"You know that rowing machine I bought?" Murdock said. "When I get home I'm going to strap it with dynamite and blow it into a million pieces."

"It's not rowing machines I'm going to be blowing to bits when we get home," Face muttered.

Hannibal nodded. Only thoughts of what he planned to do to Stockwell when they caught up to him had sustained him through the long night. Delightful visions of the unspeakable pain and suffering he would heap on the man were a bright vision in the darkness. But the night was over at last. The rising sun spilled its light across an ocean empty in every direction. No sign of the Meirion or any other vessel.

"We need to eat," BA said. They'd stopped once in the night for food, and had drunk a lot of water while they sweated over their oars like galley slaves, but they were all hungry again. BA handed around the food from a box in the prow of the boat and they ate slowly, despite their keen hunger, too tired to do otherwise.

Hannibal fought to keep his mind from being sucked down into despair, dragged there by the pain and exhaustion. More than once overnight he'd questioned the wisdom of this plan - a plan cooked up by people who were smart but, a little voice reminded him, certified insane. If he'd been the one to plan this he'd have included more supplies, for one thing.

But they did have a radio.

Which might not be working.

BA hadn't had a chance to check it yet, in the darkness, and still too close to the Meirion to risk transmitting. Though if Miller's radio was broken, they did have a last resort. During the night, while taking a quick inventory, they'd discovered that the boat had an emergency locator beacon. If activated, it would lead the Meirion right to them. But that was better than dying. They weren't going to die out here. They were not.

"BA," Hannibal said, when they'd all finished eating, "let's try the radio."

BA just nodded, too weary to speak. He crouched in the bottom of the boat and slid the radio carefully out of its cover. A part rolled out and BA had to slap a hand over it, to keep it from rolling off the bench and into the puddle of water in the bottom of the boat.

Face groaned. Hannibal didn't need him to point out that that really could not be good. Murdock didn't make a sound and, glancing at him, Hannibal saw he'd fallen asleep, slumped on his seat. The sight cheered him up. The Army had taught them to sleep anywhere and he knew men who could indeed sleep standing up. They were Army, he reminded himself. They were trained to survive whatever it took.

Of course, right now, it might be better if they were Navy, but it was too late to do anything about that.

He turned back to find BA trying to figure out where the loose part fitted. Face watched him, but his eyelids were drooping too.

"Face, get some rest," Hannibal ordered. "We're going to have to set watches, so get some sleep now." Face fell asleep before Hannibal finished speaking. "Well, BA?"

That got him a scowl in response. "Gimme time, man. Don't look too bad, but gimme time. Ain't no miracle worker." He bent over the radio again, working quietly. Despite Hannibal's tension, he quickly joined Face and Murdock in exhausted oblivion.

~~~~

"Okay," Kate said to Stockwell. "Make the call to your 'friend' at the CIA."

They stood beside the car that had been waiting on the tarmac at Logan International airport. The plane had taxied away for refuelling. Kate stood right beside the car, Stockwell noticed, hanging onto it. She'd wobbled as she stepped off the plane and he realised she wasn't used to solid ground after so long at sea. She was adapted to walking on a moving deck and the unmoving ground almost made her stumble.

"Phone," Stockwell said to the driver, who handed him the cell phone through the window. Kate stared at the device in fascination.

"Oh, the new Motorola." She sounded like a child who wanted to play with a new toy. "Perhaps I'll get one of those, now I'm back."

"They're rather expensive." Who would she call anyway? He listened to the phone ring. His contact back at the CIA was waiting for this call and these instructions. Everything was going just as planned.

A moment later a tense voice answered with a simple "Hello?"

"It's Stockwell. I've arrived with Miller. Send the message to Tate to confirm the A-Team's identities and authorise their release."

"Stockwell, listen, there's a big problem."

Stockwell didn't dare permit any reaction to show on his face. Not with Kate standing there watching him. If he didn't want to be reduced to threatening her canary, she couldn't know anything about any problem.

"Stockwell? Are you there?"

"I'm sorry. Bad reception. So, you'll confirm when Tate gets the message?"

"What? Look, that's what I'm trying to tell you. Tate can't let them go - they've already escaped. They got away in one of the lifeboats."

"Very good. Call me on this number when you have the confirmation."

"But -"

Stockwell ended the call and thrust the phone into his pocket, taking the opportunity to wipe sweat from his palm as he took his hand back out. Don't let her see that... Turning a stern expression on Kate, he said, "That order can be rescinded at any time, Doctor."

She looked at him closely, searching his face for lies or the smallest sign of deception. Hold your nerve, Hunt, he thought. Get the information and then fix everything. Put it all back the way it started out. He'd bring the A-Team home, as he'd promised Kate and as he'd intended from the start. Of course, they'd be angry about his stranding them, but he'd explain why he'd done it. Their escape complicated things though. If, by some miracle, they actually got away and made their way home... Stockwell began to sweat.

"We're going to take a cab," Kate said. She glared at Stockwell's car and took her hand off it. "I don't trust anything you supply. Probably gas me and knock me out as soon as I get you the information."

"Doctor, I'm retired," Stockwell said, with a sigh, wondering if they watched a lot of spy movies on the Meirion. Probably; so they could laugh and point out all the mistakes.

"I don't care. We're getting a cab." She picked up her birdcage. "And since I don't have any money, you're paying."

Kate gave the cab driver a destination written on a scrap of paper, so Stockwell didn't know where they were going until they arrived. He was glad when they did, since Kate quickly got over her nervousness of being in the taxi and of the traffic all around them and spent the whole journey taking in the sights of her old home. She exclaimed at landmarks still there or missing and talked at length about the Red Sox. It was like bringing a country bumpkin cousin to the big city for the first time.

But they arrived eventually and he paid off the cab driver. He helped Kate from the taxi, and kept hold of her arm to help her stay on her feet, but she pulled away and stepped up to the entrance of what Stockwell recognised as one of Boston's oldest banks. It had a frock-coated doorman, and though he gave them a polite tip of his hat as he opened the door, he gave them an odd look too.

They were an odd couple. Stockwell, thin and cadaverous, and wearing an expensive, dark suit that only accentuated that. Kate dressed in rumpled clothes, sensible shoes, thick-rimmed cheap glasses and carrying a birdcage. She cut an eccentric figure. Perhaps people would think she was his batty old aunt.

The interior of the bank had more marble than most cathedrals Stockwell had visited. Kate led him to a desk with a sign hanging over it.

Stockwell smiled. So close now, so close.

"You have the key?" he asked.

"Don't ask silly questions," she said, pulling a chain from around her neck, with a locket and a small key hanging from it.

"After all this time?"

"I never gave up hope. Besides, my best jewellery is in there too."

After some paperwork, confirmation of Kate's identity and some restrained amazement at her return so long after her last visit, they were seated in the viewing room, and a bank official brought in the box.

He placed it on a table where Kate and Stockwell sat facing each other, the birdcage on the floor beside Kate's chair. Stockwell eyed the box, wanting to grab it. So close... But he retained his control and waited for the bank official to leave, telling them to relock the box and leave it when they were done.

Kate took the chain from around her neck and slid the key off. She looked at the key for a moment and then placed it in the lock.

"My husband paid up twenty-five years in advance on this box." She looked up at Stockwell. "In case anything happened to him, he said." She turned the key.

Stockwell ignored the barb in that last remark. "He always was a man who planned ahead, I remember."

"Yes," Kate said, her voice quiet. She lifted the lid, almost hiding her face. "One of the many things we had in common." Stockwell heard an odd sound as she took something from the box. A metal on metal sound.

She closed the box and Stockwell stared at what she held in her hand. No files, notebooks or papers.

A gun.