

“Howard… Howard…” wheezed the cookie-dough monster.

“What is it, Vince?”

“You tell anyone about this later,” hissed Noir, “and you’re a dead man!”

It took a superhuman effort from Moon to haul himself free of the dough. It seemed to be dragging him back and down with every movement he made. He found some hand-holds on the pipes and eventually toe-holds as well. The noise he made as he squelched to the surface was probably primaeval, if dinosaurs frequently waded through porridge.

He looked back at Noir. He could see the man was exhausted, just able to hold onto the pipe. He bent down and tugged at Noir’s jacket collar.

“Get this off, Vince, it’s weighing you down!”

“Howard, do you realise…? Oh, what the hell…” Noir shrugged off the jacket. He took Moon’s proffered hand and clung gratefully and helplessly as Moon dragged him higher above the surface. He got another arm hooked around the pipe, and then started to use his feet. After what seemed a lifetime, they hung on the lip of the vat, breathless, huge globs of oatmeal dropping off their heads and torsos to land with splat on the floor below.

“How much longer?” wheezed Noir.

Moon swiped his watch free of oatmeal and stared at the dial.

“It’s one forty-six.”

“Oh, fuck…”

Moon sprang into action.

“C’mon! C’mon! We can do it!” He swung his legs over the side of the vat and hung full length from his fingertips. Then he let go, and smashed onto the thin metal of the conveyer belt beneath. From there it was simple to swing his legs over the side and land on the concrete floor. He looked up at Noir’s dubious face, surrounded by an oatmeal wig, hanging over the side of the vat.

“C’mon, it’s okay, the conveyer belt’s not that hard.” Moon shook himself like a dog to rid himself of yet more ingredients—half-drying flapjack flew all around—and dashed over to the black cube of explosives. The counter read 12.13, and the seconds ticked away as he stared at it, nonplussed. He heard a crash and a muffled yell behind him as Noir made it to the conveyer belt.

“Can you defuse it?” came Noir’s voice, after a moment, a bit strained and hesitant.

“I haven’t a clue. It’s got booby-traps and tremblers coming out of its arse. There’s no time to work it out. Are you any good at that? Oh no, don’t tell me, that was optional…”

Pause.

“Howard, I’m in a bit of a pickle…”

Moon spun round. Noir was part on, part off the conveyer belt. And part in it.

“What the hell have you done?” He rushed over; Noir’s face was ashen.

“Foot went right through,” he said dully, pointing downwards without looking.

Moon got Noir’s weight back on the conveyer belt and inspected the damage. As he landed, Noir had managed to put one foot directly on the junction between the metal conveyer belt and its frame. His leg was now sandwiched between two pieces of metal, the thin sheet of the belt now bent and pressing dangerously against his calf. Moon could see that if Noir tried to pull it out on his own, the metal sheet would spring backwards and cut right through his leg.

Moon reached over and pushed at the belt.

“Ow, fuck, ow,” muttered Noir.

However flimsy it had felt when he landed on it, the conveyer belt was far from delicate. It refused to give against his pressure. He looked wildly back at the bomb and then at Noir. The other was biting his lip. He saw the glance.

“Howard, you’ve no time…” His voice was shaking slightly.

Moon grabbed his hands and placed them on the belt.

“Push on that! Hard!” Then he raced back down the factory floor, looking for something, anything, that he could use as a lever. The red light of the timer flickered in the corner of his eye.

10.14

“Don’t be an arse, Howard, there’s no time for this!”

In theory, he was right of course, thought Moon. There were ten minutes, and Moon should be giving priority to getting out of the factory and raising the alarm. But ten minutes were ten minutes…..

In a far corner he found a collection of long metal rods, presumably for use inside the vats. He pulled one out but it was too long to be of use. He threw it aside and as he did so, noticed a broom nearby. With a whoop he grabbed it and hared back to the conveyer belt.

Noir’s jaw was set.

“Just bugger off, Moon. I’ll sort this. I don’t need your help.”

“Stop talking bollocks.” Moon pushed the broom-handle down next to Noir’s leg and started to apply pressure. The wood cracked ominously, but he thought he could feel the metal give a little….

Noir tried to shoulder him aside.

“Let me do that, you pillock! You get clear. Go back to Shoreditch and open up my comms. The panel’s under the TV. You’ll get straight through to my boss…”

Moon tried to wrench the broom-handle back again, but Noir was vicious with his elbows. He backed off, his eyes flicking anxiously to the bomb and to the factory doors, and then back to Noir, struggling with the broom-handle.

“Well, if you’re sure…”

Noir looked up, his face blank.

“Piss off, Moon. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

What Moon could see was that he had no chance on his own. His foot was bent at an angle under the twisted belt. He couldn’t align his body properly to exert enough pressure on the broom-handle. And even if he could, the conveyer belt was far too heavy for one man.

Moon placed his hands on the broom-handle, next to Noir’s.

“C’mon, heave,” he said levelly.

They heaved. And heaved. The belt started to twist the other way; Moon could see it pressing into the flesh of Noir’s leg.

“Can you move your foot? Is anything broken?”

“Dunno, don’t think so,” grunted Noir. “Boot’s stuck.”

The lightbulb flashed for Moon. Relaxing his grip on the broom—he could feel the metal press eagerly back again—he reached his arm down through the gap next to Noir’s leg.

“Howard, what the fuck…?”

“Shut up.” Moon’s scrabbling fingers found what he was looking for—the zip on the side on the boot. He pushed it down and forced his fingers inside. He heard Noir’s sharp hiss of breath.

“Hurting?”

“Peachy, thanks.”

“Keep pulling on that stick.”

“One track mind with you, Moon…”

Moon cradled the heel in his palm and gently, gently, worked the boot back and forth. He felt it suddenly slip away, and Noir’s foot was free. He pulled back sharply and grabbed hold of the broom-handle again.

“Now, heave! And try to move your foot!”

The metal creaked and folded backwards. Noir shuffled his arse on the conveyer belt and toppled backwards as his leg slipped free. Just as it did so, the broom-handle snapped in two and the conveyer belt hammered back into its frame like the jaws of a mantrap.

Noir and Moon looked at it. And then they looked at each other. Moon held out his hand.

“C’mon. Six twenty-three.”

Noir pulled himself up, took a step and collapsed with an oath.

“Vince?”

“S’nothin’… s’nothin…” Noir hoisted himself up again. “Ankle. Think I twisted it.”

Moon sprinted to the loading bay and launched himself at the first door he saw—locked. He tried the next, and the next.

“Sweet Nina Simone! They locked up after themselves?”

Noir came shuffling up behind him.

“Magnesium mini-flare?”

Moon felt in his belt. One left. He was about to pull it out when he stopped dead and looked at Noir again.

“Whassamatter?”

“The front gate will be locked too. We’d have to climb that wall. You can’t do it with that ankle.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“Howard…”

“Shut up and let me think. Where’s your personal glider”

“Ripped to buggery and stuck on the roof. They’re single use only, those things…”

“Damn.” He desperately racked his memory of the plans. There was something, something that stuck in his mind….

“Come with me!”

“Oi! You’re going back towards the bomb!“

Moon found it in the middle of the factory floor—a large double-doored metal hatch. He hauled desperately on the inset handles. To his relief, they opened smoothly.

“What in Jagger’s name is this?”

“It’s an old factory—used to be a brewery. Got a Victorian cellar and drainage system.”

“You mean a sewer.”

“Something like that… come on!”

Noir allowed himself to be manhandled through the trapdoor.

“Howard, you do realise that in about three minutes this particular spot is going to be an inferno?”

Moon grinned.

“What did you say, Vince? Win or lose, what matters is having a go?” Noir’s opened his mouth to protest about context when he saw with consternation Moon’s hand disappear once more below the waistband of his trousers. He swiftly extracted it, holding a metal disc which he slapped onto Noir’s forehead. It immediately sent out a bright blue stream of light.

“Emergency flashlight and integrated supermarket trolley coin,” beamed Moon, and pushed Noir downwards.

Down, down, slithering along wet steps and platforms, and then nothing but a large brick-lined pipe about the height of a man, a ledge on either side, and about two foot of water in the base.

Two minutes, maybe? Or less?

“Fine, sturdy Victorian plumbing, Vince! It’s withstood German bombs!”

Noir lurched into him.

“Don’t suppose there’s a speedboat, is there? I’m sure I read a case file once…”

“That was a movie, Vince. ‘From Russia with Love’.”

“Ooh, you’re such a romantic, Agent Moon…”

Moon grabbed Noir and pushed him in front.

“Now run! Come on, run!”

And they did. Part on the ledges, part in the water, the blue light bravely bouncing off the slimy, damp walls. Moon could sense the ground dropping away and wondered if this was the drain heading towards the Thames to dump its effluent in true Victorian style. Then he thought that might be his last thought, and what an odd last thought to have. And then he thought that obviously this was now his last thought, so that one didn’t count, and then he thought…

“When,” huffed Noir, “is that soddin’ bomb gonna blow?”

Ah yes, that.

The force of the explosion picked them both off the tunnel floor and slammed them onto the roof and sides, and then back together into the water, Noir landing on Moon as was only right. Their first reaction, apart from holding onto each other tightly, was to be dead. It seemed the obvious thing to do. Their brains were numb, their ears buzzing, lungs drawing insufficient, ragged breaths. But after some seconds they realised a wall of fire or a million tons of masonry were not going to hit them, at least not yet. The ground above them seemed to be rumbling with secondary explosions and aftershocks, but down in the Victorian depths the water once more lapped quietly at the sides of the tunnel. Moon pushed Noir vertical and hauled himself out of the water. In the mad blue light from Vince’s head they regarded each other in disbelief. Moon felt an overwhelming urge to crush the smaller man in a life-affirming hug, but rejected the thought as unprofessional. Instead he caught hold of Noir’s hand and pointed him down the tunnel.

“Come on—almost there!”

To be honest, Moon had absolutely no idea where ‘there’ was. The rest of the journey was painful and laborious but mercifully short. Part of the tunnel twisted away sharply whilst another branch led to a shaft upwards, and an old iron ladder. Wordlessly they started to climb. Moon had counted fifty difficult rungs by the time Noir suddenly shouted:

“A door! A trapdoor-manhole-thingy!”

Moon eased alongside him on the ladder. It was a heavy iron cover, unused for years. It wasn’t going to move easily—the combined force of their shoulders and hands got nowhere. Maybe it was locked….

Moon reached into his belt and took out the last magnesium capsule. There were signs of a hinge on one side of the door. He slapped the capsule in place and ducked down, intent for some reason on shielding Noir from the bright light, acrid smell and chunks of concrete and soil that pattered around them. When that subsided, Moon pushed at the damaged metal and it swung upwards.

The air was fresh and the night sky full of an orange, firey glow and a cacophony of helicopters, police cars and fire engines. He hauled himself out of the trapdoor and sprawled exhausted over what was the grass and concrete of a patch of waste ground. The view in front of him was astounding. Maybe half a mile away, the whole factory was ablaze and parts still seemed to be exploding even now. Huge numbers of emergency vehicles were already in place, and distant loudspeakers were bleating at the public to “keep clear” and “prepare to be evacuated”. Sable had been right; Wandsworth had never seen the like. Not since the Blitz, anyway.

“Oi…” said a voice.

“Oh, sorry, Vince.” Moon leaned over and took hold of two arms stuck helpfully upwards, hauling his colleague clear. Out on the grass, Noir, too, sat amazed by the sight.

“Bloody hell…”

Moon took his bearings.

“See that line of buildings over there? That’s where the car is. Fingers crossed, that’ll get us back to Shoreditch.”

He helped Noir up and without thinking about it, looped Noir’s arm over his shoulder. They limped across the waste ground together, eyes fixed on the spectacle of destruction.

Suddenly, Moon became aware of one sound overpowering all others. He looked up. A small helicopter hung a couple of hundred feet above—then its lights began to rake across the open ground in front of them. It started to descend. He ducked down behind some scrub, dragging Noir with him.

The helicopter lurched and landed; the noise of its rotors died and a portly figure hopped out of the cockpit, not twenty yards in front of them. Moon almost leapt up again, but Noir pulled him back down.

“No! We can’t be sure we can trust him!”

Special Agent Bobby Fossil stood by his helichopper and gazed at the burning factory with wide eyes and open mouth. Then he began to speak.

“Moon? Moon? This is the rendezvous, right? Moon! No, Mommy, tell me it ain’t so! I’m only a coupla minutes late! No! No! It can’t happen like this! No! Moon! My friend, my mentor, my guide, my father! Moon! Moon!“

He fell to his knees, raising his arms high in supplication.

“No, sweet lord, no! Don’t let this happen! Oh, Moon, what’ll I do without you?”

He brought both hands back to his chest, beating at it dramatically.

“No! NO! I can’t bear it…”

He stopped short, prodding a shirt pocket. They saw him unbutton it and reach in for the contents.

“Oh,” he said to himself, delighted, “candy bar!”

He ripped off the top of the wrapper and chomped down a third, climbing back into the cockpit. Moon and Noir waited until the noise of his rotors had faded into the distance before they rose to their feet again and limped off to retrieve their transport.

[nextpage title=”Chapter Eight”]

Chapter Eight

The Ka, Moon concluded as he closed the driver’s door on the oatmeal-splattered interior, would never be the same again. It was remarkable that, notwithstanding their ducking in the sewers, flapjack mix kept emerging from random folds of clothing and—embarrassingly—certain areas of the body. There seemed to be no end of it.

They had been relatively silent on their drive back, each lost in his own thoughts. Moon himself was preoccupied with how they might possibly find out tomorrow’s—no, today’s!—deadline for the explosions, let alone beat it. He imagined Noir to be similarly engrossed, but had his doubts. Noir’s hair was clearly giving him a lot of anxiety.

“Straight in the shower… straight in the shower…” he kept muttering, tugging on the sticky strands around his face, as they sped towards the Shoreditch flat.

They rode up on the elevator in silence. The doors swished open and they both stepped gingerly into the pristine cream interior.

“You take that bathroom,” said Noir flatly, kicking off his remaining boot and pointing to a door the other side of the bedroom. I’ll use the en suite. Dump your clothes, I’ll put them in the washer. There’s a robe behind the door.”

Moon watched for a moment as Noir opened up his communications console underneath the plasma screen and started to enter codes. Then he shrugged—this moment was Noir’s world. He closed the bathroom door, slipped off the unpleasantly sticky and slimy neoprene suit, and stepped into the shower.

It was bliss, showering away the grime and oatmeal and at least some of the aches and pains incurred in the previous hours. He stayed in there longer than he’d imagined, for when he turned off the taps and rolled back the door, the pile of messy clothes had gone. He toweled himself off, looking around the steam-filled room. All was bright and shiny, and spotlessly clean. The soap and shower gel clearly hadn’t been touched before Moon had used them, and there was a new disposable razor on the shelf. White fluffy towels hung around in abundance. He took a dark brown towelling robe off the hook on the back of the door and put it on. It was certainly big enough for him, and it still bore its price-tag.

Noir was just emerging from his bedroom as Moon entered the lounge. He was wearing the black robe that Moon remembered so well from this first visit—he felt himself blush at the memory—and was toweling his hair. He flashed Moon a wan smile and settled himself gingerly on one of the sofas, closing his eyes.

“I spoke to my boss,” he said, eyes still closed. “He’s coming round in a bit for a drink and a chat.”

Moon opened him mouth to protest but then realised this was probably Fashion Division-speak for debriefing and planning. Instead he appraised the other man, stretched out on the sofa. Now that he was clean, it was easier to tell the extent of his injuries. There was a bad bruise around his right eye and that cheek was purpled and angry. His upper lip was cut, but his nose didn’t look any bigger than usual, despite Sable’s violence. His injured ankle was dark and puffy, with red weals on the skin marking where he had fallen through the conveyer-belt. He looked tired; beautiful—ethereal, even—but tired and drawn.

Something about the moment made Moon’s stomach twist strangely. In his last visit here he had been the dupe, betrayed and bested; led by the nose, or by a body part at least. Now he felt the tables turned. Noir was defenceless, eyes shut and relaxed, completely trusting of Moon’s presence, or if not, beyond caring. This was the first time he had seen any sign of vulnerability in the other man, and it hit him unexpectedly in the gut with a strange mixture of affection and sadness.

He rapidly brushed the notion aside and knelt down on the carpet next to the sofa. Noir sensed his movement and opened his eyes lazily. He gave Moon a tired smile.

“Vince, can I take a look at your ankle?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but instead reached out and circled the joint with his hands, pressing gently on the heated flesh. Noir sucked in his breath. They exchanged a look.

“Nothing broken,” said Moon “We’ll bandage it. Put some ice on it. You got ice?”

Noir shut his eyes again and pointed to the kitchen.

“Freezer.”

“Bandages?”

“Your bathroom.”

His bathroom. Moon started to get up, and then noticed how Noir was pulling the robe tightly across his body. He leant over and put his hands over Noir’s—the other starting, his eyes flashing open—and opened the top half of the robe. Noir twisted a little in protest, but then submitted to Moon’s gentle probing fingers, just wincing as he touched the damaged skin.

Sable’s boot and gun had between them left Noir’s ribcage in an unattractive state. The abrasions were mainly on the right side, as before, the skin red and raw in places and bruises purpling all over. It had probably bled, but was looking clean now. Moon pursed his lips, reflecting how much pain the injuries must have caused Noir during their escape attempts, and yet the man had never given a sign of it, even though he had been happy to appear mildly hysterical about falling into oatmeal.

He shook his head at the mess of contradictions that seemed to be Vince Noir and pressed gently on the bones beneath the angry-looking skin. He was no expert but he had done a certain amount of battle-field first aid and as far as he could tell no ribs were broken, although the whole area was badly bruised. He tried not to think about the possibility of internal injuries. He looked up to see two blue eyes—one somewhat smaller than the other—looking at him intently.

“Antiseptic?”

“Bathroom.”

Moon patted his arm reassuringly.

“Don’t go away.”

First, Moon visited the freezer, finding several bags of ice cubes. He grabbed two and took them back to the sofa, along with a couple of cold beers from the fridge. He placed one of the bags directly on Noir’s ankle; the other he handed to Noir, taking the man’s unresisting hand and using it to position the ice bag against his head, over the bruised eye and cheekbone.

“Keep it there,” he instructed. Noir responded with a weak smile and closed eyes. Moon took the man’s other hand and placed his fingers around a beer bottle. He took a swig of his own drink and then headed for the bathroom.

The bathroom cabinet yielded yet more treasures, in particular a quantity of small glass vials containing different coloured liquids with fairly inscrutable labels. Moon left these well alone, aware that he had himself been the victim of one of these concoctions. But there was also an unexpectedly well-stocked first aid kit containing antiseptics, arnica cream and other soothing preparations, as well as a large array of bandages and dressings. He gathered these up, stealing a look at himself in the mirror as he did so. Not so much Howard Moon: Secret Agent as Howard Moon: Boy Scout, he thought to himself wryly.

Noir had barely moved from his reclining position when Moon returned to the lounge but he had certainly been swigging his beer. He opened his eyes as Moon approached. Moon knelt again and parted the robe across Noir’s chest.

“This may sting,” he said gently, as he started to smooth the cool antiseptic gel onto the torn and scratched skin, and arnica cream on the flowering bruises. Noir said nothing; intent as he was in his work, Moon was acutely conscious that Noir was watching him closely.

Moon placed some dressings on the wounds and then took up a roll of wide gauze bandage.

“Lean forward,” he instructed, taking the bottle from Noir’s grasp. And Noir did so, closing his eyes and looping his arms around Moon’s neck, pulling his body off the sofa so that Moon could wind the bandage round and round his ribcage. He felt Noir’s breath warm at his ear but the man remained silent, suddenly transformed from motormouth to mystic. Moon said nothing himself. Although engrossed in his task he found the pressure of Noir’s arms and the feel of his hard torso beneath him somehow calming and reassuring, and the rhythmic loop and pass of the bandage was dreamily hypnotic. Either that, or he was just very tired, too.

He pulled the bandage taut and felt Noir shiver in his arms. He looked up.

“Cold?”

Noir opened his eyes. A soft smile ghosted over his mouth.

“Nah, Howard. Just feel… feel like l’m sort of waking up. All over.” He look in the blue eyes was intense. Moon coughed and looked away, unlooping Noir’s arms and helping him back onto the sofa. Then he turned his attention to the bruises on the face—some more cooling gel was probably all that was needed at this point.

Noir grabbed his wrist.

“Howard… do you think…? Will it scar?”

Moon looked for a joke in the features so close to his own, but the other man was deadly serious.

“It’s not too bad, Vince, honestly. Scratched mainly, and the bruises will go down. Your looks are safe.”

He heard a relieved sigh and Noir subsided sleepily into the cushions again.

Moon sat back on his heels and inspected the ankle. It was a simple injury to deal with—again, more awkward than debilitating. Yet he felt troubled. There needed to be some serious work-related talking now, but he felt very loathe to break the mood. Noir however must have been on a similar wavelength, for as Moon started to wind the crepe bandage, the man opened his eyes again.

“From the top this time, Howard?”

Moon looked up sharply at him, but the face that gazed at his steadily was open, thoughtful, grave.

“Yes, Vince,” he replied. “That would be very helpful.”

Moon kept winding crepe bandage around the injured foot. Noir took a big swig of beer and began.

“I got recruited to Fashion Division in my last year of art college. They were looking for people good at spotting trends, understanding the vibe. What works, what doesn’t, that kind of thing.

“Fashion Division’s odd. Not like your usual counter-espionage, Secret Service, workload. A lot of time we just keep an eye on what’s going down. As long as it’s not too dangerous we let things run their course, no harm done. But sometimes we have to intervene to avoid something really nasty happening. Like, without us, a year or so ago, loon pants would have come back in. Nobody needed that. We managed to stop them in time.

“But most of the really dangerous stuff—that’s in mind-control territory. Thing about fashion, it can hook a lot of people all at once. Mega… megapods… megaloads… pedalos…”

“Megalomaniacs,” suggested Moon helpfully.

“Yeah, them!” Noir nodded enthusiastically. “Them, and people with power complexes. They like that. That’s generally how their plans for world domination start. Get people to play along easy. Government likes us to keep an eye out for those trends particularly.

“Anyway, I got a sixth sense for these sorts of things, like a gift. Not just on the pure fashion side, though often the one leads to the other. So if I pick up on something weird happening, I always try to take a look. Like in this case, large shipments of camouflage fabric—for making uniforms and things. That’s usually a really good sign that someone’s got a private army on the go. Prime megalo-wotsit territory.

“So that’s what I spot. Several large loads of military fabric and clothing being delivered to the Big Bakery Corporation. Not the sort of uniform you’d expect flapjack makers to wear. I didn’t have much else on my plate at the time so I had a bit of a nose around. Got myself some gigs at Big’s mansion and so on.”

He took another long swig of beer. Moon realised that in his concentration on Noir’s story he had managed to bandage his own hand to Noir’s foot. He tutted and started to unwind it all again.

“Then, all of a sudden, I get a call. Direct from Colonel ‘B’. Now that never happens. Not only should any instructions come through my own head of division, but the unspoken rule is that the Service doesn’t acknowledge individual agents from Fashion Division—part of our cover. So, ‘B’ calling for me direct—well, that’s against normal protocol and, frankly, puts me at risk. That’s not a popular move. “

Moon started winding the bandage around the foot again, but it was a mechanical action—he was wrapped up in Noir’s account.

“Plus, I wasn’t to visit him at your HQ. I had to meet him in some weird empty car park. Dead of night, all alone. Honestly, what a clich�! Anyway, he started giving me the third degree, to start with. Why was I spending time on the Big empire—fine upstanding citizen and all that bollocks? Well, Service being Service, normally I would have told him what I was working on. But the whole thing—secret meeting, direct contact, no regard for my cover—it pissed me off. I didn’t feel inclined to play along. So I reeled off some names—celebs who always turn up at Big’s parties. Spun him a line and he changed his tune. Completely happy as long as I wasn’t investigating Big. Got very chummy. As I was well-positioned at the Big events, I was needed to take on a specific Service assignment. One that my boss should never know about. Top secret, traitors-in-our-midst, that kind of stuff.”

Moon finished with the bandage and sat himself on the sofa next to Noir, who gave him a sideways look and passed him his beer. Then he twisted to sit facing Moon, his good leg under him. He continued to look gravely at the other man. Moon, his bottle to his lips, found himself trapped in the intense gaze and put his beer on the table again.

“He told me that one of his top agents had turned. Was working for a foreign power against this country and the forces of right, blah-di-blah, and that this agent was planning to steal some top secret industrial information from Big, who in fact is working closely with the government in developing technology to deal with chemical warfare.”

“Chemical warfare? He makes fancy cakes!”

“It’s not as daft as it might sound. Allergies, food fads, diet pills—all things the bad guys can use in the old mind control stakes. Truth is, Big’s not bright enough for all that stuff—and I’m damn sure he’s not interested in helping anyone but himself. So I knew it was a blind. But never mind all that. That’s not the main point.”

He drained the last of his beer and put the bottle on the floor.

“He gave me a direct order. I had to stop this traitor from gaining access to Big’s plans. But if that proved impossible, then I was to kill him and bring the plans direct to ‘B’. Do not pass Go, do not collect �200.”

He leaned back slightly, his eyes never leaving Moon’s face.

“The traitor was Agent Howard Moon.”

Moon’s jaw hit the sofa.

“Me?”

Noir rolled his eyes.

“Well, of course, you, Howard! Why else do you think you’re in the middle of this?”

Moon stared at him in horror.

“But I’m not…! I would never…! He’s got it all wrong…!”

Noir reached out and grabbed one of Moon’s flailing hands, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Of course you wouldn’t, Howard! That was obvious! The moment he said your name—well, that sealed the whole deal. I knew about you, about your work. Your dedication, your honour—you’re a by-word in the Service for reliability and honesty. I knew you would never be a traitor. But I played along. I wanted to get to the bottom of it all.”

Initial shock over, Moon frowned deeply, thinking the revelations over.

“What I don’t understand,” said Noir gently, still pressing Moon’s hand, “is how he roped you into this in the first place.” His tone was hopeful, encouraging.

“But he didn’t!” Moon’s brain was finally putting the pieces together. “I went to him. I’d been spotting odd patterns in things like flapjack deliveries and staff deployment. At the same time there seemed to be a lot of building work going on at Big’s various factories, here and in Europe especially. I went to ‘B’ and said I was concerned it was heading to something. First off, he sent me away with a flea in my ear. But the next day he called me in again and said he’d thought it over and looked at the evidence I’d put together. He agreed there was cause for concern and he wanted me to look into it personally. On my own. I couldn’t have anyone working with me, though I could have Fossil, as an assistant. And I had to report to ‘B’ directly—nobody else. He said he was worried there was a traitor in the Service…”

“Traitor, all right,” muttered Noir, picking up one of the unused rolls of crepe bandage and absently looping it around their joined hands. Moon paid no attention. Now light-bulbs were flashing all over the place for him.

“That explains it!”

“What?”

“How Fossil got that code for the safe. I was amazed he managed it—normally that sort of thing is way beyond him…”

“See? Said he’d be in on it.” Noir kept on bandaging.

“No, I’m not so sure. Fossil doesn’t do thinking that well. Doubt if he could concentrate long enough. ‘B’ probably gave him the number and told him to keep it a secret.”

“Yeah? Well, we need to be careful, is all. Of everyone.”

He gave Moon a pointed look, but the other charged on regardless.

“Then there was Big turning up in his office unexpectedly. He must have known I’d be there. Or maybe thought you’d already put me out of action. And of course, they’d already knackered my car, as a precaution.”

Noir kept winding the bandage, holding Moon’s hand down when he tried to gesture with it.

“But then…”

Noir stopped bandaging suddenly, head down.

“Here it comes,” he muttered.

“But then,” repeated Moon, “why did you run with the plans, Vince? Why did you…” His voice tailed off with a soft “oh…”

“‘S’not what you think, Howard.”

“Really? So what do I think? That you didn’t trust me, and wanted me out of the way? So you drugged me….”

“Yes, I wanted you out of the way, you idiot! ‘B’ was clearly after you. Wherever you went he would be right behind and I didn’t need that if I wanted to get to the bottom of it all myself. And I didn’t need any distractions…”

“Oh, really? So I was a distraction. Maybe you just got the quantity wrong—you had your orders, after all—and you thought you’d have your playtime before you got rid of me…”

“Howard, you’re going wrong again…”

“And maybe you had other ideas for those plans, Vince….”

Their eyes locked, and now Noir’s were blazing. Moon tried to jerk his hand away but found he couldn’t, anchored as he was to the other man. And suddenly the tables turned. Noir pulled Moon sharply towards him, so that their faces were inches apart.

“You think Howard Moon is the only honest man around? Christy, that would be pretty bloody offensive if it weren’t for the fact that you’re so damn thick! Or maybe you just got a massive persecution complex? Let’s not forget the fact that Sable outed me himself—yeah? Remember that, Agent Moon? And maybe you should also remember what happened when you went to report to ‘B’.”

Moon paused and then looked at Noir intently.

“He ordered me to kill you.”

Noir pursed his lips and gave Moon a hard look. He sat back slightly, but their hands remained trapped between them.

“Precisely. ‘Cos I’d already buggered off with the plans that he and Big had been working on, and gone to ground. He had both of you checking on that, didn’t he? Making sure I’d gone to ground? By not obeying my orders he knew I was on to him. Their operation was still compromised, ‘cept now it was me being compromising instead of you.”

Moon frowned at this, but decided to let it pass. There were more pressing matters than grammar.

“‘Cept of course you probably put yourself right back in the frame anyway ‘cos you probably told him exactly what you thought those plans were all about—which, by the way, you weren’t kind enough to do for me so I was left with a load of diagrams I didn’t have a flippin’ clue about. But I bet you told ‘B’ exactly what you thought—flapjack bombs, the lot. Didn’t you? So he knew that you knew.”

Moon preferred not to comment on this.

“So he knew that you knew, and you didn’t know that he knew that already. But he didn’t know that I didn’t know, but he couldn’t tell you that he didn’t know so he had to send you after me—two birds for the price of one stone…”

Moon felt incapable of commenting on this. Indeed he felt incapable of understanding it. He moved on to issues which really needed clarifying fully. Yes, sir.

“But you still drugged me, you glittery tit…”

“Yeah, and actually you were right earlier—I did get the quantities wrong. It’s ‘cos you’re such a big bugger, Howard. You were supposed to be out of it for days. Someone would have put you in an ambulance and you would have been unconscious in a hospital and out of harm’s way while everything was going down. But you came round too early. Though, to be honest…”

He gave Moon an up-from-under look—the black eyelashes flickered.

“…it sort of worked out for the best in the end…”

Moon suddenly focused again, his mind clearing of the fog of double-cross and ideas. For the first time he realised his hand, joined to Noir’s, was resting on the other man’s heart. But he made no attempt to pull it away.

“‘Cos I really didn’t know what to do with those plans. And then you went and saved my life,” Noir continued softly, almost bashfully. “Lots of times so far, you’ve watched my back. Tonight especially.”

He let their hands drop to his lap.

Moon cleared his throat and shifted a little uneasily, suddenly embarrassed, feeling foolish at his paranoia.

“Ah, that’s quite all right, Vince. Any time.”

Noir squeezed his hand and Moon looked up to meet the intense blue eyes yet again. And they were smiling.

“Likewise, Howard. And something you got to believe about me.” His tone was earnest. “I’ve not lied to you. Well, once, okay, when I said I was a cat-burglar—that’s because I had my plan and I wanted to stick to it and I didn’t want to break cover. But the rest… everything… it’s not a lie, I promise you.”

Moon still found himself frowning. Noir huffed in exasperation.

“Don’t you get it, you plank? I could have drugged you the moment you walked into my flat. But I didn’t want to. I felt… I felt like everything worked right when we were together that night. I felt… I felt comfortable… being with you.”

Moon opened his mouth, but found he couldn’t quite make sounds come out of it.

“Gah!” Noir shook their joined fists. “I took you to my bed because I wanted you in my bed, you idiot! From practically the first moment I saw you. Not because it was ‘part of my plan’. Because I wanted you, and as far as I knew it would be my only chance… our only chance. Ever.”

He closed his eyes tightly, his whole face suddenly twisting as if the words were causing him pain. Moon felt at a complete loss, his own insides seemed to be twisting as well. Suddenly Noir’s eyes opened again, and the look in them was an odd mixture of aggravation and despair.

“For fuck’s sake, kiss me, you bastard! Do I have to beg?”

Moon had difficulty drawing his next breath, and when he spoke, it was almost a growl.

“You don’t have to beg,” he said. “You’ll never have to beg.”

It was the least planned statement he had ever made in his life. And his least planned action was to pull Noir close to him, their bound hands crushed between their bodies, his free hand at the base of Noir’s neck. Their mouths were already open when they met, Moon’s tongue thrusting deep and Noir moaning approval somewhere far down in his throat. He brought their bandaged hands up to press Moon’s fingers against his face, and his own free hand parted Moon’s robe and slid around his back, pulling the other man even closer, kneading his flesh.

Neither was willing to break the kiss. Breaths were grabbed messily and awkwardly, stubble rasped against stubble and, with a delicious burn, across their lips. They kissed like it meant survival, the breath of one man oxygen for the other. They kissed like it was the beginning and the end, all at once. They kissed, and their bodies responded, and Moon sank back on the sofa pulling the willing Noir with him, and they were hard against each other, and the contact meant they both moaned, sounds vibrating against their lips, making them smile as they kissed. And their hands wandered and their hips ground, and Howard Moon tried to make the kiss absorb everything that was Vince Noir so that he would never have to be without him ever again. And Vince Noir…

The two men leapt apart as their private silence of breath and heartbeat was suddenly rent asunder by an ear-splitting buzzing. Moon looked around wildly. The buzzing came from the lift panel—it was intermittent, almost as if someone was attempting music, but with only one note.

Noir groaned.

“Oh Christy, that man has no idea of timing…”

He looked apologetically at Moon.

“I’m sorry, Howard, it’s the boss. He can never remember the code number, so he likes to play a tune. He says it’s Wagner, but it sounds more like ELO to me.”

Moon suddenly recognized the Ride of the Valkyries, played on a lift buzzer.

Noir picked up a remote from the table and pointed it at the lift doors. The buzzing stopped and the lift mechanism began to whirr. Then he looked at Moon—and his wild hair, red face, open robe…

“Tidy yourself up, Howard. It’s the management.”

Moon tried to drag his robe closed again, but was hampered significantly by the fact that he was still bandaged to the other man. They both hopped around, flapping their arms to loosen their bonds whilst at the same time trying to cover their modesty.

Moon was fuming.

“Bloody, bloody thing…”

“Listen, Howard,” said Noir, anxiously. “You may get a bit of a shock when you meet him. It may take you by surprise.”

“Bloody, sodding thing…”

“It’s not what you think…..”

Moon finally shook his hand free and looked at Noir.

“What isn’t?”

Noir opened his mouth to reply but at that moment the lift pinged and they both turned towards it.

The doors slid open, and in walked ‘B’.

[nextpage title=”Chapter Nine”]

Chapter Nine

“You bitch!” snarled Moon, springing away from the other man and looking wildly around for a weapon. “What the hell is this, Noir?”

“Calm down, Howard!”

“Calm down? You lying tart!” He pointed at the stocky figure standing in the lift doorway, a camel coat hanging loosely across his shoulders, open-necked shirt and burgundy cravat, cowboy boots…. He looked again, harder, and looked back at Noir, frowning.

“It’s not what you think…”

Moon’s temper exploded.

“Stop saying that! Stop saying that and tell me what this really is! ‘Cos you’ve gone too far this time, Vince Noir!”

Noir turned to the figure in the doorway, palms out in a gesture of hopelessness.

“Oh, for Jagger’s sake, tell him, Douglas! He’ll never believe me!”

“What…?” began Moon.

The newcomer advanced into the room, a broad smile on his equally broad face, dark blond hair flopping artfully over one eye.

“He’s right, Moon! Though I don’t blame you for doing a double-take. Happens constantly. Even I get confused sometimes…” The voice was still booming, but younger and lighter. And the face….

“See?” The stranger pointed to his own features. “See? No moustache! That’s generally the clue to look for.” His tone was entirely affable.

Moon looked on bewildered, and sat down heavily on the sofa, running a tired hand over his face.

“This is my boss, Howard,” said Noir gently. “Douglas—he’s ‘B’s’ nephew.”

“And that,” said the younger, moustache-less ‘B’, “is as far as similarity goes, I assure you. It’s only the nepotism that we have in common. Truth be known, I’ve always suspected he was the wrong side of the blanket. After all, great-aunt May was a notorious…”

“Thanks, Douglas,” interjected Noir hastily. “I think you’ve cleared that up okay.” He looked at the bemused Moon and gave him a quick grin, then turned to Douglas again. “Come in and have a beer.”

“Oh, I forgot,” beamed Douglas, taking off the camel coat and slinging it onto a far sofa. “I’ve brought Chinese!”

Moon was about to protest that it was a quarter past three in the morning when a trio of exquisitely slender Oriental girls, dressed in very short skirts and very high heels, tripped giggling out of the elevator with an assortment of brown paper carrier bags which they deposited on the coffee table, and, still giggling, tripped out again. Douglas beamed benevolently at them, patting one’s neat bottom as she skipped past.

“Wait in the Bentley, girls,” he called as the elevator doors shut on them. “I won’t be long.”

Noir was getting plates from the kitchen, and more beer.

“You using the Bentley, then? What happened to the Veyron?”

He stuck a bottle into the stunned Moon’s limp hand and started to open the packages.

“In for valeting. Besides, there’s more room to… ah… work in the Bentley.”

“Ain’t there just,” smirked Noir, spooning out rice. He elbowed Moon.

“Come on, Howard, wake up! This is Douglas Douglas, head of Fashion Division, and my lovely boss. Could be yours, too, if you play your cards right.”

He winked at Moon, who looked from one friendly grin to the other, and then downed as much beer as he could in one gulp.

Douglas leaned forward across the debris of foil trays, and stared intently at Noir.

“You really think so, Agent Noir? That’s your considered opinion?”

Noir returned the gaze steadily, his face grave.

“Absolutely, Douglas. A wide pin-stripe—in a dark weave, mind—would be perfect. Not many people could carry it off, but you could.”

Douglas’ features relaxed.

“Good, that’s my outfit for Milan Fashion Week sorted, then. So now, what do we do about Mr Big’s—and my uncle’s—plans to bring the country to its knees?”

Moon, replete with roast pork and plum sauce and half-asleep, snapped to full attention again.

“The deadline is this morning—that much we know from what Sable said; a series of explosions in government buildings. But when—I mean, what time—this will happen…” He shrugged. “We have no details. And anyway, who’s to say they won’t change the plan, or bring it forward, now they know we’re on to them?”

Douglas smiled and tapped the side of his nose.

“You’re forgetting something, Moon. As far as they all know, you both died in the factory explosion. They think they have nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah,” grinned Noir, patting Moon’s arm reassuringly. “Yeah, it’s a bit helpful being dead right now! Okay, so how do we think they’re going to do it?”

“A series of explosions,” mused Moon, stroking his moustache. “It implies a common trigger, unless they’ve had a mole in every government building.”

Noir looked doubtful.

“What…” he began.

“Mole agent, Vince. An insider.”

“Ah,” Noir nodded sagely.

“I agree” cut in Douglas. “I suspect they’ve kept the execution of all this to their key team. So they will want a coordinated action, controlled by perhaps just one of the group.”

“That would be ‘B’”, chirped Noir excitedly. “Let’s face it, Big’s a lazy arse. He won’t be interested in the nuts and bolts of blowing up government, just as long as his army can march in and pick up the pieces. But ‘B’ would love all that control stuff. I bet it’s all coordinated from Service HQ!” He looked brightly from one companion to the other.

“Good thinking, Vince,” said Douglas. “But without evidence, that’s all it is. We could be barking up the wrong tree without a paddle, and we don’t have time for that.”

Moon was deep in thought.

“Howard…?” ventured Noir.

“Evidence…” Moon muttered. “Evidence….” He looked up quickly and grabbed Noir’s arm.

“The camera! The shoe camera and the microfilm! Where is it?”

Noir gaped at him.

“In my sock drawer. Hang on, I’ll get it.

In the darkened room some familiar images started to appear on the white walls. Now they were making sense—the lay-out of the flapjack factory, complete with vats and drainage system (“the sewer,” said Noir pointedly); the control room and the conveyor belts; the mysterious fabrication area which Moon had spotted initially on the plans and which Sable had proudly confirmed as being where the special explosives had been manufactured. The diagram of the deadly manufacturing process itself, which had made Moon’s blood run cold when he had first seen the picture projected, now fitted perfectly into the whole scenario.

But what about a seemingly unrelated diagram involving a central blank box connected by dotted lines to a number of haphazardly-arranged smaller boxes, with numbers written over each?

Noir’s frown of concentration was clearly intended to cover bewilderment. He stole an anxious glance at Moon.

“Errr…” he began hopefully.

Douglas looked from one to the other, and then at his watch.

“Well, chaps…”

Still staring at the diagram, Moon waved a hand impatiently.

“Agent Noir! We need a map of central London!”

Noir rolled his eyes and looked doubtful.

“You haven’t got a map?” asked Moon, incredulous.

“Never fear, lads! I have an app!” proclaimed Douglas, reaching into a back pocket and producing a shiny mobile phone. “Central London, you say?” He clicked some buttons and passed the phone over.

Moon glanced from diagram to phone, the beginnings of a triumphant grin twitching at the corners of his moustache. He beamed at his fellows.

“Look, if you take this big box as representing Service HQ, down by the river, then look where the other boxes are!”

Noir grinned broadly and then looked at Moon hopelessly, the grin switching off.

“I don’t…”

Moon pushed at his arm. “Look, if this…” he pointed at the map “…is HQ, then this box represents the MoD, just south of Whitehall.” He pointed to the correlation of the boxes in the diagram to the positioning of buildings on the map. “And this is Parliament, and this is 10 Downing Street, this is the Treasury, and this is…”

Both Douglas and Noir looked bleak.

“The Arts Council!” they intoned in hushed, horrified voices.

“And there are numbers,” continued Moon. “A zero over HQ, then there’s a group of buildings marked ‘plus one’, then another group—‘plus two’. And there’s one floating around at the top of the page which says ‘plus three’—oh, and some smaller letters—‘Scotland’!”

He looked at Douglas. “The Royal Family, sir?”

Douglas ran a hand through his artfully-styled locks.

“Could be, Moon, could be. HM and the gang are on hols, after all, though how a flapjack shipment would get there, I’m not sure.”

“Anyway,” continued Moon, turning back to the diagram, “what we have is a schedule for the explosions.”

“But how do they get exploded?” This was from Noir, sitting cross-legged on a cream floor-rug, looking like a child engrossed in an episode of Doctor Who. Moon had to suppress a smile. He turned to the screen and clicked on.

“Let’s see….”

The last image was a surprise; a standard photograph of a laptop computer, but with annotations written in various hands, and with varying thicknesses of pen. It was a jumble of arrows and asterisks and exclamation marks, together with somebody’s precise script that read “Ensure internet connection secured BEFORE inserting flash-drive!”. There was a very large arrow pointing to one side of the laptop with the words “IT GOES HERE!” scrawled next to it, and, at the bottom of the page, scribbled across a corner, were the numbers ‘11 8 11’.

“So,” mused Douglas, “are we to deduce…”

He tailed off and looked expectantly at Moon and Noir. And Noir looked expectantly at Moon.

“My best guess, sir,” said that agent “is that the triggering signals will be sent electronically via the worldwide interweb to the hidden bombs. And the instructions are in some separate device, presumably the flash-drive mentioned here. It implies there is an agreed moment for triggering, but when….” He shrugged hopelessly.

“Wait!” Noir leapt towards the screen, pointing at the numbers at the bottom of the page. “Look at this!”

“A code…?” suggested Douglas.

Noir looked at Moon with shining eyes.

“Eleven. Eleven, eight, eleven. The eleventh of August at eleven o’clock. Yeah?

Moon grabbed his arm excitedly.

“And the eleventh is tomorrow… I mean, today!” cried Moon, taking up his thread.

They grinned at each other.

“Well, I know that ‘B’ has a scheduled appointment first thing with HRH at St James’ Palace” said Douglas. “He’s likely to be back around ten.”

Noir still held Moon’s gaze, a delighted smile on his lips.

“We just need to wait till he’s back in the building and take the lot of them!” he crowed.

“Not so fast, Vince!” Douglas was shaking his head gravely. “There’s no way we can just charge in without adequate evidence. We need to catch them red-handed.”

“So, we get into the building,” said Noir, patiently.

Moon gave him a doubtful look.

“Normal disguise!” said Noir brightly, answering his un-asked question. “The refreshments cycle interface is at nine-thirty every morning.”

“The what?”

“The tea-lady changeover. One shift comes in and the other goes out. We can sneak in then. You can borrow one of my disguises, Howard.”

Moon looked unconvinced.

“I don’t think…” he began, but Douglas clapped his hands.

“Splendid plan! I’ll keep in touch with you via the usual earpiece communications devices. As soon as you have these swine bang to rights, call me for reinforcements. We’ll be standing by!”

“But we can’t wait…” began Moon anxiously. Noir grasped his arm and gave him a gentle shake.

“Yes, we can, Howard. Nothing’s going to happen until ‘B’ gets back to HQ this morning. You heard the way they all talked about it tonight… I mean, last night. They’ve got precise timings and they want to stick to them.”

There was silence for a moment. They heard another siren—fire, police or ambulance—in the distance.

“That factory explosion is drawing emergency services in from across London,” mused Douglas. “By the time the bombs go off this morning, there will be exhausted crews and vehicles in all the wrong places. It really is a dastardly plan.” Then he looked up brightly.

“Right, chaps. I’ll leave you to get some shut-eye. The girls will be expecting me by now. Activate your comms when you get into the building. If there’s any news in the interim, I’ll phone Vince. Check in with you around nine-fifteen.”

The agents nodded. Douglas rose, drained the last of his beer and turned on his heel. The lift doors opened for him and he got in, holding them apart for a moment.

“I must say, Moon, I was a bit doubtful when Noir said he was working with you. Didn’t know what to expect. But I’m impressed. Very impressed.” The lift doors slid silently closed and Douglas disappeared from view.

They both watched from the window as the Bentley swung out of the yard.

“Does he ever sleep?” mused Moon.

“Not,” smirked Noir “if he can help it.”

He turned back to the table and started to pick up the empty trays, padding back and forth to the kitchen. Moon watched him for a moment and then went to help. It was a strangely domestic interlude. They wiped the table, put the cutlery in the dishwasher, and then looked at each other. Noir’s eyes were unreadable as he drank the last of his beer, but they never left Moon’s face. The other man felt at a loss. He cleared his throat.

“Should we think about getting some rest?”

Noir cocked an eyebrow.

“That really what you want?”

“Well, I just thought…” Moon stared at his feet. He felt Noir move close, and his beer bottle taken from his hand and placed on the counter.

“We can rest tomorrow, can’t we? Right now… right now, I want to make sure I don’t miss one moment of this.”

“One moment of what?”

“Working with you, you berk! Being with you. This is the best assignment, the best… fun… I’ve ever had.” He suddenly looked anxious. “Don’t you think so too?”

Moon smiled warmly at him and linked his fingers round the back of the man’s neck, drawing him closer. He kissed his brow.

“No contest, Vince.”

Noir looked up at him with a grin, which suddenly faded.

“Dammit! I don’t have any jam!”

Moon reached down and started to kiss his neck.

“Your mind really does work in strange jumps of logic, you know,” he murmured against an ear. “What’s jam got to do with anything?”

Noir squirmed so they were nose to nose. He raised his hands and stroked his thumbs softly across Moon’s cheekbones.

“‘Cos of what you said. About when you got your scar. You know, the hot Ukrainian beauty and the whipped jam.”

Moon frowned and then smiled.

“Ah, you mean the hot jam, the whip and the Ukrainian beauty.”

“Yeah! That! Sounded like it was important to you. I wanted…” He dropped his eyes. “I wanted this to be something you’d remember. Better than anything before…”

Moon hushed him.

“Vince, that incident involved torture. It’s bound to stick in my mind a bit. I should hope this occasion would be better.”

Noir pulled him closer still, wrapping a leg round him.

“No-one to interrupt us…” he breathed, moving in to bite Moon’s neck gently, feeling the man shiver. “No-one to tell us what to do, what not to do, who not to trust…”

Moon captured his lips, kissing him deeply. Noir twined his fingers in chocolate curls and let Moon’s tongue take him over. It was a long moment before they both surfaced for air.

“Just us,” continued Noir.

“Only us,” confirmed Moon.

“That’s all we need”

Moon held him in a tight embrace, burying his face in the black hair. As Noir relaxed against him, listening to his breathing, he suddenly found himself scooped up, Moon’s arm under the crook of his knees. He looped his own arms around Moon’s neck, just smiling, eyes shining, feeling no need to speak as Moon carried him over the threshold of the bedroom to set him gently down onto the cream covers of the bed. Moon stood back, suddenly abashed, surprised at his own audacity, but Noir kept smiling and reached out his hand.

“Come to me, Howard.”

Moon stared at him. Protocol, discretion, discipline, reason—all had long been disregarded in this relationship, he mused. It was only them; just them.

He untied the knot in his belt and let the dressing gown fall to the floor, hearing a gasp from the bed as Noir took in his naked body. And for the first time in his life, he revelled in it. Howard Moon—sex god; more masculine, more powerful, more confident than he had ever felt before.

And in that new-found confidence, he touched himself, deliberately, pulling at his hardening erection, taking wicked pleasure in the reaction on Noir’s face—the darkening pupils, the open mouth and pink tongue just showing at a corner, the chest rising and falling rapidly as the man panted in his arousal.

“Come to me, Howard. Please.”

Arms reached from the bed. Moon knelt beside him and bent down to kiss him again, this time fiercely, as if by the kiss he could somehow brand the man as his own. He felt Noir’s legs lock around his back, and the hardness of him against his own belly. He breathed in perfume and musk, and tasted honey and salt as his tongue moved from Noir’s mouth to his long throat. Noir was moaning nonsense, thrusting up against him. Moon disentangled their arms and sat back on his haunches, amused at the confused look he received.

“What…?”

Moon smiled and put a finger to his lips. Then he reached out and ran his hands up Noir’s thighs, pushing underneath the robe, feeling the tickle of black hair and the ripple of muscles. He stopped tantalisingly at Noir’s hip-bones, then stroked back down the soft skin of his inner thighs. Noir threw his head back and groaned.

“Fuckin’ tease!”

Moon grinned. He reached out again and undid the knot in Noir’s belt, slowly unwrapping him like a present he had long promised himself. His own breath hitched in anticipation. He unfolded the robe and Noir lay there, as beautiful and bewitching as the first time. Moon gazed in wonder at him, hardly able to drag his eyes away from the man’s hard cock standing proud, red against the white skin. He stroked Noir’s hip-bones again, running his fingertips in towards the shaft and then out again. Noir arched on the bed and moaned.

Moon swallowed thickly, his desire flooding his mouth with spit. He took hold of Noir’s waist firmly with both hands, drawing his hips up towards him. At his touch, Noir flinched and gasped in a way that indicated pain, not pleasure; Moon let go hurriedly.

“Oh, Vince, I’m sorry. I forgot.”

He stared at the bandage on Noir’s ribcage, and the purple bruising under and around it, hate and anger at Sable and his savagery almost overwhelming his lust.

“Oh, shit, no, Howard! Don’t stop, please! It was just a bit sore there…”

“Oh, Vince, that bastard, that bastard. When I get my hands on him…” Moon leant over and carefully kissed him again. “…when I get my hands on him, he’ll pay for what he did with his Heckler and Koch…”

Noir pushed at Moon’s shoulders, suddenly alarmed.

“No, Howard, don’t think that! He never… it never… he never put it anywhere near me, I promise you….!”

Moon frowned in confusion and then grinned.

“His Heckler and Koch, Vince. His gun; I mean, really, his gun…”

Noir slumped back in the pillows.

“Seriously? I thought they were a comedy double-act.”

Moon kissed him to shut him up, but he felt the man wriggle beneath him as he struggled out of the robe.

“Vince, you’re injured. We shouldn’t…”

Noir pulled back and looked at him in wonderment.

“You don’t really mean that, Howard? Surely?”

“… I might hurt you…”

Noir grinned and snaked his legs up around Moon’s waist, pulling the agent down towards him. He ground their hips together, cock rubbing against cock. Moon felt tremors run through him, making him go hot and cold all at once. He couldn’t suppress a moan. Noir’s grin became even more wicked. He bit hard at Moon’s neck and dragged the man’s full weight onto his injured ribs.

“Don’t you understand, you berk?” he murmured breathlessly as Moon adjusted his position, supporting himself on one arm while he stroked back Noir’s hair and stared questioningly into the blue eyes. “You could never hurt me.”

And to reinforce the point, he pulled Moon even closer to him, gripping hard with his legs, until he heard an answering growl in his ear.

“Want you, Vince Noir…”

“Oh, you can have me, Agent Moon. Any way you like.”

Moon pushed him back again, then trailed his mouth from Noir’s throat to his chest, leaving a wet trail on the hot flesh. He worried a nipple with his teeth, feeling it grow hard under his lips. He rubbed his face against Noir’s stomach, hearing his stubble rasp on skin. He had no idea where these erotic inspirations were coming from but he made a mental note to suggest updating the Service Training Manual very soon.

And then his hands were hard on Noir’s hips, holding him down as the man squirmed in delight at the movement of Moon’s tongue over his pelvis. The smell of his skin—all warmth and earthiness and spice—was intoxicating.

Moon’s face brushed against Noir’s hardness, and the man moaned and swore and arched his back as Moon threw caution finally to the winds and took the full, heavy cock into his mouth.

“Oh, please, Howard! Oh god, please, please…”

Moon moved his head gently so that Noir’s cock slipped in and out of his mouth. The sensation was electrifying. Moon felt his own cock twitch and throb in response. He longed for his own release, but right now, Agent Moon had a job to perform.

He let his mouth work harder, lips and tongue pressing and teasing. He felt Noir’s hands in his hair, grasping at his scalp to push deeper in. And Moon let him have his way, relaxing his tongue and staring deeply into the dark blues irises as Noir gently fucked his mouth.

What he read there he couldn’t put a name to, but it made him take over again, now pulling and pressing and sucking, and hearing wonderful, decadent profanity spill from Noir’s lips as he writhed beneath. Suddenly he was shouting:

“Howard! Oh, Howard!”

Moon’s mouth was full of warmth. He held fast onto the other man as Noir jerked and thrust his way through his orgasm. It tasted sweet—he tasted sweet. Moon swallowed gently, feeling Noir soften in his mouth. Noir was spread out helplessly on the bed, still making little sounds of torment as the sensations faded in him.

Moon couldn’t ignore his own arousal any longer, and he saw Noir’s eyes on him, pupils dilated. He was breathing hard.

“Yes, Howard. Please.”

“I… well, I…” Moon looked down at their bodies—intertwined, so close—and back up at Noir’s face.

“Do you…? Do I…?”

Noir gave him a lazy, wanton smile.

“Do whatever you feel you want to, Howard. There ain’t no rules…”

He reached down and let his fingers close gently round Moon’s length, making the man thrust helplessly into his palm. He smiled and nodded his approval, biting his own lip while Moon’s fingers explored him. Moon felt him tense up.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure, Howard.”

Noir hauled himself up a little and scrabbled in a drawer on the night stand. He handed Moon a small bottle, its contents hardly used. Moon stared at it and then back at Noir, who misread his confusion.

“Yeah, been waiting a long time for you, Howard. A long time…”

Moon took a deep breath and let the liquid slip over his hands and then pushed in again between Noir’s thighs. This time, his fingers entered easily, Noir twisting on them, making little ecstatic cries. They locked eyes again, and Noir suddenly turned so that he lay on his stomach. Moon held him up gently and pushed pillows under his hips and injured ribs, then stroked his hands down over the white skin, pausing at the damp crease between buttock and thigh. Noir looked back over his shoulder, his eyes hooded.

“You won’t hurt me, Howard,” he said again, anticipating Moon’s anxiety. “Please.”

Moon leant over and kissed the angled face, then his shoulder-blades, then the small of his back. He was amazed that this felt so easy, so uncomplicated, when in all his past life complications has arisen unbidden at all the wrong moments, convincing him that the world operated that way. He was amazed at his own daring. He trailed little light kisses down to the base of Noir’s spine, then slicked his hands again, and his body, and pushed into him.

He moved gradually, the sensations taking him over. Heat from their joined skins flooded him. What he felt was intensely physical—pressure, tightness; it made him feel powerful and vulnerable all at once. That he was doing this with a man; that he was with this man…. there was fear and joy in him, and he was bursting with unspoken emotion.

Noir was pushing backwards, encouraging, so he pressed in further, moving in long, smooth strokes. Noir was trembling beneath him. He reached back one hand and Moon, himself lost, grasped at it, pressing the fingers warmly.

In, in… skin against skin, Noir clenching around him, both of them saying things they neither heard nor understood, apart from the repetition of each other’s name. Then Noir dragged Moon’s hand beneath him.

“Jesus, Howard. You made me hard again, you animal….”

It was all too much now. Noir was shaking with the effort of supporting their combined weight, and the pressure of Moon’s fingers round him. Moon kept rocking against him, pushing in, lost in the movement, and when his release came it took him almost by surprise. He felt surrounded by warmth, and that warmth spread to his hand as Noir came all over again, with little half-cries and gasps. Moon clung to him, breathless, then slipped away as Noir turned to collapse on his back. He laid his head on Noir’s stomach, listening as their breathing subsided. Later, he let his hand drift over the down at the top of Noir’s thighs, and could feel soft fingers playing with his hair again—stroking, stroking—then over his brow and cheeks, and petting long strokes up and down his back.

Eventually, he looked up.

“All right?”

“All right, Howard.”

Moon slipped up the bed so their faces were level and they kissed softly.

“That was…” said Noir. He never finished the sentence, but neither of them expected him to. It was a statement all by itself.

They held each other.

“We could be like that, said Noir thoughtfully after a while, a propos of nothing obvious.

“Like what?”

“Double-agents.”

Moon looked up sharply.

“I beg your pardon, sir!”

“No, I mean like Heckler and Koch. A double-act. Double-act agents, working together.”

Moon relaxed again with secret smile, snuggling against the warmth of Noir’s chest.

“Yes, Vince, that we could.”

Another pause. Moon could tell that Noir was building up to say something. He looked up to find Noir gazing at him intently.

“Howard…”

“Yes, Vince?”

“When was the last time…” Noir shifted a little, looking away suddenly, feigning nonchalance. “I mean, when were you last in love?”

Moon opened his mouth to reply, and then shut it again, sensing a trick question but not clear in what direction it was headed.

“I don’t…. I mean… I’m not…” he began uncertainly.

He saw Noir blush.

“Oh, I understand, Howard,” he interrupted hastily, stroking his hair again. “Don’t want to talk about that, yeah? I’m the same normally. ‘Cept… just thought I’d say… I mean, well, me… Ages ago, it was. A long time….”

“Vince…”

Noir looked at him quickly and then dropped his eyes.

“S’all right, Howard.” He spoke lightly,

“It’s just… this job we do. I’ve never found it easy…”

“Oh yeah, exactly. I know, it makes it hard to commit. You don’t want to get tangled up with someone. I feel exactly the same way…”

“And as for another agent…”

“Well, yeah, of course. Against regulations.” His voice was flat.

“Yes, that’s right. Against regulations.”

There was another pause. The sense of disappointment in the air was almost palpable. Noir was now gazing deliberately and casually at the ceiling. Moon stared at the weird profile; wide brow, long lashes, sharp cheekbones, ludicrously attractive nose, sweet mouth, masculine jaw-line.

“He’s beautiful” he thought. “But it’s not just that…”

He saw an Adam’s apple bob, and he swallowed as well on reflex. He couldn’t put a name to everything he was feeling, but one thing he could clearly identify; a sense of utter certainty.

“Vince…”

“Yeah?”

“The thing about secret agents is…”

Noir turned his head on the pillow and frowned.

“Yeah?”

“…is that we… we’re good at keeping secrets,” Moon blundered on, not sure whether his words were going to make any sense now.

The frown deepened. Moon kept smiling at him, trying to impart some sense of what he was feeling but couldn’t put into words. And gradually the frown softened to query, to mild doubt, to a flash of disbelief, and then a slow smile of realization.

“Yeah, we are, aren’t we?”

He snuggled down against Moon.

“Gotta sleep now, Howard.”

Moon grunted at the sudden intrusion of reality.

“Have you set the alarm?”

Noir stirred and fumbled with a clock on the night stand.

“There. Seven-thirty. We’ll get almost three hours.”

Moon sighed his acquiescence and settled down. He heard Noir’s breathing even out, but just as he was relaxing into sleep himself, he felt the man tense up again.

“Howard? I just thought….”

“Hmmm….?”

“If anything goes wrong tomorrow, this place is our bolt-hole, okay? If it goes tits up, we re-group here, yeah?”

“Okay, Vince, but it will be fine, really it will…”

He felt Vince turn to look at him in surprise.

“Idiot….” But the voice was kind.

They slept fitfully, holding tight.

[nextpage title=”Chapter Ten”]

Chapter Ten

“I’m not happy about this!”

The van took a corner on two wheels, then straightened, and Moon changed gears with a horrible crash.

“I’m not happy!”

“So you keep saying,” snapped Noir testily, craning up towards the rear-view mirror, mascara brush poised. “And I’ll not be happy if I stick this in my eye. Mind how you’re driving!”

“I wouldn’t be driving like this if you had set the alarm properly…”

“Stop bitching, Howard. We wouldn’t be so late if you’d taken less time with your disguise…”

“And another thing…” continued Moon with a further gear crash, “these tights keep slipping down, even when I’m driving. What are they going to be like when I start walking, for pete’s sake?”

“I told you, you should have cut the feet out. It would hardly notice with those bloody great boots you insist on wearing.”

“Well, your shoe selection wasn’t exactly my size, you know. It’s a miracle even one of those dresses fitted.”

Noir sat back again, grinning.

“You do look pretty damn sexy, though. You have to admit. Not as sexy as me, mind, but who would have thought floral crimpelene would suit you so well?”

Moon grunted his annoyance.

“Or how willowy your legs look with that hemline…”

“My legs are willowy!”

Moon pursed his lips, but that was mainly to stop himself laughing. His moustache twitched with a suppressed smile.

“I thought, at least,” he said, taking one hand of the wheel and pointing at the aforementioned facial adornment, “…you’d nag me to shave this off…”

Noir’s grin grew wider.

“As if we had the time. Anyway, Howard, with some of these ladies you’d hardly look out of place.” He cocked his head on one side. “That blond wig really suits you, you know. Brings out your eyes.”

Moon put up his hand and ostentatiously fluffed up his blond curls, then turned to Noir.

“You look a right tart in that. Are they fishnets you’ve got on?”

“Of course, they complete the outfit. Ruffle blouse, leatherette skirt, fishnets, boots. Getting the details right is an important part of working under-cover.”

And they both burst out laughing.

“You tit,” murmured Moon, turning back to view the road, but he was still smiling. Noir kept his gaze on his colleague.

“We might be a bit late, Howard,” he said, “but I wouldn’t have missed last night, would you?” It was a superficially casual tone of voice.

“I think you mean, early this morning, Vince.” Moon’s eyes flicked across again, and held Noir’s for a moment. “And no,” he said softly, “I wouldn’t have.”

“Yeah,” said Noir, settling back and lazily inspecting his nails. “That was a good Chinese take-away…”

Moon’s face fell… just a bit. Then he noticed Noir’s smirk. He snorted with derision and slapped a fish-netted thigh.

“Oh, you don’t forget a night of passion with Howard T J Moon in a hurry. Oh no, sir…”

Noir’s eyes smiled.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, really…”

“Well, you might have to remind me later. We can see if you’ve still got flapjack in your belly button….”

They locked eyes for a moment, and then jumped as a mobile phone jangled into life. Noir extracted it from the top of his tights, Moon trying to avert his gaze from the spectacle.

“Yeah? Yeah, we’re almost there, Douglas. Howard’s been dawdling… ow!… no, seriously, we’re going hell for leather. We’ll check in… what? Oh, bugger. Okay, we’ll think of something.”

He snapped the phone shut.

“The tea-lady changeover’s already started. Douglas doesn’t know if that’s by accident or design. We may have to improvise.”

Moon huffed his displeasure.

“So we’re in this disguise for nothing?”

“Nah, it’s still the best way of sneaking into the building unobserved.”

He stole another look at his companion—blond wig, moustache, floral shift-dress open at the ‘bust’ to reveal a pale pink tee-shirt with appliqu� flowers stretched tight across a manly chest, 40 denier tan tights, desert boots.

“Yeah, no-one will give us a second glance.”

Moon pulled the van off the Vauxhall Bridge roundabout and into a dingy side-street. Noir slapped a handwritten sign saying “Secret Agent On Mission—Back In 20 Mins” on the dashboard and they both leapt out and made a bee-line through the rush-hour traffic for the imposing Secret Service building on the Thames Embankment. Noir minced between honking cars, enjoying the attention, while Moon shamefacedly shambled along after, head bent down in a futile attempt to hide beneath his golden curls. As they got to the other curb, Noir suddenly stumbled, and Moon’s arm automatically shot out to support him.

“You okay?”

“Damned ankle,” muttered Noir, looking down and wiggling his boot. “Keeps trying to give out on me.”

“Lean on me.”

They hobbled to the corner of the building till Noir got his balance again. Then, straightening wigs and hemlines, they made for the security barrier, manned by a burly, rotund man in uniform, whose bushy eyebrows were frowning in concentration on his copy of the Sun. They attempted to saunter nonchalantly past.

“Oi!”

They froze.

“You’re late, ladies!” Bushy eyebrows looked up from his paper.

Moon hid behind his hand again, but Noir flounced up to the kiosk.

“Better to arrive late than come too quickly,” he purred. “Eh, Malcolm?”

“You’re right there, petal.” The man winked and leered unattractively across the counter, reaching out to the slim arm resting there. “Save me some cream-cake?”

Noir gave him a playful tap on the hand and stepped out of further reach.

“I might, if you let me play with your truncheon later…”

“I’ll be waiting, petal!”

Noir flashed him a brilliant smile, grabbed the hunched Moon by the arm, and tripped off down the walk-way with a cheery wave. A few steps on and the agents exchanged wary glances. Moon looked quickly back at the simpering guard and then at his colleague.

“What did you….?” he began, in an undertone.

Noir punched his arm and dragged him along at a faster pace.

“Don’t ask,” he muttered, “don’t ask…”

As it happened, the changeover was still in progress. The previous shift were tripping up the pathway in a phalanx, shouting cheery goodbyes to each other and bawdy greetings to the security guard. They barely gave the agents a second glance. Looking at them, Moon realised Noir was quite right to have confidence in their ramshackle disguise—compared with the array of peroxide locks, short skirts and unsuitable footwear that flowed past, their own appearance hardly warranted attention. And he was convinced he had seen not only moustaches, but a beard as well. He nudged Noir and nodded towards the lady in question.

“Yeah,” muttered the other. “The Colonel likes ‘em beefy.”

They joined the back of the jostling throng at the corner of the building where there was a door, half-paneled in glass, bearing the sign “Secret Service: Trademen’s Entrance”. It was not a part of the building Moon had ever had to frequent before. On the window there were a number of stickers. Down one side Moon read variously ‘No Smoking’, ‘No Spitting’, ‘No Hawkers’, and ‘No Jehovah’s Witnesses’. He was just starting to read the other side when he jumped back in surprise. He was face-to-face with shockingly familiar features, though instead of their habitual cheery grin, they were set in a deep scowl.

“Come on, you lot. Simmer down. One by one, puh-lease!“

Fossil. Thankfully, he wasn’t looking directly at Moon, but over the heads of the unruly party.

“Just calm down, will ya? I might be the new boy but I outrank all a’ yous! Come on, one by one, you know the drill. Have your passes ready for inspection, like I told ya, okay?”

He opened the door fully. The chattering women quietened down a bit and began to file through, each slapping a pass against a metal column in the lobby. At each ‘beep’, glass barriers slid open, then quickly shut. The crowd kept moving, jostling and happily swearing at each other, and then clip-clopped, or clump-clumped, as appropriate, off down respective corridors.

Moon froze.

“Pass!” he hissed at Noir. “I don’t have a pass!”

“I know, Howard,” Noir hissed back. “There was no time to make you one. We’re just going to have to do the old Oyster Card trick with mine. Keep close!”

“The what?”

“Just stick with me, yeah?”

They were still at the tail of the line. Noir sauntered up to the barrier and gave Fossil a cheeky wave.

“Not seen you here before, sailor!”

Moon cringed. Why, oh, why did he have to draw attention to himself?

Fossil scowled.

“That’s because I just got a job-change. I was Special Agent yesterday, now I open the goddamn door to people.” Noir exchanged a questioning glance with Moon.

“How come?”

“I just said to Colonel… oh, hey! I can’t talk to you! Shut it and get a move on. You’re late for work.”

He flipped his hand dismissively. Noir slapped his fake pass down onto the electronic pad on the gate and sauntered part-way through the barrier.

“Too bad,” he began, “I’d like a chat with you sometime, sailor. You got a sympa…” The glass barriers slid close on him, trapping the leatherette skirt.

“Oh, help!” twittered Noir, flapping his arms about. “Oh help! Daphne! Help me!”

He looked pointedly at Moon.

“Daphne! Help me!”

Moon still looked bemused.

“Daphne, come here and use your pass…” fumed the man at the gate. Now Fossil was moving from his kiosk in the lobby.

“Ah, I’ll help ya, ya lazy…”

“DAPHNE!!!”

With sudden realisation, Moon lurched into action, and bundled himself into the gate against Noir, who reached behind him and slapped his pass on the column again. The glass gate slid open and they popped through and toppled free on the other side, grabbing each other to steady themselves. Fossil was still frowning. Noir gave him a megawatt smile.

“C’mon, Daphne,” he muttered. “Time to beat a hasty retreat.” He grabbed Moon’s hand and hauled him off down the corridor.

“Why’m I Daphne?” insisted Moon, still trying to hide behind his hand.

“Dunno. Does it matter? Sounded right.”

“Who are you, then?”

“Josephine. Quick! In here!” He pushed open a side-door and dragged Moon through.

It was a long room, full of benches and lockers. The air, though silent, was heavy with cheap scent and hairspray.

“Staff changing-room,” explained Noir. “We gotta get some uniforms.”

Moon looked aghast.

“More drag?” he howled despairingly. Noir shushed him

“More drag?” he repeated in a whisper. His colleague gave him a pitying look.

“We can’t wander round like this, Howard! We’re not in character!” He towed Moon towards a cupboard, and within moments he had extracted two slightly crumpled waitress uniforms—black dresses with white cuffs and integral white pinafores.

“C’mon, Moon! Get it on!”

Moon gave the smirking agent a withering look and struggled into the dress. By the time his head had emerged through the top, Noir was already neatly attired and was placing a small lace cap on his head. He turned to appraise Moon, and his tongue flicked out to moisten his lips. Moon felt himself colour. Self-consciously, he reached down and hauled up the tan tights yet again.

“God, Howard” said the other man, walking slowly towards him, “only you could make that look sexy…”

“Vince, I don’t think…”

Noir was already up close to him. He put out a finger and dragged it down Moon’s nylon-clad chest, then suddenly dropped to his knees in front of him.

“Vince! I really don’t…. hey!”

Noir had grabbed a leg. Suddenly, Moon felt the brush of cold metal on his skin as Noir slashed through the tights with a small pair of scissors, first one ankle, then the other. He got up again, smiling cheekily.

“There, they won’t fall down now.” He pretended to be surprised at Moon’s pained look. “Why, Agent Moon,” he purred, “whatever did you think I was going to do?”

Then he grinned.

“Come on, get into character!” He grabbed another cap and placed it on Moon’s head, then tweaked and straightened his pinny. “Now we need to get a move on…”

But the grating of metal had them both turning towards the opening door. Fossil stood on the threshold.

“You ladies got me confused. You just used one pass to get through. I gotta see the other pass.”

“Hey, now…” began Moon in a calming voice, and then stopped dead. Fossil had reached into his jacket and had pulled a revolver from a shoulder-holster.

“You gotta show me that pass. Else I get into trouble. Or you get shot.”

Noir glanced sidelong at Moon, then walked forward, positioning himself in front of his colleague.

“Look, Mr Fossil, Daphne forgot her pass today. But she had to get to work, ‘cos she has her crippled orphan son at home who’s out begging on the streets to earn a few euros for the heating bill, and her mother is a hundred and eight and need new brakes for her wheelchair….”

All this, and Noir kept walking forwards, hand outstretched. Moon could guess what he was aiming to do—disarm Fossil or distract him—but the strategy was risky.

“Vin… ah, hey, Josephine, get back here, yeah?”

But Noir kept going.

“…and her mother’s great-aunt Zelda gets out of prison tomorrow and there’s no food in the house, and…”

Fossil raised a hand to brush away a tear.

“…and…”

Moon moved forward quickly, placing his hands on Noir’s shoulders.

“Hold it, Josephine,” he whispered.

“… and Colonel ‘B’ asked for Daphne specially…”

“Stop right there!”

The revolver came up suddenly. Fossil’s expression had changed from dreamy sentimentality to pure hatred.

“What makes you think that I wanna help the Colonel to anything?” he hissed.

Noir and Fossil were both breathing heavily. Moon quietly interposed himself between the two men.

“Why aren’t you a Special Agent, Bobby?” he asked softly. “Why’re you down here on door duty?”

Fossil glared at the interruption.

“Ain’t nothin’ to do with you, lady. Ain’t nothin’ to do with you that the great Colonel ‘B’ is a ball-bag scuzz-ball bastard. Ain’t nothin’ to do with you that my best friend in all the Service, Agent Moon, was killed yesterday, and the bastard laughed and said I was re-deployed. Ain’t nothin’ to do with you. I just need to see your pass, or I get fired, lady…” He tailed off. “And how do you know my name, anyway?”

“Bobby,” smiled Moon, “don’t you recognise me?”

Fossil frowned more deeply, then his eyes widened in shock.

“No, no, it can’t be! Dear Lord above, it can’t be…” There was a tremor in his voice.

“It’s okay, Bobby.” Moon held out a hand and Fossil grabbed it, falling at Moon’s feet.

“Mommy! Mommy! After all these years!”

Moon gulped in alarm.

“No, Bobby, I’m not your mommy…”

“Poppa? Poppa! Don’t leave me again, Poppa!” He grasped Moon around the knees. Moon gave Noir a horrified look. At this rate, the tan tights would descend for good.

Noir hauled the shaking Fossil to his feet and plonked him on a bench. Moon crouched down in front of him.

“Bobby, it’s me, Howard Moon!”

Fossil was open-mouthed.

“Moon! You didn’t die? You didn’t get blown up? This is a goddamn miracle! Why’re you dressed like my mother?”

“Long story, Bobby,” interjected Noir. Fossil looked at him as if he had never seen him before.

“This is Secret Agent Vince Noir. We’re working together,” explained Moon, adding, “in disguise.” Perhaps it was a little unnecessary, but it was Fossil they were dealing with, after all. “Tell me what happened with ‘B’.”

Fossil turned his wondering face back to Moon.

“He laughed, when I said you’d been in that factory. He said “Perfect!”, like he’d planned it! Then he said I was being demoted because I didn’t get myself blown up too. And I had to come down here. Work the door, bring the tea ladies in early and get clearance for some little guy in a funny hat and a purple coat, and his gor… his gor…”

“Gorilla?” suggested Noir helpfully.

“Yeah,” Fossil looked absently at him. “Yeah, gorilla.” He turned back to Moon. “He said he’d never wanted me as an Agent. He said I was only ever the delivery boy. What did he mean, Moon? I gave him my best!” Tears welled up in the brown eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, Bobby,” said Moon comfortingly, patting his arm. “We’re after ‘B’. He’s plotting the downfall of the government. Will you help us, Special Agent Fossil?”

Moon stood upright, and Fossil rose too and saluted proudly and tearfully.

“Whatever you want me to do, Moon!”

“Good man! Now tell me about the little guy and the gorilla.”

“I had to let them in. And a guy in a black hat, too. About eight-thirty this morning. They had some boxes with them. I gave them a trolley and they took them away.”

“Where did they go?”

“I guess the supply room? They weren’t gone long. Then they came back and I had to take them to Colonel ‘B’ office, to wait for him there, while he went to see HRH somebody.”

“When’s he due back?”

“Ten-thirty.”

Moon and Noir exchanged a glance.

“The spare explosives will be in the supply room,” said Noir. “We should de-fuse them, yeah?”

“No time. Plus, they won’t blow up this building with themselves in it. No, we need to get to wherever the central control is.”

“‘B’s’ office?”

“Probably. But there are guests there right now… What’s the time?”

“Ten-fifteen.”

Fossil was looking from one to the other.

“You want me to take you up there?”

Moon smiled at him warmly.

“No, Bobby. We need you to hold the fort down here. When we give the word, there’ll be reinforcements. You have to let them in.”

“Okay, Moon!” whispered Fossil excitedly. “What’s the word?”

Moon looked despairingly at Noir.

“Douglas Douglas,” said the other, pulling a small ear-piece off his own ear and handing it to Fossil. “This is our comms with Douglas. I’ll share Howard’s. You listen in to that, Bobby.”

As Fossil was still looking baffled, Noir fitted the ear-piece himself.

“Ok? Douglas Douglas.”

“That’s his name,” added Moon. “He looks just like ‘B’, only without the moustache. Got that, Bobby?”

“Yessir. No moustache. I got that.”

“What could possibly go wrong?” muttered Noir to himself, and grabbed Moon’s hand again.

“C’mon, time for phase two!”

They took a service lift up to boardroom level. Outside the lift doors a tea trolley, complete with tea service and refreshments, was waiting, presumably left there temporarily by the bona fide waitresses. Noir casually took its handles and pushed it and Moon around the next corner. Almost immediately an irate voice was heard.

“Oi, where’s me bleedin’ trolley? You got my trolley, you idle bitch?” There was muffled swearing from another party, and clumping footsteps faded away.

Noir poked his head round the corner.

“Coast’s clear. Come on—‘B’’s office.”

They slipped along the corridor, the crockery chiming gently as the trolley rolled across the luxury carpet, and paused in the anteroom at ‘B’’s door, only to leap back as it suddenly opened, Bollo holding the door for Sable who calmly swiped a chocolate bourbon off Noir’s tea trolley and strode off down the corridor. The gorilla shambled along behind, but not before a long, hard look at the waitresses standing at the door.

No sooner had the agents breathed a sigh of relief that their disguise had held, than a familiar booming voice pierced the carpeted hush of the anteroom.

“Sable! Where’re you off to?”

Sable’s monotone could be heard in reply.

“We’re just going to prepare the shipment, sir, as the deadline is approaching.”

“Jolly good, jolly good! I’ll start the final preparations here.” And ‘B’ clumped along the corridor towards them. There was no time to get away.

“Ah! Tea! Splendid! I could drink a gallon!”

As he drew nearer, Moon moved behind Noir, still ducking his head. ‘B’ appraised them.

“You’re new, I think?”

“Yessir,” mumbled Moon, Noir flashing an unreasonably cheeky smile for his part.

“B’ stroked his moustache flirtatiously.

“Hmmmm….. you look a credit to the team… ah….?”

“Josephine, sir.”

“Josephine, hey? And especially your friend. Oh ho! You look a saucy minx, and no mistake!” He leaned forward over the trolley, leering.

“And what’s your name, my dear?”

“That’s Daphne, sir,” said Noir hastily. “She’s a bit shy”.

“Shy?” bellowed ‘B’. “Oh, I’ll soon cure you of shyness, my beauty…” He reached out his arm only to recoil suddenly as a teaspoon slapped his hand.

“Ow! Why, you trollop!”

“Come now, sir,” blustered Noir, brandishing the spoon. “We got to get on.” He pushed at the trolley to keep ‘B’ away.

“You are a little temptress, aren’t you?” ‘B’’s eyes were glittering. “Oh yes… we’ll have some fun later, I’m sure… Anyway, more pressing matters call. Bring in the tea for my guest.”

They followed ‘B’ into his office. The room appeared empty apart from furniture and a large cloud of fragrant smoke hanging over one of the leather armchairs. ‘B’ marched forward, fanning the smoke away with his hands to reveal the slight, purple-clad figure of Big, ensconced in the armchair, apparently at one with the universe.

“Hmmm…..” mused ‘B’ to himself. “Out for the count, it would seem. Never mind…” He motioned to Noir. “Just pour some tea anyway. Now then…” He advanced on the trolley and leered unattractively at the shrinking violet that was Agent Moon, lowering his voice as close as he could get to a seductive whisper.

“Any little tidbits to delight me with today, Daphne?”

“Chocolate bourbons.” Moon attempted a falsetto squeak, edging round the trolley to face away from ‘B’. That, however, was a big mistake. Noir, emerging from the smoke having served Big his tea, saw ‘B’ make a grab for Moon’s arse. Moon yelped and ‘B’ pressed closer.

“You’re a well-built filly, by jiminy,” he murmured in Moon’s ear. “I’d like to get some reins on you later. Oh, yes….” Moon threw Noir a look of alarm.

Noir was considering launching a plate of bourbons into the air as a distraction when a voice piped up from the smoke-cloud.

“Get a move on, Colonel. Time is money. We got a schedule to stick to.”

“B’ pulled back, straightening his jacket. Released, Moon fled to stand behind Noir, tugging his dress back into shape. ‘B’ cleared his throat.

“Quite so, Mr Big. Shall we open the safe now?”

“About bleedin’ time,” said the voice, and the tiny shape of Big emerged from the smoke, adjusting his turban. He gave the waitresses a pointed look.

“You can clear off, an’ all.”

“Indeed, girls. Off you go. Leave the tea with us.” ‘B’ waved a dismissive hand at them and turned away.

Noir grabbed Moon’s arm.

“What now?” he hissed. But Moon replied with a confident grin and pushed him through the door, closing it with a deliberate ‘clunk’ to signal their departure. Then he dragged his bemused colleague along the inner wall of the anteroom to a door marked ‘Coats’.

“It says ‘Coats’,” pointed out Noir. “And it’s locked.”

But his eyes widened as his colleague reached up inside his clothing to extract a thin band of plastic. Moon slid it into the doorframe and the door clicked open. He waved the plastic at Noir with a grin.

“Basic lock device, standard issue. You should, get one, Vince!”

He bundled the smaller man in front of him into what clearly was a cloakroom. But Moon headed for the far wall where there was another door, blank and handleless. The standard issue lock device did its work again, and suddenly Noir found himself in a small cubicle—more a cupboard, really—except that this cupboard had a window and they were looking straight into ‘B’’s office.

Noir immediately ducked below the level of the window. Moon took hold of him by his shoulder pads and hauled him up again.

“Observation room, Vince!” he explained in a whisper. “‘A’ had this installed not long before he died, and very few people know about it. Maybe not even ‘B’—‘A’ might already have had his suspicions, you know. We can see them, and hear them, too. Best if we keep quiet, though.”

In the room, Sable and Bollo had just returned. The former was smirking triumphantly, while Bollo looked more surly than usual.

“All set?” asked ‘B’.

“All set, sir. I’m glad you agreed with me that we should prime those additional flapjack devices. One never knows when a bargaining chip will come in handy.”

“Quite so,” said ‘B’ absently, “but unlikely that we’ll be facing that eventuality.” He rubbed his hands together and turned to Big.

“Well, Mr Big, the final part of our plan is in place. This morning, I delivered a presentation box of flapjacks to HRH, who will by now have just departed by helicopter for Balmoral. I’ve explained to him that the flapjacks will stay fresher if the airtight seal remains in place for a couple of days. Time enough to secure the secondary explosion later today to… ah… remove the Royal Family as they flounder in the face of our takeover. All that remains now…”

Bollo suddenly lurched forward.

“Boss! Mr Big, sir! Sable said we really blowin’ people up! Here, all over London! Dead people! And now Royal people! An’ corgi dogs! Boss, this ain’t right…!”

Sable grabbed the gorilla by a hairy arm.

“Shut up, you stupid ape! There was always going to be dead people. That was the whole point.”

Bollo shook him off angrily and turned to Big, beseeching.

“You said you threaten bombs, Boss! Not blow them up…!”

Big looked on impassively.

“Was always the plan, Bollo, old mate. Sorry, but that’s business. Now, pipe down and get on with it.”

He turned to ‘B’.

“It’s time for the main signal.”

“To the safe, my dear sir…”

On the opposite wall hung a dark oil painting of some dead partridges and a bottle of whiskey. ‘B’ swung this aside to reveal a wall-safe, with an electronic panel on the centre of the door. He placed his right palm against it, and the panel beeped. He turned to Big.

“Your turn for the biometric security control, sir…”

Big raised a hand and snapped his fingers. Bollo shambled up, still muttering to himself, and lifted his boss bodily up so he was on a level with the safe. Big performed the same ritual and the safe beeped again. The door swung open and Big reached in and extracted a small object—the flash-drive.

“Why you insisted on such security…” huffed ‘B’ impatiently. “One might even think one wasn’t trusted.”

Big merely gave him an inscrutable look.

“Important we do things in the right order, Colonel. Don’t want anyone going off at half-cock. Now, you’d better activate.”

In the observation cupboard, Moon and Noir looked on anxiously as ‘B’ strode towards his desk and opened his laptop.

“Merely place the device here, sir, and the signals will be sent automatically to all the explosives delivered in your flapjack shipments to government buildings, triggering their detonation.”

In their hiding place, both agents breathed one word.

“Evidence!“

“B’ was still talking.

“In the mayhem that follows, I shall make sure that the additional explosives are discovered in the supply room here. That will remove suspicion from us. I have a scapegoat already lined up.”

“Who?” asked Big idly, fiddling with the flash-drive.

“An underling. A non-entity called Fossil. He won’t know what hit him.”

Moon and Noir exchanged a look.

“ We gotta…”

“…stop him. Now!”

The words were said in unison.

Noir reached up and took off his lace cap, extracting a small papery object from the headband.

“What’s that?” hissed Moon.

“Flying saucer… want one?” Noir winked, and rammed the sweet into the window frame. “This is a special type, though.”

He threw himself against Moon just as the tiny cubicle was filled with a deafening noise and a sudden cloud of acrid smoke.

“Standard issue, Howard. You should get some!”

They both turned to the shattered window and kicked out. The frame left the wall instantly and they leapt into the adjoining room to confront a stunned group of would-be traitors. Sable hadn’t even had the presence of mind to reach for his Heckler and Koch. ‘B’ was gulping like a goldfish at the sudden re-appearance of his waitresses, when he suddenly pointed like a village idiot and bellowed “Moon and Noir!” Big simply rolled his eyes.

“Get him!” shouted Noir flinging open the main door. But Moon had already grabbed the little tycoon, pinioning his arms and lifting him into the air. He swung round and Noir was waiting with the tea trolley.

Three pairs of hands reached for them, but they were gone, racing along the long corridor like contestants in a supermarket sweep. Big, grabbing onto his headgear, struggled to sit up but Noir snarled at him.

“Lie still, you turbaned tit! Or I’ll shove a bourbon where the sun don’t shine!”

Moon reached for his ear-piece.

“Sir? Douglas? We have Big and the detonator. I repeat, we have Big and the detonator. But we need your assistance! Now! Make for the trademen’s entrance. Agent Fossil will get you through!”

Hs earpiece crackled.

“On my way, Moon! Stand by! What’s your position?”

“Boardroom corridor, aiming for the lifts. We…”

There was a sudden ‘zing’ as a bullet whizzed past his ear.

“Under fire, sir! Taking evasive action! Special Agent Fossil, prepare to assist reinforcements!”

Another voice sounded in his ear.

“Ready for action, Agent Moon!”

More bullets hit the wall above them, and then one shattered the remaining teapot on the trolley.

“Christy, Howard! That was close!” Noir glanced back. “Oh bollocks, ‘B’ has a gun! And he can shoot straight!”

“Left turn, Vince! Now!”

The trolley made a handbrake turn and took the corridor corner on two wheels. Now, beyond the boardroom sector, they were racing through an open-plan area of office personnel.

“Get down! Get down!” yelled Moon as they careered through, scattering staff. A hail of bullets from their pursuers followed them.

“Right turn! Now!” yelled Moon, and the trolley swung again. He could hear ‘B’’s voice above the hub-bub behind them.

“Stop them! They’re renegades! In the name of the Service, stop them!”

But those who attempted to obey that order were kept at bay by a fusillade of cream cakes and biscuits, hurled with vicious accuracy.

“Right!” yelled Moon again. Their pursuers thundered round the same corner, and came to an abrupt halt.

They had reached the elevators. There, in front of a panting Noir and Moon and the irate Big, now sitting cross-legged on the trolley, was a group of Lycra-clad figures, perfectly accessorized and all toting sub-machine guns. At their head, wielding an extremely long-barrelled Luger and dressed in tight camel slacks and a white ruffled shirt open to the chest, was Douglas. Noir leaned close to Moon.

“When Fashion Division come to the rescue,” he whispered, “they do it in style!”

“Greetings, uncle,” drawled Douglas. “Time to surrender, I think. We have your detonating device. We know all your dastardly plans.”

“B’ scowled.

“Douglas, you’re making a big mistake.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” He walked forward. “Colonel ‘B’, I arrest you in the name of Her Majesty’s Secret Service for crimes against the state. Agents, take their weapons.”

Mere moments would have resolved it all. Moon was ready to allow himself a sigh of relief when the elevators doors pinged and slid open. Bobby Fossil stood in the doorway, wide-eyed.

“No-one gave me a gun…” he began petulantly, when the eyes of all the main protagonists turned to him and he clocked both Douglas and ‘B’.

“Oh no,” said Moon, filled with dread at the inevitable outcome.

“Moon! What the…” Fossil pointed accusingly at Douglas. “You! No moustache!”

“Bobby,” shouted Moon. “No!”

But Fossil had already launched himself at Douglas. Moon leapt to haul him off.

“Bobby! No moustache is the good guy!” he yelled at the spluttering Fossil. “You just let him in!“

But the advantage was lost. The Fashion Division agents didn’t know which way to turn—help their boss or guard their adversaries. The confusion lasted seconds only, but it allowed ‘B’ to leap for the trolley, knocking Big sideways and grabbing the flash-drive detonator that no-one had yet had the foresight to remove from his hand.

“Stop him!” came Douglas’ muffled yell. But Sable and Bollo were already scarpering and Fashion Division’s focus had split. As ‘B’ made off down the corridor, it was only Moon and Noir who were in hot pursuit.

“The office!” shouted Moon. “He’s heading to his office!”

There was a crash behind him and a yelp. He half-turned to see Noir sprawled on the floor.

“Vince!”

“Bloody ankle!” shouted his colleague. “Go on, Howard, I’ll catch you up!”

Moon turned again and hared down the corridor. The heavy paneled doors were already shut but the standard issue lock device made short work of them. He burst through, and saw ‘B’ dead ahead of him, his revolver raised. It was a heavy calibre Glock. Moon ducked instinctively and rolled, and the bullets thudded into the door already closing automatically behind him.

Moon kept rolling, gaining the relative shelter of one of the winged armchairs, just in time to hear—and feel—yet more slugs slam into its well-padded cushions.

“Give up, Colonel!” he shouted. “You’re out-numbered!”

“Hah! You’re the ones out-numbered! I can still launch this coup! I’ll destroy government and Big’s army will take over just the same. People will soon find out who’s in charge.”

“B’’s voice was by now a thunderous roar and his eyes were blazing with madness.

“All I need is to start the explosions, and chaos will reign!”

He fired again, keeping Moon at bay, and backed towards his desk.

“Howard! Howard!”

There was a loud hammering on the door. ‘B’ swung round and fired again, this time at the oak panels. There was a muffled oath from their other side.

“Vince, get back!” yelled Moon.

“Howard! Hang on! I’ll get help!”

“B’ turned back to Moon’s armchair hiding-place with an evil leer.

“You’ve lost again, Moon!” He fired once more at the chair, shattering one of its leather-clad arms and leaving little cover for Moon.

There was an almighty crash on the far side of the door

“B’ fired at the chair again, and Moon felt the bullet whip past his ear. Another crash sounded, but ‘B’ merely moved a step closer. Moon huddled behind the frame; the next bullet would hit flesh and bone….

[nextpage title=”Chapter Eleven”]

Chapter Eleven

A third crash, and a tea trolley came hurtling through the oak panels, splintering and smashing as it went. Noir was running it headlong at ‘B’, forcing the Colonel to take his eyes off Moon to dodge aside. Noir tossed Douglas’ Luger into the air.

“Catch, Howard!”

It wasn’t a very accurate throw, though perhaps that was forgivable in the circumstances. The gun landed just over an arm’s length from Moon’s chair.

But the trolley was on a one-way course, such was its speed. It ploughed into ‘B’’s desk, smashing the veneer panels and splitting the top right across so that the whole thing lurched drunkenly. ‘B’’s laptop slipped sideways and teetered on the edge. Noir, momentum driving him, flew over the top of the trolley on impact, somersaulted the desk, and disappeared behind it.

Moon hurled himself from the relative shelter of the chair to grab hold of the Luger, but his fingers had barely grasped it when ‘B’ turned on him again, his gun raised.

“I’ve run out of patience with this…” he snarled.

Noir came sailing over the desk again, grabbing ‘B’ from behind and scrabbling for his gun. The Luger was knocked off target and a bullet hammered into the ceiling. And suddenly, the flash-drive was in Noir’s hands.

“Got it, Howard!”

Noir seemed surprised about the outcome himself. He flicked the flash-drive towards his colleague, at the same time wrapping himself around ‘B’ to stop the Glock finding its target again.

Moon’s first instinct was to leap for the flash-drive, and he did so, catching it just before it hit the carpet. But for a split-second he was juggling Luger and flash-drive, trying to get his balance. It was just long enough for ‘B’ to use his considerable bulk in pushing Noir away from him; enough to level the Glock yet again at Moon. The agent, still struggling to bring his own weapon to bear, found himself looking straight down the barrel of the gun.

But Noir was back again, leaping on ‘B’ like a cat, grabbing the man’s gun hand and forcing the weapon down towards the floor and away from Moon. It was a desperate, uneven fight for Noir; Moon could hear his grunts and gasps as he wrestled with the heavier man, the gun now out of sight between them. He brought up the Luger, aiming for Noir’s opponent, and praying desperately he could hit the right man as the two struggled together. But before he could fire, there was a muffled report and a roar from ‘B’, which all but drowned a higher-pitched yelp. For a fraction of a second, all was silence, then ‘B’ threw his attacker off him and turned again to Moon.

Moon fired first, straight at ‘B’’s heart. The Colonel fell backwards with his arms outstretched into the remaining armchair, eyes wide open as if in shock. He was quite dead.

Moon rose and quickly removed the Glock from the lifeless fingers, just to be on the safe side. He turned to his colleague.

“Well done, Vince!”

His words died on his lips. Noir was still in a crumple, lying on his side on the carpet. His breaths were coming in short, panicky gasps. Moon dropped to his knees beside his colleague, turning him gently at the shoulders. Noir twisted an ashen-white face, beaded with sweat, towards him.

“He shot me in the balls, Howard! In the balls! Help me!”

Moon saw Noir’s hands clamped at his pelvis, blood all over them and the carpet. He turned the agent’s body fully—Noir muttering “oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…”—and gently removed the man’s hands, pushing up the waitress uniform.

“Vince! It’s all right, honestly! It’s not your balls.”

Moon could see the damage. There was a savage gash, marking the trail of the bullet across Noir’s right side, from just below his navel to his hip-bone. Blood was flowing freely, covering the fishnets and making their former erotic charge an obscenity. Moon’s eyes widened in horror. Was this arterial blood? Surely not, but it was flowing fast. He couldn’t see an exit wound. Possibly the bullet had gouged a path over Noir’s body? Or was it still lodged somewhere? He touched the flesh at Noir’s hip and the man bit back a scream.

“Oh, Vince….” Moon didn’t know what to say. Noir’s eyes locked on his.

“Not my balls?”

The tone was desperate.

“No, Vince. I promise….”

“Thank Christy for that!”

“…but you’ve got a bad wound. Lie still.”

Noir craned his neck to see and turned alarmed eyes back to Moon’s face.

“Is it gonna be all right, Howard?”

Moon didn’t answer directly. He swiped at the comms device in his ear.

“Douglas! Agent down, sir! In ‘B’’s office. ‘B’ neutralized, Noir injured. I repeat: Noir injured. Send some paramedics!”

He ignored the answering crackle, turning back to Noir again. He took his colleague’s hands, slippery with blood, and squeezed them.

“It’ll be all right! Just hold on, little man! Hold on…!”

He placed their joined hands on the wound.

“Press, Vince! It’ll help stop the blood loss.”

They pressed down hard together, Noir biting his lip, Moon lost for words. He could hear footfalls in the corridor behind them.

“Hold on, Vince! Help’s coming!”

Douglas and two other agents kicked aside splintered wood at the doorway. Douglas saw the body in the armchair.

“Colonel ‘B’!” he gasped.

“He’s gone!” snapped Moon. “Nothing to worry about. And I’ve got the flash-drive. Noir is hurt, sir!”

But already calm hands were at his shoulders, moving him away from Noir. The paramedics began to work fast, straightening the injured man, applying dressings and pressing hard on the wounded hip. A sleeve was pushed up.

“No!” yelped Noir. “Not needles!”

Moon shushed him. The paramedics held him firmly and the syringe was in.

“Morphine, Vince,” said Moon. “It’ll make you feel better—help you recover…”

The words almost stuck in his throat. Noir’s eyes seemed to be losing their focus. A bloody hand reached out and found his. With more pain than he had ever experienced in his life, Howard Moon knelt on a bloody carpet and watched life slipping away. But the injured man was smiling softly, and muttering something. Moon drew closer.

“If you say it’ll be all right, Howard, then it will…”

There was a commotion at the doorway. Bollo was struggling to get into the room, with a host of Fashion Division agents dragging him back.

“Moon! Moon!” he shouted. Moon turned his head. The look in the gorilla’s blue eyes was intense.

“It’s Sable, sir! They won’t listen to me! Sable gettin’ away! He got detonator for flapjack!”

“No, man!” Douglas waved a hand dismissively. “We have the detonator!”

Bollo shook his head savagely.

“No! Detonator for dese flapjack. Here! Dis buildin’!”

Moon and Douglas exchanged shocked looks. Sable was going to wreak revenge. The plot could still succeed, and the Service would certainly be destroyed.

Douglas was already giving instructions on his comms device. Moon felt a pressure on his arm. He turned again to Noir. The dark blue eyes were now pale and vague, but the colourless lips were moving.

“What, Vince?” Moon hung over him.

“Go get him, Howard!” The words were mere whispers.

“I can’t… I can’t leave you!” He grasped Noir’s hand again.

“You said it’ll be all right,” persisted Noir, the words obviously an effort. “Go get him!”

As Moon stared at him, Noir’s eyes flickered closed.

“No,” breathed Moon, but there was an answering pressure on his hand and the ghost of a smile at Noir’s mouth.

“I’ll be back, Vince. Hold on.”

The bloody hand had already slipped out of his. He got to his feet and ran to the door.

“Where, Bollo?”

“Roof. He gone to roof. For helichopper…”

Moon took off at a sprint, Bollo at his heels, aiming for the staircase by the elevators. Two flights and he’d be at the helipad. He took the stairs three at a time, bursting out onto the roof of the building into blazing sunlight and the roar of the helicopter’s rotors.

Fossil was in the machine, at the controls, his face a picture of panic. Sable was sitting behind him, gun at his temple. He smiled nastily at Moon and jerked the gun. Moon could see his mouth move as he shouted instructions to Fossil over the whine of the motor. The helicopter’s skids lifted gently from the building.

Bollo came thundering through the door and cannoned into Moon.

“He gettin’ away! He gonna blow bombs, soon as he clear. Bollo know Sable.” He shook a fist at the figure in the cockpit. “Murderin’ ball-bag!”

Moon stood rooted to the spot. This was impossible. Should they shoot and risk crashing the aircraft and setting off the detonator anyway? Could he jump on? No, surely not. How could he even get into the cockpit? He’d be dangling his balls over London, and be a sitting target for Sable. Could he….

A small voice echoed in his memory.

“Go get him, Howard!”

“Come on!” shouted Moon, springing after the helicopter, determined now not to let his enemy escape. He made a flying leap for the helicopter’s skids but missed his grasp and fell heavily on the concrete. But he felt himself being lifted from the ground by two strong hairy arms and suddenly, with a loud roar from the gorilla, Moon was flying upwards. It was just enough height for him to be able to grab hold of a skid, and now he was on, there was nowhere to go but into the cockpit. The helicopter was already high up and had moved away from the rooftop.

Wind rushing past his ears, Moon swung his legs up to the skids and pulled himself up far enough to grasp the edge of the cockpit doorway. His scrabbling feet found a purchase on the metal and with a final effort he launched himself into the cockpit, clearly astounding its occupants.

“Moon!” they shouted in unison, one in hope, the other in loathing. Sable brought his gun to bear on the man at the doorway, but Fossil hit out with one arm, knocking the gun off-target. It was opportunity enough for Moon to swing into the cockpit fully and parry Sable’s arm as the man brought the gun round again. Moon grappled him, pushing him backwards onto the rear seat, his gun hand high over his head, while at the same time reaching into the man’s jacket.

Sable was struggling wildly beneath him, but Moon’s large frame was an advantage. He grasped a slim shape inside the inner pocket. From Sable’s yet more frenzied efforts, he knew this was the electronic detonator he was looking for. He dragged it out.

Sable reached up again with the gun, but Moon grabbed it and brought it crashing down on his temple. He knelt over the dazed man, Noir’s blood dried dark on his own hands, and felt some small sense of revenge for the pain the sadistic henchman had inflicted on his colleague. Sable fell still. Moon sat back on his haunches and slipped the detonator into his tights. He patted the trembling Fossil on the arm.

“Well done, Bobby. Now, get us back to the helipad.”

“Okay, Moon.”

The helicopter had only just started to bank when Sable suddenly sprang back into action, his fist catching Moon’s jaw, sending the agent tumbling back out of the cockpit. He hung on the edge of the doorway by his fingertips only. Sable stepped to the door, a triumphant smile twisting his mouth, and kicked away their precarious hold.

Fossil roared in disbelief and shock. It was more reflex action than a professional response that caused him to bank the aircraft sharply, but the outcome was just the same. Sable, caught by surprise, toppled with a cry out of the doorway.

Fossil leaned out of the cockpit. Beneath him, Howard Moon hung by one hooked arm from a skid. In his hand he held the remote control detonator, which he had already extracted from his tights. He flicked it to ‘off’—the Service was safe—and his eyes followed the tumbling descent of Sable towards a messy death on the South Bank. But to his amazement, at the last moment the falling body seemed to right itself and rise effortlessly, arms outstretched. It swooped experimentally, then banked and glided out of sight between some tall buildings.

“Dammit,” thought Moon. “A personal glider. Requisitioning procedure really does need tightening…”

“You okay, Moon?”

“Get me back, Fossil!” roared the agent.

The helicopter wobbled and banked again, and the roof of Secret Service HQ was once again beneath them. Fossil lowered the machine slowly to the helipad. Gently, gently…. Moon could see Bollo waiting on the rooftop below. If he could just hold on a little longer….

Lower and lower. Moon glanced down to ground level and to the fleet of ambulances gathered around the main doors, blue lights flashing. And then, a stretcher, carried out by two paramedics, the body draped beneath a blanket; he couldn’t see the face—was it covered? An arm flopped limply from under the blanket; black sleeve, white cuff.

Moon felt himself go numb. It was like a blow to the chest, depriving him of air. His grasp weakened for a second, too long… he scrabbled for purchase again, but he was lost. The metal slipped from his fingers, and with a cry he fell the remaining distance to the concrete helipad below.

And right into the arms of a waiting gorilla, who, on this occasion, was entirely happy to be there.

Two days. Two full days before Howard Moon opened his eyes to the sickly lighting of the Service hospital, his room quiet but for the sound of beeping machines and the echo of voices in the corridor outside. Then another frustrating day while he vainly asked for news of Agent Noir, his own injuries seeming to be nothing more than some bruised ribs and a bad headache, even though the gently-spoken orderlies kept him confined to his bed and sedated. Eventually the lack of answers became too much. On the fourth morning he spat out his sedatives, purloined an orderly’s uniform from a passing linen trolley, and slipped out of the hospital.

He felt woozy, to be sure, and the ground was a little shaky under his feet to start with, but as he walked hurriedly through the light drizzle he could feel his still-lethargic mind clear a little. There was only one thought in it, though—to find Noir. His odd attire earned him a few uneasy stares as he walked the miles from the West to the East End—though fewer than if he had chosen the surgical greens or indeed the patient’s operating gown, he reflected—but no-one stood in his way. With no money, no transport and no means of communication, his only thought was to get to the Shoreditch flat—their agreed bolt-hole. His concern about Noir’s injury, fuelled by the tight-lipped responses of doctors and orderlies, was now eating away at him, a dull dread filling a space in his chest where he thought his heart might once have been.

The streets got narrower and quieter as the buildings got older, and there was little traffic. The tarmac was wet and greasy in the damp morning air and litter was plastered everywhere. The whole area seemed to have lost its allure. He turned into the alley leading to Noir’s place. And stopped dead.

There was a metal grille across the entrance to the yard; a heavy grille, securely padlocked. He walked up to it, feeling numb, and grasped the bars, pulling close to peer into the dark space beyond. There was no van. The windows to the second floor opposite were boarded up, the plywood white and fresh.

He stood there, motionless, trying to make sense of what he saw, part of his brain frantically denying the obvious conclusion.

A vehicle pulled up behind him, the familiar chug of a black cab registering at the back of his thoughts. But he didn’t bother to turn round until he heard the driver speak.

“Hey, Moon. You shoulda stayed at the hospital. Boss Man’s goin’ ape.”

Even Fossil’s voice seemed unusually sombre and subdued, though physically he looked none the worse for his aerial exploits. But Moon glared at him; whether or not he had saved Moon’s life, it had been Fossil’s mistake that had led to Noir’s injury. Moon wasn’t ready to forgive that. Nevertheless he saw the passenger door was open for him.

“Get in. Gotta take you to see Mr Alphabet Soup…”

Stares followed him also as he marched swiftly into headquarters and along its busy corridors, but these stares were surprised, delighted, admiring. More than one person advanced to try to shake his hand, or slap him on the back, but they backed away as Moon shouldered through, noting the set of his jaw and the determination in his eyes. He strode through the paneled ante-room, ignoring the three glamorous secretaries, and through the splintered door-frame into what had been ‘B’s office.

Douglas, attired in a white linen suit, was standing in the middle of the room, a cigar in one hand and a book of carpet swatches in the other. He was staring at the carpet at his feet. Moon followed his gaze and stopped dead. Between the battered desk and the door were two stains on the otherwise pristine fawn Axminster. One, surprisingly small, marked where ‘B’ had slumped into the winged armchair, shot through the heart by Moon’s revolver—most of the blood must have soaked into the Parker Knoll. The sight of the other made him catch his breath. The place where Noir had lain showed as a dark brown expanse—obscenely large. Even now in his mind’s eye, Moon could see the blood oozing between Noir’s fingers as he pressed against his wound, could hear his panicked breathing as Moon tried to help him.

“….you’ve got a bad wound. Lie still.”

“is it gonna be all right, Howard?”

“It’ll be all right! Just hold on, little man! Hold on…!”

And the grip of a bloody hand on Moon’s arm, and the fading light in his eyes.

“If you say it’ll be all right, Howard, then it will… Go get him, Howard!”

Go get him. And Moon had done so, had acted just as an agent should, when a human being might have stayed; to comfort, to cradle, to hold his hand….

Douglas’ expression seemed to confirm the worst.

“Damned shame…. damned shame…” he muttered, puffing on the cigar. Then suddenly he looked up.

“Moon! Where the devil have you been, man? I called for you at the hospital. Glad you’re here. Time to take stock. Take a pew.”

He gestured around the room, which in fact no longer contained any chairs. Moon cleared his throat.

“Sir…”

“Damned shame, y’know, Moon. It was a brand new carpet.” He waved the swatch book. “Apparently I can have the sections replaced, but you know… I think I might just go for a complete revamp. A minimalist look, perhaps—get rid of all this oak paneling nonsense. So very dated…”

He threw the swatches across the room and turned towards Moon, proffering a hand.

“Moon, I’m glad to see you! The Service owes you a great debt of gratitude, y’know…”

Moon felt himself blush, despite his inner turmoil. Yes, he should be proud; he and Noir, together, they had saved the Service, and possibly the entire country.

“Sir, thank you, but I couldn’t have done it without Agent Noir. And I must ask… what is his condition? I couldn’t find him at the Service hospital and no-one there would tell me anything. And now his flat is boarded up.”

Douglas withdrew his hand, and turned abruptly away, staring out of the window while he took another pull on the cigar. He turned back to Moon again, his face grim.

“Moon, I didn’t realise no-one had told you. Agent Noir… well, Agent Noir… has gone to another place.”

Moon stared at him blankly for a moment and then the words sank home. Feeling himself sway, he reached out to the battered desk to steady himself.

“Sir!” he breathed. “Surely… no…! His wound… it looked bad, but surely not life-threatening?”

Douglas gripped Moon’s forearm.

“Steady, man. Stand firm. I realise it’s a shock. It was to us. We thought we had all the correct procedures in place. But there were… complications. Our surgeons would have done their best, I know, but they weren’t given the chance…”

Moon stood there, slowly shaking his head, trying to comprehend. Agent Noir—Vince—gone, finished; that exasperating, exhilarating, mercurial, beautiful man….

“Sir? Agent Noir is…?”

Douglas held up a hand to silence him, but even so, Moon found he was unable to say the word.

Douglas slung an arm around Moon’s shoulder and led him to the window. To the south, a black pall of smoke still hung over the ruins of the flapjack factory.

“Moon, there is something you must understand. Agents in Fashion Division live their entire lives in secrecy. Like fashion trends themselves they come, they go, sometimes they come back with a bit of retro-styling. Most often they disappear without a trace. But always they play a role. If they don’t, their lives are worthless, they would be betrayed in a instant. So when they “disappear”, we neither acknowledge their existence, or the lack of it. It’s the Service Code.”

“But sir,” persisted Moon, pulling away to stare hopelessly at his new boss. “No funeral? No commemoration? An unmarked grave?”

“Moon!” said Douglas sententiously, emphasizing every syllable. “Mark my words—we do not discuss them,” He paused. “And anyway, there are no funerals in Fashion Division. Just parties; very long parties.”

He studied Moon’s ravaged face carefully, still drawing on the cigar.

“You got on well with Noir, didn’t you, Moon?”

Moon looked at him blankly.

“You got on well with him? Liked him?”

“Yes, sir. We… got on. Very well. In fact…” He paused and rubbed a hand across his face. “…In fact, I really thought he was someone… someone I could… work with. We made a good team.”

Douglas nodded thoughtfully.

“Tell me, Moon—man to man—was there any… emotional attachment?” He peered inquisitorially at the agent, but by now Moon had regained his composure. He was quite calm, and merely blinked, his voice neutral.

“Oh no, sir, no emotional attachment at all. That would be against regulations.”

“Quite right!” bellowed Douglas briskly, giving Moon a slap on the back that would have sent a lesser man reeling. “Quite right! No room for emotional attachments on active service.”

He peered at Moon again.

“So it was just the sex, then?”

Moon stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Sir?”

“Perfectly understandable. And laudable. I’m thinking of making it a regulation that all operational staff should shag each other. Very good for morale. But emotional attachments… that’s another kettle of fish, and a very dangerous Pandora’s Box at that. You were quite right, Moon.” Douglas regarded Moon again through the cloud of cigar smoke. “Though now, I suppose…”

“…I am my own man,” finished Moon, bleakly.

“… and so, Moon, I look forward to having you report to me direct as head of the Service. I know I’ll be able to count on you. But first a spot of leave, I think, following all this excitement. And you should take a break as well. Mr Big and his hairy friend are languishing at Her Majesty’s pleasure, his baked goods empire in tatters. Sadly, Sable got away in the confusion. He’s gone to ground in Bolivia. Why Bolivia, we have no idea, but there you go…”

Moon could barely concentrate on Douglas’ monologue. Eventually he stirred himself.

“And should I refer to you as ‘C’ from now on, sir?” he asked, more out of politeness than any professional interest.

“No, of course not! ‘D’ for Douglas! Really, Moon, have you been listening at all? I would have thought you’d have guessed that pretty quickly. I intend to break with tradition. Still, I suppose you are still in shock.”

He began to escort Moon to the door, then checked,

“Dam’me… I almost forgot. I have something for you.”

He went back to the ruined desk, cranked open a bottom drawer and extracted a small, pale green carrier bag with a distinctive logo.

“When I last saw Agent Noir, just before he… moved on, he asked me to get you a present…”

Moon goggled at his boss.

“A present?”

“Yes, he was very particular. As it was a last request of sorts, I did my best. Here…” Douglas handed over the bag. “I got it at Fortnum’s… the least I could do.”

He sighed, reflecting.

“No, you don’t come across a man like Vincenzo Noir every day of the week…”

Moon started.

“Vincenzo?”

“Yes, didn’t you know? Vincenzo. His grandmother was French, apparently.”

Douglas’ voice trailed away. He was already crossing the room to retrieve the carpet swatches, his mind now on another tack. But Moon stayed motionless, gazing at the contents of the bag which now lay in his palm. He swallowed painfully, and cradled the object as one might a precious relic.

It was a small pot of strawberry jam.

End Notes: *And… curtain falls*

A/N: Oh, did I mention? There’s an epilogue, as in all good secret agent stories……

[nextpage title=”Chapter Twelve: Epilogue”]

Chapter Twelve: Epilogue

Moon got his leave. Three months without the option, Douglas said. It had been the ideal opportunity to make that expedition to Armenia to photograph snow leopards that he’d always promised himself, and so he had left, merely days later, with the intention of sorting out his mind and his emotions.

Not that it helped, of course. It had been a cold autumn in the Caucasus and snow leopards had been hard to come by, although his photographic collection of bryophytes had grown exponentially. So there had been little to distract him from sombre thoughts. Now, as he stood in front of his own apartment door, ready to turn the lock, he knew with a heavy heart that he was only acclimatised to his loss, not recovered. And probably never would be. That was how it went. He was destined to live a solitary life as a secret agent, duty covering over heartbreak. He just had to get on with it.

In his pocket his hand once more found a small glass jar—the jam-pot. Its contents finally eaten one cold, lonely, desolate night on an Armenian mountainside, he could not bring himself to throw away the empty jar, and now he turned it over and over in his fingers, like a talisman, contemplating.

The world had moved on; a quick sortie into HQ on the way home from the airport had revealed no new developments. Big was already in the High Court, facing charges of tax evasion, the only thing in the end that, in the absence of witnesses, could be pinned on him (Bollo’s sterling assistance to Moon had earned him more lenient treatment by the authorities). Most of the blame seemed to be falling on Sable, who had disappeared without a trace. As far as the Service was concerned, the memory of ‘B’ had been expunged from the records. And it was as if Agent Noir had never existed, just as Douglas had said it would.

Yes, the world had moved on and Howard Moon needed to move with it. But the little jam-jar was still in his hand as he took a deep breath and opened the door.

Moon was an agent to his very nerve-endings, his brain subconsciously processing information that would have stumped an ordinary person. In opening his door, his eyes had automatically flown to the lock. When he had left three months before, he had twisted a hair from his head across the mechanism. It was an old agent’s trick, and one that was easy for an intruder to overlook.

No-one should have been in Moon’s apartment during his absence, yet the strand of hair had been snapped.

Moon felt his pulse quicken. He pushed the door open gingerly, dropping his rucksack quietly at his feet. A wiser course might have been to call for back-up. Three months ago, in the days before he had known such a thing as Vince Noir existed, it would have been his first consideration. Now, not only had Noir’s thrill of the moment rubbed off on him, he felt strangely reckless as well, as if he had little to lose. Finally there was a welcome distraction from the pattern of his thoughts for so long now. He relished whatever confrontation lay ahead.

Officially still on leave, Moon was carrying no gun. This was a time when, unusually, he inwardly cursed his adherence to Service discipline. The jam-jar was no real substitute. But there was a small pistol in his bedside table. If he could get to that….

The air in his flat felt heavy with its own silence. Moon could hear nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat—even his clocks had stopped ticking. Only a vague glow of light penetrated thought the drawn blinds.

He moved silently down the corridor, skirting the other doors of the flat, and slipped into his bedroom. Moving swiftly to the bed he was just leaning over to open the bedside drawer when he was conscious of movement in the far corner of the room. A figure stood by the window, silhouetted in the half-light. Slim, angular, long hair, heeled boots….

Neither moved for a long moment. Moon forgot about his gun. He stared at the shadowy figure, letting the delightful reality sink in. So, it could really be like this, after all…. like the best Hollywood thrillers; the mawkish misunderstanding, the joyful reconciliation, the new life that he thought was lost. The whys and the wherefores he couldn’t give a stuff about. For once, Agent Moon was going to get a happy ending.

But he wasn’t half going to give the little titbox a piece of his mind first.

He saw the other stretch out a hand. The breath that Moon had been holding escaped from his lips as a triumphant, joyous, disbelieving shout. He knew it was far from professional behaviour, but he didn’t care. He half leapt, half stumbled, across the edge of the bed, his arms reaching out….

“Vince!”

The other man brought his raised hand down on Moon’s forearm before the agent could reach him. The blow, delivered as it was by hard metal, was enough knock Moon off-balance and he stumbled to the ground. The gun crashed against his skull once again before he’d had a chance to recover. He rolled back on the carpet, dazed.

“Vince….?”

“Move, and I shoot you here and now.”

He voice was deep, harsh and monotonous. Surely…

The man reached out a hand and twisted the blind open. Light streamed in, making Moon blink. There was no mistaking the face, though the long, dark wig, which was now summarily removed, was quite a distraction.

“Sable!”

The man’s handsome, dusky features were twisted into an evil sneer.

“Yes, it is I, Agent Moon. Savouring the chance to get my revenge on you.”

Sable waved his familiar Heckler and Koch.

“Get on your knees. Hands behind your head.”

Moon stared at Sable, weighing up possibilities, and then followed his instructions. A sudden attack was futile, he judged. Playing along might produce an opportunity for resistance. He folded his hands behind his head, the little jam-jar still in his palm.

“You didn’t honestly think you’d seen the last of me, did you?” intoned the grating voice. “Though god knows, the sheer boredom of being holed up in Bolivia might well have done for me. But I had my hate to keep me warm…”

He smiled nastily.

“Got over your little bereavement, have you? Let’s face it, not much loss there, was it? Perfect little tart, that Noir. Anybody’s for the asking, and a right pain in the arse, if you’ll forgive the expression.”

He knew he was being goaded but it took all of Moon’s self-control not to throw himself at the man to tear his heart out.

Sable circled behind the kneeling agent. Moon felt the barrel of the gun slide over his ear and across the base of his skull.

“I would have enjoyed topping him, but your twat of a boss beat me to it. How does that feel, eh?” He rapped the gun sharply on Moon’s head. “Still, the amount of trouble the two of you caused, the plans you ruined…. I’m going to enjoy this next bit.”

Moon felt the gun slide down.

“Question is, which bit do I shoot first? I want to get enough bangs for my buck, so to speak…”

Moon swallowed hard. This might not be pretty. He needed a distraction.

“You’re kidding yourself if you think the Service won’t get you, Sable,” he began.

“Oh, please. As if I care about that. They don’t stand a chance of catching me. I ambled right up to your front door and no-one from your precious Service noticed I was back in London….”

Fair point, thought Moon.

“And I won’t stay long—just long enough to make you pay.”

Moon heard the gun cock.

“Don’t kill me, I’ve got…. neighbours who’ll hear,” he improvised wildly. “You’ll never get out of this building!”

“Trust me, the other residents of this block won’t even be distracted from ‘Countdown’. This gun does have a silencer, you know.”

Moon’s ears perked up.

“The GadgetsWorld deal? I read about that. You don’t trust that silencer, do you? It’s a very unreliable model…”

The oldest ruse in the book, but Moon had learned from a master. He could feel Sable’s hesitation.

“Hmmm…. perhaps another method.” He rapped Moon’s skull again with the gun barrel. “Get up! Keep your hands there! Now walk backwards towards me, into your kitchen.”

Moon shuffled backwards, head turned. From the corner of his eye he saw Sable slip ahead of him, gun still trained on his stomach, and throw open the tall kitchen window. Gentle traffic noise and the sound of cooing pigeons drifted in.

“Okay, move to the window. You’re four floors up. You might not appreciate the mess you’ll make, but it’ll make me laugh.”

And he did laugh, mirthlessly.

Moon stared him down.

“And what if I refuse?”

“I shoot you anyway and take my chances,” sneered Sable. “Whichever way, I have the upper hand, I think you’ll agree. You’ve no little tart to watch your back now.”

Ah, Noir the miracle-worker, Noir the cocky bastard, Noir the unpredictable. Hit or miss, it didn’t matter; what mattered was having a go….

If Noir were still around, Moon thought wryly, he could have relied on him to do something daft and inspired, like swinging in through the window on his fly-by-wire, wielding a trombone as a weapon. The thought made him smile.

Sable snarled.

“Why are you grinning, you fool? It’s all over for you!”

“Oh, I learned more from him than you’ll ever know.”

It was a long shot, he knew, but he had realised that Vince had already provided him with the distraction he needed. Noir’s influence would always be there…..

“He’ll always be watching my back, Sable. I can feel it…”

“You can keep your creepy fantasies to yourself…”

Moon smiled pleasantly at the killer in front of him. “Oh, it’s no fantasy. Here! Catch!”

“Huh?”

Moon hurled the little jam-jar straight at Sable, at the same time dropping to his knees. The missile caught Sable by surprise. In a reflex action his gun jerked up, fired, and the little jar shattered into a million pieces.

Moon powered from his position on the floor to make a break for it in the confusion, but saw he was already too late. The distance was too far and Sable’s aim had quickly recovered. Even as he leapt, Moon knew he was going to be in the direct line of Sable’s next shot. The world, as it so often did in such situations, seemed to be moving in slow motion. He saw himself flying helplessly towards Sable’s gun, but all at once there was a flurry of movement at the corner of his eye. Another man had appeared as if from nowhere, charging across the kitchen wielding what looked like a mediaeval lance—it was in fact a carpet sweeper from Moon’s own broom cupboard, so the man must have emerged from there—to strike Sable a hard blow on his side before he could fire again. The gun flew from his grasp.

Momentum carried Moon’s rescuer across the room. Moon could see only black overalls and a blond mop of hair as the man spun against the far wall, the carpet sweeper flying out of his hands on impact. The gas-man? Had the gas-man come to rescue him? Had the Service started outsourcing work again? Or had he in fact lost his mind with grief and was only just realising it? Because the lithe form in the overalls reminded him so powerfully of….

Sable scrabbled for his weapon and suddenly it was in his hand yet again, and the newcomer had barely regained his balance.

But years of training were now to pay off as Secret Agent Moon unleashed a personal orgy of aggressive improvisation. Sable was hit first by a heavy glass vase, thrown with all Moon’s weight behind it, then a toaster, then a chair. Sable reeled, the gun swinging in all directions around the room, another stray bullet hitting the wall. And before he could recover, the air was full of kitchen utensils whizzing past Moon’s ears; the newcomer was wrenching open cupboards and drawers and hurling their contents at Sable in a hailstorm of plates, spoons, forks and mugs. Sable now had his arms up around his face in defence. Backing away, he stumbled towards the window.

Moon looked wildly about him for something to deliver the coup de grace. With a great roar he launched himself across the kitchen and seized the microwave oven from its place on the counter. It was a brave choice; the weight of it made him stagger and the delay cost him his advantage. Sable was straightening up, gun in hand.

Then two hands grabbed at the other side of the microwave. He felt it lift easily. He looked up, and now he was sure he was hallucinating. There was the familiar flash of dark blue eyes and heavy lashes, and the crooked grin of delight. He was dreaming he was in his own kitchen, holding a microwave with a dead man……

Wordlessly, the two men swung their burden back and the momentum swung it forward again. The last of the breath from their lungs came out as a triumphant shout as they let the microwave go.

It hit Sable like an express train hitting a Victoria sponge. The force of the blow sent him reeling back against the window frame, and in a split second he had toppled backwards out of the window. His howl of terror was cut short by a crash in the yard below, followed by a muffled ‘ping’.

Moon rushed to the window. There was a shape on the concrete, topped by a microwave. There was no movement. As he gazed down he heard a click and then a soft voice. He turned abruptly. The gas-man had his back to him, one hand ruffling the mop of straw-white hair, the other holding a mobile phone to his ear.

“Yeah, Moon’s apartment. A mess in the yard. Send someone to scoop it up, all right?”

Again, a click as the phone was closed, and the gas-man turned with a hesitant smile. Moon didn’t move. His heart was pumping wildly, and not just from the exertion of the fight. He saw him for real this time; those dark eyes, that broad brow, now lost beneath the weird hairstyle, the ludicrous nose, the sweet mouth. Even from where he stood, he could feel the man’s warm presence, like a life-force.

The gas-man stepped to the window and peered out.

“Eeew, naaaasty. Still, I told you, Howard. Microwaves are on our side.”

Sable dealt with, Moon and Noir faced each other. The proximity was suddenly too much for Moon. He backed off, staring at his rescuer, feeling unaccountably angry. Neither spoke for a long moment. Noir’s initial smile faded. His eyes got harder and he leant back against the window frame and inspected his fingernails casually. Moon was still finding breathing difficult.

Noir gave him an up-from-under look.

“All right, Howard?”

Moon pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, no mean feat.

“Notice anything different about me?” offered Noir.

Moon could no longer contain himself.

“Apart from you not being dead, you mean?”

“Dead? No, I ain’t dead! I’ve had my hair done! Don’t you like it? Look, I can do this with it!” He ran his fingers through locks that were somewhat shorter than when Moon had last seen him and were now dyed an interesting shade of…white?… ; his hair remained standing upright. “Genius, yeah?” He grinned encouragingly.

“Which is why,” he continued, “you should’ve realised straight off Sable wasn’t me. That wig was all the wrong…”

Finally, Moon exploded.

“How could I have known“ he bellowed, exasperation completely obliterating disbelieving joy, “that you’d had your hair done? Until this moment, I thought you’d died three months ago!”

Noir gaped.

“What? No way! Didn’t Douglas tell you?”

“Tell me what? Douglas told me there had been ‘complications’. You’d ‘moved on’, ‘gone to another place’, ‘I could never know what happened to you, it’s the Service code.‘ All that bollocks! Bloody hell, there was only one conclusion!”

He cast around him for something to throw at a wall. However, most of the room seemed to have been thrown already, so he kicked an upturned chair instead.

Noir’s grin turned a bit rueful.

“Sorry, Howard. Douglas ain’t the brightest letter in the alphabet. He probably forgot. But you know, it really was touch and go to start with. The doctors weren’t sure if I’d make it. But at the last minute BUPA gave in and said I could go into the Wellington.”

Moon pulled at his own hair and glared at the ceiling.

“The food’s much better there, you know? Better class of hospital, and you get HD TV in your room” added Noir helpfully.

Then a shadow crossed his face.

“But would you wait to be told? No, upped and went to Algeria…”

“Armenia, actually.”

“…before I was barely out of anaesthetic. Photographing sea lions…”

“Snow leopards.”

“Oh, really? Find any?”

“Actually, sir, I was able to build up a sizeable portfolio relating to mosses and liverworts…”

“That’s a ‘no’, then, is it?”

Silence.

“How did you…?”

“Followed you home from the airport, of course, you lump! I thought there was a good chance Sable would come out of hiding when you reappeared. I didn’t realise you were going to make it so easy for him, though. You even left your door open when you came in!”

Moon lowered his gaze.

“Sorry, Vince. I had… things on my mind.”

“Huh.”

A pause.

“Thanks. For watching my back.”

“Not a problem, Howard. Any time.”

Moon raised his eyes. Noir was leaning with his head back against the wall, staring at him steadily, as if considering. His mouth was set but his eyes were shining. Moon felt his anger dissolve. He allowed himself a step closer. Noir pushed himself off the wall and matched the step, and took another. They were standing close enough to feel each other’s breath.

“Double-act?” asked Moon, casually.

“Like there’s an option,” answered Noir, deadpan.

Moon reached out, his hand shaking slightly, and touched the unfamiliar blond hair with his fingertips. It felt odd; less sleek than he remembered, but somehow youthful. He paused, still trembling, and then let his fingers brush against a cheek. The other shivered at the touch and lowered his lashes like a girl.

Moon stroked down his cheek and back again, and Noir let his mouth softened into the ghost of a smile. He took the fingers in his own and, eyes still shut, pressed them to his mouth, not moving. And as Moon felt the warmth of his breath and his lips, something like new life unfurled within him.

Suddenly, those blue eyes snapped open, and the glint in them was wicked.

“Here, Howard, I got a genius scar! Wanna see it?”

Fin

End Notes: Howard Moon: Secret Agent will return shortly* in:

“The Moon Identity”

*well, he might……

losttime

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Howard Moon: Secret Agent