During the Reinvention of Men
By Tara Tory
“It’s Lord Gloria, sir.” The agent was quite nervous, but struggling to hide it. To show fear before Major Eberbach was to invite a lengthy rant on the theme, ‘Are you a man or a mouse?’ Heard once, one really didn’t care to hear it repeated.
“What does *he* want?” snarled Eberbach.
“He asked for a few moments of your time,” Agent W told him, glancing back at the direction of the corridor. Very polite, the Englishman had been. Usually he just waltzed in.
“He can’t have it,” replied the Major, and he reached for his cigarette before remembering that he had given them up yesterday. At lunch, Major Kleppert had intimated that Iron Klaus was a misnomer if the man didn’t have the spine it took to give up smoking, and pride had stung Klaus into deciding that he could, indeed, give them up. In his secret heart, he knew that it was getting harder and harder to made good time on his runs, and that cigarettes were probably the reason. He frowned, thinking of that, and then realized the man still stood in front of him. “Tell him to go away!”
“He says he will, as soon as he has a word with you. It might be important,” Agent W said diffidently. “He looks…serious.”
“Ha,” Eberbach said with a sneer.
“He won’t go away. Remember last time, when he….” W let his voice trail away. Perhaps this wasn’t the time to bring that up.
Klaus remembered it, too. “Damn. Send him in, then. Quickly.”
“Yes, sir,” W said, and sprang to obey. He opened the door, and Lord Gloria walked in.
Walked. He didn’t mince, or sway, or shimmy, or float. He walked in. Everyone in the room was staring at him, for all that they pretended to be busy with their work. The man looked…strange.
He was wearing a dark business suit. The exuberant curls had been plaited into a somber braid, which gave him a look so different from his usual that for a moment one wondered it if were, indeed, Lord Gloria. His usually laughing face was almost severe. Without the smile, one could see the faint lines bracketing his mouth, and other signs of advancing maturity. It was all vaguely disturbing.
Eberbach turned and stomped over to his desk. He threw himself into his chair. “What is it you want?” he growled. Eroica didn’t take the uncomfortable visitor’s chair, but remained standing, although he had moved close enough that their conversation would remain private.
“I have come to apologize to you, Major Eberbach.”
“For what?” His fingers wanted a cigarette. Instead, Klaus picked up a paper clip and tapped it impatiently against the desk.
“For my actions, My behavior during the past…decade. I would like to express my regret for the inconvenience I have caused you through the years.”
“Wonderful. Good-bye.”
“No. Please. There’s a little more. I am sorry that I forced my way into your investigations and your missions. I am sorry if my attentions caused you dismay or embarrassment. I have come to assure you that I will, in future, behave myself in a more civilized manner.”
“Is that all?” Eberbach asked impatiently.
“Yes. I am most sincerely sorry. I hope you will accept my apology.” Lord Gloria gave a short bow and straightened, almost military in his precise motion, almost German in his inflection. He did not stay to elaborate on the subject, but turned and quickly left.
Major Eberbach blinked twice, watching until the door shut behind the man, and then looked out over the room. Every one of his agents had his head down and was either working industriously or skillfully pretending to do so. Eberbach huffed under his breath and went back to his own stacks of reports and bulletins.
He did not stop for lunch. His agents went out to their meals on a rotating schedule, some of them eating at their desks, but most of them, in their turn, going out for their quick bite. When the room was as empty as it was going to get, Eberbach stood up.
G was perched on his rolling office chair, a cup of yogurt in one hand, a plastic spoon in the other, and an American fashion magazine spread out on the desk. His golden hair was curled but caught up simply with a barrette, his eyes were modestly made up, and he was wearing a black pantsuit that was definitely on the masculine side. When G became aware that the boss had stopped by his desk he put the yogurt down, closed the magazine and looked up expectantly.
“What mischief,” Eberbach said without the preamble of a salutation, “is that idiot Gloria up to now?”
G lifted his nicely arched eyebrows and said, “I’m afraid I didn’t hear what he said to you, but I must admit that was a short--and quiet--visit.” He waited expectantly.
“The man apologized for his…attentions and said he would stay out of our affairs. Is he sick?” Eberbach looked almost hopeful.
“Oh.” G pursed his lips and glanced sideways out of his eyes, as if trying to decide if it were safe to speak. “I haven’t heard anything about illness,” the man began cautiously.
“What have to heard, then?” the major asked, visibly holding back his impatience.
“It’s that American, I suppose.”
“American.” It was not a question. It was a demand for more information.
“Umm. This is a bit of gossip, of course. I first heard a hint of this several weeks ago…” At the impatient sound from his superior he hurried on. “I’ve heard the earl has an unwanted suitor. The man has been pursuing the earl for…several months now. Lots of twitter in the clubs about how the man shows up just about anywhere Dorian goes, which means that he’s having Lord Gloria followed or watched, now that I think of it. I can see why dear Dorian would be upset about that. They say the man just showers him with gifts, flowers and attention. He tried to give him a car for his birthday.”
“Tried?”
“Um. Dorian gave it away, it’s thought. At least, an identical car was donated to a children’s charity auction and brought a record amount. Wonderful one-of-a-kind vehicle. Red,” G added, with a flutter of his fingers for emphasis.
“He chases the earl, and the earl does not return his affection?” The major’s lips bent up in a short, unkind smile. Irony. So the poncy thief knew what it was like now, did he?
And hated it. To the point that he apologized.
Apologized. Eroica.
The earl was not in the habit of apologizing. Not for his sexuality, or his vocation. Not for his country or his opinions. What apologies he made in the past were light things, without much weight.
Apologized. Eberbach frowned.
“I want you to look into this,” he said to G. “Get me a name for the American, today. Then find out about his background. Find out about his alleged behavior towards Eroica. Under certain circumstances that idiot Englishman could be blackmailed, and he knows some of our business. Eroica is a tool which must not be used by enemy hands.”
G, whose mind had veered off on a tangent with the words Eroica, tool, and hands, in a way which he would never dare share with his superior, tried very hard not to laugh and therefore his, “Yes, sir,” came out just a tiny bit breathless.
Eberbach stomped back to his desk. G stared thoughtfully at his telephone. Really, to get that information about Eroica’s admirer he’d have to go out clubbing at the right clubs, cozy up to outrageous gossips and…and what a marvelous assignment! But a mental race through is closet told him he didn’t have the right outfit for a job like this. He would have to get a new dress. And shoes. He sighed, because it would be worth his life to ask the major to sign off on an expense sheet that included four inch spike heels and haute couture. But still. An excuse to go shopping!
He finished his yogurt in two bites and three minutes later he had signed out and was on his way out of the building.
**
On Monday, G arrived early, stowed his clutch in his desk and took off his adorable little hat. It had the merest hint of a veil and flattered his eyes wonderfully. What a weekend! Clubs, and music, and lovely men, and lots and lots of incredible sex. On top of that, he had gathered an impressive lot of information for the boss. Who was leading over his desk, one hand buried in his hair, and a cigarette in hand. The ashtray beside him was overflowing. Oh, dear. Perhaps, instead of making a verbal report, he’d just type it up. Yes. Definitely. He checked his nails, flexed his fingers and then threw himself into the fray.
It took all damn morning, three cups of coffee and two trips to the WC. The finished document totaled 34 pages, all the quotes single spaced. He slid it into a folder, thrust the folder into the middle of a stack of them and carried the entire lot to the major’s desk. Then he took an early lunch. He was not surprised to find himself bellowed for the moment he arrived back. He slunk into the office under the commiserating eyes of his fellow agents, wondering if he would be boarding the plane to Alaska by nightfall.
“This!” Eberbach waved the folder at him in a ‘sit down,’ gesture that had very little hospitality to it. G sank onto the hard chair.
“I’m sorry it took four days to collect the information, but I had to be subtle, you know. And Saturday is really the best night for finding people to talk to,” G explained.
“Is it too much to expect a fact or two in this ‘book’ you’re written? He said, she said, Marco heard that…!”
“I’ve been working on that,” G said with dignity. “Tracing down the hints and innuendo all morning! It is true that Taylor Sandhurst is utterly besotted with Dorian. He’s been courting him quite enthusiastically. He hasn’t yet discovered any of the earl’s secrets, that I’ve heard, but…but…”
“What!” Klaus shouted impatiently.
“He does seem to be interested in you.”
“Me?” Eberbach said, with a touch of horror in his voice.
“Oh, not *that* way. Oh, no. But someone has clearly told him that you’re the one Dorian crushes on.” Oh, dear. Perhaps that wasn’t the best way to put that. That color on Eberbach’s cheeks. It couldn’t possibly be healthy. “He’s been asking about you. It seems he’d rather believe he has a rival for the earl’s heart than face the fact that the man just doesn’t like him. Which the poor boy does not. Emphatically. Bonham says Dorian is even talking about finding a monastery to hide in if he can’t shake the man from his coattails.”
Klaus shook his head at the idea of Eroica in a monastery. Unless it had art hidden inside.
G went on, “Bonham is not at all happy with the disruptions this is causing in their…business. He’s also just a little worried. It seems Dorian went out on his birthday and danced a great deal with anyone who wasn’t Mr. Sandhurst, including a young man who went home with him. The young man hasn’t been seen since about an hour after he walked out of the castle door. Oh, and Bonham says that the technology being used against them is top of the line stuff. He says it’s not even safe to talk in a room that has those net curtains that are supposed to baffle vibration detectors. Somehow the words get picked up, but he would swear there are no bugs. He has James shopping for more up-to-date detection equipment.”
“Yes, that is in the report,” Eberbach said dryly. “Perhaps this man will be able to do what no one else has, and keep that thieving idiot at home.”
“Um,” said G, and steered the conversation back by saying, “I’ve been looking into the background of the subject, romantic and otherwise, to see if anyone else is missing besides the one young man. And I have someone looking to see if the man purported to be missing actually is. He might be on a beach in Spain, for all we know.” G nodded to himself and then added, “I’m having a bio compiled, and have flagged Sandhurst’s name, so that any new NATO reports which mention his name will be cc’d to us. I must say the man is certainly busy. He has…varied interests.”
“As in?” Klaus asked, eyes narrowing.
“Steel beams imported via Otepitco, which have vanished. Investing in the ocean liners for Robert Dorsey’s new routes. Other small hints and suggestions. I’m still tracing down the Pacific connections. Interesting business associates, don‘t you think?”
“Unless a more direct link can be found, it means nothing.” Klaus shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t spend too much time on this. You are needed for the surveillance tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” G went back to his desk. He’d ask H to help out. And perhaps L wasn’t busy now that his project had hit a snag. The connection to Dorsey’s ships might mean something, since they had been involved in that smuggling operation they had disrupted last year. Mmm….
***
Three days later, the Major thrust the packet of cigarettes back into the drawer and turned the key in the lock. The key went into another drawer, under the assignment notebook. He’d been at work five minutes, and already the nagging inside him was driving him crazy. The irritability within as he fought the cigarette addiction almost equaled that generated by that insane fop, Eroica.
He didn’t need cigarettes. Really. He picked up his cup of coffee instead, but it had gone tepid. He grimaced and pushed it away before he pulled the top folder towards him. Work would take his mind off it.
No such luck. Another damned Sandhurst file. The case that wasn’t a case. He flipped it open. There was a stack of photographs, all neatly clipped to the information sheets with G’s signature tidiness. He sorted through them, looking at them all briefly before going back for a more lengthy perusal. The first photo was of a man of about thirty years. His brown hair was streaked with gold, and fell in a smooth line which suggested expensive salons and careful attention. Handsome enough, with a strong jaw and an athlete’s build. Klaus flicked his eyes down to the identification line. Sandhurst.
Eberbach studied the photograph. The man had an air of power and arrogance, the look that led one automatically to evaluate him as an opponent, to seek out signs of weakness just in case. His eyes quickly ran down the statistics. The man was two cm taller than he, ten pounds heavier, broader across the shoulders. If he were trained, he would be a formidable adversary. The muscles under his clothing were impressive. He didn’t look like a nancy, quite the opposite, in fact.
But he must be, if he were sniffing after the Earl of Gloria.
Eberbach flipped to the next photo. Here was the same man at a club, dancing--with a woman, Klaus noticed. The suit had been set aside for a tight t-shirt and black leather pants. The muscles showed to good effect.
The next photo showed Sandhurst skiing with a man. The sticky note in G’s neat, precise handwriting said that the other man in the photo had been Sandler’s lover for six months, about a year ago. It wasn’t a good photo of the lover, whose face was turned away from the camera, but there was nothing to brand that man a pervert, either. He was almost as tall as Sandhurst and he, too, looked athletic.
One last photo. A blurry shot of a young man with curls. Eberbach noted that this was the missing date. Pretty. Too pretty for a man. Like Gloria. Huh.
The rest of the file was interesting reading. One could see why it caught G’s eye. It wasn’t a case, but there were so many elements which were familiar, so many details that were related to other matters in certain intelligence files. Lawsuits which never seemed to come to court, or ended unexpectedly. Corporations held by corporations, the money shifting through serpentine paths. Connections to known cover companies. To firms known to them as being perhaps legitimate, perhaps not. It all reeked of corruption, while wearing the legal masks of modern business practices. G had good instincts about such things, however, and now Klaus found his own instincts alerted. He read through the four other folders on his desk, all of them connected to Sandhurst.
Suddenly curious, Eberbach dug through the folders for the roster sheets and did a quick count. He blinked. His gaze went out over the office. Only a few agents were in their seats, it was early. He said, loudly, “When G arrives, send him to me at once!”
“Yes, sir!” came from several throats.
Eberbach went back to the file. G finally showed up in the middle of the afternoon. He rather fluttered as he sank into the chair opposite Eberbach’s desk.
“I have just noted,” Eberbach growled, doing his imitation of a dark German thundercloud, “that I now have half of my agents working on this,” at the word ’this’ he shook a handful of folders in G’s direction.
“Half?” the agent asked doubtfully.
“Is it more?” Eberbach roared.
“I don’t think so. It’s just gotten a bit complicated, sorting out the wheat from the chaff. There have been some amazing byproducts of our rooting around. I think we’ve identified a leak in Records. Only a level three breach, but information definitely going out to someone. D and E are working on that. Then, there was an automobile accident. A lorry clipped the bumper of Lord Gloria’s car. In Italy, a few days ago. It seems to be just an accident--you know how they drive there--but just in case, we looked into it. Lord Gloria has a few bruises and is rather sore, but didn’t stay in hospital. I have T investigating that. T needs light work, you know, until the fitness tests. Plus the money trail has become very bizarre. Did you know that your father has a hundred thousand marks invested in one of Sandhurst’s companies?”
Eberbach’s fingers positively ached for the feel of a cigarette.
“Of course, so do several hundred other people, it‘s just interesting.” G consulted a small notebook.
“Lord Gloria hasn’t been seen since the accident but his men don’t seem worried so I think perhaps he’s recovering in private.” G’s flood of comments ran down and he said more slowly, “Sandhurst’s longest relationship was with a man who now makes his living in a tower in the middle of a forest in Canada. He looks out for smoke, you see, and watches for trouble. He refuses to talk to us.”
“You sent P to Canada?” Klaus asked as he glared over G's shoulder at the report.
“Not really. Erm. If you recall, you had sent him to Alaska last month, and Canada and Alaska actually touch, so we sent him to ask a few questions. Although it turned out to be a rather long trip; the country is absolutely Huge."
“Is anything else getting done?” Eberbach asked sarcastically.
“Yes, of course. The conference details for France are coming together nicely and they changed hotels without a bit of protest. The Russian submarine was recovered and our men were the first to look through it. Even before they got the bodies out and R & S have requested hazard pay for that. Z has all the paperwork on what was found. Shall I send him to you?”
Eberbach nodded and went back to twisting paperclips and thinking about this Sandhurst mess. He kept remembering Lord Gloria’s face, the rigid line of his shoulder. The bound hair. And the way he left without looking back.
****
That night, after leaving the office, Eberbach went with some other officers to a small beer garden, where he inhaled the smoky air with intense longing and disposed of his first two beers promptly. The conversation was general, the company indifferent. The men he sat with were acquaintances rather than friends, but they shared rank and similar social status, which allowed them to complain and joke easily together.
It was boring. Most of the other men had acquired feminine companionship. Including Kaufmann, whose young wife was home, six months pregnant. Eberbach drank his beer and considered the character of the men he was with. Considered his own. He could have had a woman on his arm, but had said no to the invitations and innuendo. He should say yes to the next one, and give his hands something to do so that they would not twitch when his fingers reached for cigarettes which were not there.
Instead he got into an argument with that idiot Berndt about taxes, had another beer and left for home at a relatively early hour.
Driving in the dark gave him time to think. The tiny lights of the dials and gauges of the car were comforting, in a way. He didn’t turn on the radio. Both hands on the wheel so that his fingers would not realize they were bereft of cigarettes, he set his eyes ahead and let his mind consider. As usual, the first part of the drive, he was thinking about work. By the time he turned off for the schloss, his thoughts had turned to the need to dredge the small lake and the beetle infestation which had been reported last week.
Once home, he ate the simple meal his butler put before him, and then retired to the study. The smell of smoke was strong there and it made him want cigarettes, so he picked up his book from the table and stomped his way upstairs.
He had a suite of three rooms, with a full bathroom attached. He took a bath, scrubbing vigorously, and emerging to dry his skin equally briskly. His hair still slightly damp, he went to read beside the fire before bed. But the book proved uninteresting and he soon found himself staring into the fire. For some reason, he found himself once again recalling how Lord Gloria looked with his hair pulled back and his face solemn. So subdued.
Wrong.
Absently, he reached out for his cigarettes, which should be on the table beside him. His fingertips slid along polished wood. He left them there, the pads of his fingers registering the cool wood, the slick surface. A flash of impatience with himself, an annoyance with the entire process of quitting, of fighting his body. It had never resisted him in this way.
He really needed something to keep his hands busy. He needed…that. He sighed to himself. He had never quite gotten over the guilt the nuns had drummed into him as a child, but he had justified the practice of masturbation to himself over the years because it gave him control over his body. It allowed him to resist the exotic women who were probably foreign spies, and the domestic young women who looked over his shoulder at the schloss while they attempted to lure him to matrimony. Dealing with his needs himself allowed him to schedule his encounters, to do this thing when he felt safest. When he needed it the most. He had found, over the years, that it had a soporific effect and allowed him to sleep. There were entirely too many times when his head was too stuffed with plans, anticipation, excitement, or memories, and even humming did not help him sleep.
He needed this. Getting up, he went first to the door, which he locked carefully. Then, to his wardrobe and from a case in the back took a small leather bag. From the inner pocket he pulled the small plastic bottle which held the unscented lotion he preferred for this. He went to the bathroom for a small hand towel and a dampened cloth, which he put on the bedside table. Absently, he checked his alarm clock and set the alarm. Then he turned out all the lights, stripped, put his clothing in the appropriate hampers, and climbed into bed. He arranged the small towel beside him, uncapped the lotion, and began.
Since it had been several weeks, his body was interested. He gave it the attention it craved quickly and efficiently. It wasn’t hard to bring images to his head. That young lady on the street yesterday, whose skirt had lifted in the wind and shown a length of firm thigh. Oddly, his next thought was of the spiky pattern of lashes on G’s cheek. He thrust that thought away quickly and remembered nude bathers on the Greek beaches, and….
And his release came to him suddenly, along with a vision of golden curls on a milk-white shoulder. He took a deep breath and cleaned himself quickly. He got up, carefully tidied everything away, and returned to the warmth of the bed. Finding a comfortable position, he pulled up the covers and closed his eyes. He hummed a few notes quietly and fell asleep.
He woke at dawn. So much to do when he was home. He went down to breakfast, then began on the accounts directly after. It was easy. His butler and his manager left the household and estate accounts in neat folders on his desk. He was done by ten.
The butler met him at the door with the news that the oldest tractor had broken down in the field. With an almost cheerful look on his face, Klaus went look into the problem. It was mid-afternoon when he came back, oil under is fingernails and with the long stride of a man who has conquered. He ate his belated lunch with enthusiasm and was finishing his coffee when the butler brought him the phone.
It was the usual human stupidity. Extra security, wanted at a charity concert where a great many people of importance had decided to attend. Most of his men were working on the French project or that ridiculous Eroica matter, so he called C and K and told them they were reassigned and where to meet him the next morning. He packed quickly, left home and went to collect what he would need from the supply rooms at headquarters. With the trunk of his Benz full and several cases in his back seat, he hit the autobahn.
He had a day of hard work before the concert. The man he had replaced had been an idiot and Eberbach completely reconstructed the assignment. When Eberbach did something, it was done right. Still, the moment he stepped into the concert hall, wearing one of his working suits--the style cut large, to accommodate a protective vest--he was ready for something to go wrong. Five hundred rich people dressed in their best, and not enough agents to provide adequate security. It was annoying and Eberbach’s face wore the usual scowl.
Nothing happened during the first half of the concert. During the intermission, he saw a known pickpocket, and sent his agents to eject the man. And then he saw Eroica. Drink in hand, the thief was flanked by two of his men. The men were each facing a different direction, and were tense; they had the look of bodyguards who were expecting trouble.
Lord Gloria again had his hair pulled back into a severe braid, and was wearing a relatively subdued suit in a deep sage green. His earrings were black and gold, the pin in his tie matched. Even subdued, he attracted stares and company. A group of young women were standing across from him, chatting with animation. A few minutes later, another woman joined them. When the intermission was over, the group moved towards the doors, and had to pass Eberbach’s position. The earl gave a polite nod to him, carefully did not meet his eyes, and walked on by. The Englishman did not turn to look behind him, or say anything as he passed. It felt distinctly odd to Eberbach, who watched with suspicion the well set shoulders, bisected by the braid with its single black ribbon, until the man was out of sight.
Eberbach saw him again in the press of the lobby after the concert. Dorian and his two shadows were once again talking to a young woman. As Klaus watched, a man approached. He was obviously intending to flirt with the earl, he was smiling and his hand rested with familiarity on the green sleeve, his face tilted up as he spoke to the taller man. Dorian politely shook him off and said a few words which sent the young man wandering off, a bewildered look on his face.
Eberbach kept a mental list of the people who spoke to Dorian or to whom he spoke, and noted the time Dorian and his escorts left. Quite early, for him.
It was easier to do the job once the Englishman had left.
He circulated through the crowd, touching base with his agents and the other security men. Several people with activities of interest to NATO were in attendance, but there was no trouble. It was two in the morning before everyone had left and the major was free to go to his own hotel.
He went to sleep promptly and was up and eating breakfast by seven. He glanced through the newspaper with his coffee, and was on the road by eight, his two agents now wedged into the back seat, dutifully filling in reports and reading other paperwork. He was back in his office by mid-afternoon, attacking the pile of memos which had accumulated in his absence. G carried in a stack of folders so high that he was holding it in place with his chin as stepped up to the desk and eased them down.
“What is all this?” Eberbach barked.
“Quarterly review, a week early, from the Chief. Five lovely cases Interpol has forwarded, and they asked for our help very nicely indeed. The others are updates on the cases we are working on. Have fun!” G was back at his desk promptly, in case Eberbach took offense at the tone.
The major frowned and sat down to begin whittling away at the stack. At six decided he was hungry and stood up. Most of the tables and desks were tidy, the men gone for the night. However there was still a fluffy black coat on the back of G’s chair and a coffee cup, half full, on the desk. On impulse, Eberbach went looking for him.
The agent was in the viewing room, sitting in front of a monitor, leaning forward to watch the screen intently. Eberbach opened his mouth to ask what he was viewing, but when he focused on the screen he did not have to ask. Even when reduced to a figure only inches high, the willowy shape of Dorian was unmistakable.
The setting was one of those old stately homes which was more house than home, with formal furniture and long windows draped with lengths of cloth which pooled on the floor in that ridiculous way decorators had begun to inflict on the public. Dorian was facing a tall man who was leaning close, his forearm braced on the wall so that he appeared to be in intimate conversation with the earl. The polite mask Dorian wore was at odds with the body language, which was suggesting uneasy tolerance rather than any enthusiasm for the interaction.
“What are you doing?” Eberbach asked with his usual abrupt style.
“Security tapes,” G replied. “I asked for any tape of Sandhurst anyone had, and asked what they were looking for if the surveillance had been set up specifically to film Sandhurst. CI5 was the goldmine, they had basketfuls of these. They’re looking for someone outside the country who is influencing--controlling, I should say--certain members of the House of Lords. FBI sent three. They think Sandhurst is involved in tax evasion, and stock market manipulation.
“Mr. Sandhurst is never direct. Well, except for his interactions with Lord Gloria,. He’s more aggressive with him, for some reason, than with the other boys and girls he pursues. No wonder Lord Gloria became so uncomfortable. Listen to this one,” he said, stopping the tape he was looking at and popping in another. He had it cued up, and the scene started immediately. The sound was the scratchy rumble of a mic placed too far away and then enhanced, but the words were audible.
“Why are you so stubborn?” Sandhurst was saying to Dorian, in a soft, coaxing voice. “You know you want to see if it’s true. It is. No one makes love better than I, babe. You’ll love taking me into that pretty pink…mouth.”
“What I find most annoying about you,” Dorian replied in a bored, dismissive voice, “is the way you always assume that I will be throwing myself down to serve your…whims. It‘s not something I‘m inclined to do, actually.”
It made the other man laugh. “Are you saying you top?” The tone suggested the idea was ludicrous.
“Upon occasion. As I wish to do so. To limit oneself to one role or the other is to deny oneself half of the pleasure.”
“Well, don’t worry, darling. I’ll let you top once and awhile, I promise.” It was an easy promise, the sort made to lure someone into bed, which could be broken after the fact.
“How good of you,” Dorian murmured.
“I have a house on the beach on Hawaii. Let’s go. Tonight. My jet is ready. Tomorrow we can make love on the beach under a full moon. It will be utterly enchanting.” Sandhurst’s hand came out to stroke along Eroica’s chest.
“So sorry. Obligations, don’t you know.” Dorian said blandly as he stepped back, turned on his heel and left. There was a click as the picture cut off.
G blinked. “Oh. Not that one. Um. Did you want to see this one? You’re featured.” Without giving him a chance to answer, he said, “Here,” and switched tapes quickly. The new one revealed the lobby of the very building they were in. Eroica, his blonde curls unbound, and wearing a loose pink...thing, that looked as if it were falling off one shoulder, was just entering.
“Here to see the beloved?” Sandhurst said as he stepped out to block Dorian’s way to the elevator. “Why do you bother? It‘s known that he has no use for you. He despises you. In fact, someone once told me Eberbach often throws up after only a few minutes in your company.”
Dorian didn’t answer, but stepped to one side to go around. He was blocked by a shift in the big body. Sandhurst grinned and leaned forward. His mouth caught at Dorian’s, sliding across the lips in something that was not quite a kiss. The blonde head jerked back. He glanced towards the elevator longingly but turned on his heel left the building.
Sandhurst stood laughing until he was gone, then shook his head as if at the foibles of a child. He left, whistling.
“When was this?” Eberbach asked. His fingers sought his pocket, seeking the shape of a cigarette pack which was not there. He pulled them out impatiently.
“Six weeks ago. Lord Gloria didn’t have an appointment with us that day,” G pointed out, as if it were significant. It probably was. “Now, this one I wanted you to see.” He switched tapes again. “It’s from the Calmenico Gallery opening…um, four weeks ago. Only certain parts of the room were wired, so not all of this conversation was caught.”
The gallery was exactly he type Eberbach hated. It had ferns and floating draperies, and was a security nightmare. The film showed Eroica standing before a huge canvas, pointing out something in the upper left corner to a long, thin woman with jet black hair. Suddenly, a loop of gauze wrapped around him, and he was pulled up to the chest of a man who stepped into the nook where the painting hung. Sandhurst. Who waved the woman away with a grin. She laughed and left them, obviously assuming it to be a lover’s game. The sound, when it came again, was distorted and hard to hear.
“…little accountant came to see me today. Such a shrill little thing, isn’t he? He demanded that I leave you alone. Not very polite.” Sandhurst had his head next to Dorian’s, his lips touching his temple.
“I do apologize for any annoyance it may have caused you,” Dorian said dryly, twisting experimentally.
“Oh, I wasn’t annoyed. Precisely. But do warn him that accosting men isn’t safe. Next time he does that, he may pick someone who is not as understanding as I. It would be sad if the little man was…hurt.”
“James isn’t good with people. You should just ignore him.” Dorian was saying it lightly.
“Hard to do, with him screaming like that. And he’s so little. Is the kid even legal?”
“He is. Why would it matter? To you.” the earl said, with a light shrug.
“I suppose it doesn’t. We’ll have no need for him once you move in. I have an entire accounting firm at my disposal.” The implication was plain that once they were together, the firm would be handling all Dorian’s affairs.
“You are like a carousel, Taylor. You always come around to the same place. Can’t you just enjoy the art?” Dorian asked with a gesture at the painting.
“I enjoy art most in my own home,” the man said archly, rubbing his cheek against Dorian‘s. It was really rather sickening, Klaus thought. It was hard to tell if the man was threatening or just a clumsy suitor. And why did Dorian endure that idiot’s manhandling? The thought seemed to occur to Dorian as well, and he twisted, flailed awkwardly and pulled away. He straightened his clothing, tossed his head and stomped off, clearly in a snit. Sandhurst found it terribly funny and laughed. He didn’t bother to follow. There was another five minutes of video, without sound, which showed, from a distance, Sandhurst bringing Dorian a drink. It also showed Dorian dumping the liquid into a potted palm behind Sandhurst’s back, which struck Eberbach as a sensible course of action.
G stopped the tape. “Interpol looked into Sandhurst most of last year. They thought he was involved in smuggling. People. Deposed rulers. And all they have is footage of him harassing young men and women, the way he does here, plus quite a few views of the man at matches and games. He‘s sports mad.”
“That hardly makes him a criminal. Go home. Tomorrow, spend some time on your actual job.” Eberbach left, irritated. He went home, where he did not smoke. At least the cook had made decent food. He ate his beef and fried potatoes, finished with a fruit salad and took himself up to his room. It was early, but he’d had enough of the day. He took a hot shower and was in bed before ten.
That meant he was up at five for his run. Breakfast at six, office by seven. Yelling at the alphabets by eight, third cup of coffee by nine. By ten, he had marched off, too impatient with the idiots around him to bear it another minute. He and his hands-which-did-not-hold-a-cigarette, now clenched into fists, took a walk down the city streets, dodging pedestrians who insisted on strolling along instead of moving at an appropriate pace.
Moving helped one think. He systematically considered his most troublesome open cases as he strode along. It was productive, he stopped three times to jot something down in a small notebook. He kept walking. Eventually his thoughts drifted to Sandhurst, wondering exactly how many pies that man had a finger in. When that many agencies independently investigating, there was probably cause. With few results to show for the investigations and so many frustrating dead ends, it probably meant either bribery or blackmail was involved.
It was unfortunate that Dorian had caught Sandhurst’s eye.
Eventually he stopped and made a phone call, spent twenty minutes acquiring and eating lunch, and returned to his desk invigorated and ready to work.
So of course he was called into the office of his fool of a boss, and made to listen to the man’s inane evaluations and suggestions. His garbled orders and pompous demands. His veiled suggestions and hints about G. It occurred to Eberbach then that G might possibly be spending so much time on this because he felt a sympathy for Lord Gloria based on his own personal experiences. Perhaps G saw things that others did not.
He had used the Chief’s infatuation with G in the past, moving the agent as a game piece when he wished to distract his boss, or needed his cooperation. On reflection, he wondered if perhaps he owed G. G had been showing admirable initiative of late. Did he want promotion?
The babble ran down and Eberbach made his escape. He settled at his desk, went through a few reports, initialing them. He realized that he was holding his pen as he would a cigarette. It looked stupid. He threw the pen down on the desk.
Eyes flicked up warily. G was away from his desk again. The viewing room? Yes.
In the dim light, with figures flickering on the screen, it was hard to see G at first. The agent had made himself comfortable, his legs stretched out on another chair, his skirt had ridden up. At the entrance of his superior he scrambled into a sitting position, yanking at his hem. Klaus pretended not to notice. Or remember that the long thighs he had glimpsed were shaved. And sheathed in silk. He sat down in a chair and watched the screen. Sandhurst, at some sort of ship launching. The pretty girl bashed the bottle on the prow. There was applause.
“What have you found out?” Eberbach asked.
“That I really dislike that man.”
“How useful.” The scorn was automatic, with no force behind it.
“There are a lot of people who don’t like him. Other people do appreciate him. He is liberal with his money. He looks good in a swimsuit, or on a football field. He’s seen, at all the best places. But I think no one sees him at all.”
“What is not seen?” Eberbach asked it while staring at the flickering pictures. G only shook his head.
Eberbach said, rather abruptly, “Do you want promotion?”
“I’m not likely to get it, am I? Too useful in undercover work. Our immediate superiors seem to be too small minded to promote women. If I am in the department, they don’t have to. The chief does not want me to advance, for then he can’t flirt with me or try to maneuver me into bed.”
“I only ask because you are doing good work, here.” And had stopped flirting with the other men on the team. Eberbach pointed a thumb towards the TV. “I could arrange it. If you accepted a transfer to the operations unit, and began there in masculine attire, you could move up. A new beginning.”
“But being able to dress this way at work is part of the fun,” G said. “You let me be who I am.”
“Because it is useful to me.”
“But that is honest. Yes, I do think of promotion, sometimes.” After all, beauty did not last forever. “But no promotion for now, I think. I am not yet ready to leave here. I still have things to learn from you.”
“Learn from me?”
“How to get the best out of men. Somehow, you do it, despite the verbal abuse you heap on our heads.”
“I have to. They only send me idiots,” Eberbach pointed out.
“Of course we are. No one volunteers to join your alphabet. This is the step before Alaska. I have heard you scream that we are all incompetents, that we should grow a backbone, get serious, do our jobs. Everyone who has been sent here came because they failed somehow in a previous posting. ‘Send them to Eberbach, he’ll soon have them sorted out,’ the commanding officers say. Sorted out, or in Alaska. And so those who prove themselves move on and you are left with another batch of straw incompetents to spin into gold. All the while getting the actual intelligence job done, as well. You’ll never get a promotion yourself, you know. You’re too good at what you do. Plus, of course, you’ve pissed off a lot of your superiors.”
“Have you been drinking?” Eberbach got up and left. G went back to sorting through tapes.
Eberbach returned to his paperwork. It was good to have paperwork to work on when you would rather not think about something. Paperwork was vital. Most of the job was paperwork, and if it were not exciting, it was at least of value. He appreciated clear information and made sure that what passed through his department was well presented, complete and routed properly. It was paperwork, for example, which would bring down an arrogant idiot like Sandhurst. Sometime, somewhere, a connection would be made. Facts accumulated. Then the man would go down. But not necessarily on their watch. Not by the hand of NATO. The way Eberbach’s luck ran, some stupid Englishman like that prat, Lawrence, would get the credit for it.
He found himself rubbing his hand restlessly on his leg, pleating the cloth of his trousers over and over, his fingers needing something to do if they could not hold a cigarette. He flattened his hand and frowned. Paperwork would get Eroica, too, eventually. Although the thief no doubt had enough contacts to avoid most of the consequences. The biggest threat to the earl’s continuing freedom was the countries which were not part of the western alliances. The more primitive places, where justice was direct, and usually involved a bullet to the brain.
The thought was more disturbing than it should be. After all, he had shot at that man himself. The man deserved to be shot at. For a second, he indulged himself in the fantasy of a bullet arrowing right into that…but the bullet did not hit the mark. For some reason, he thought instead of the bullet, precisely aimed, slicing though the black ribbon which held the severe braid that the fop now affected. The ribbon split and the hair un- plaited itself into the boisterous yellow curls.
Gah.
He went to work on the quarterly report. This inactivity was driving him crazy. He longed for something to shoot.
Which was why Monday was, in some ways, gratifying. He and his team were called in to help with a hostage situation at the airport. He and several of his men were assigned to distract the terrorists with gunfire while another team infiltrated from the back. Lots and lots of lovely shooting.
Tuesday, he stopped by his bank and discovered there was a robbery in progress. He and his magnum took care of things with three well placed shots. It was all over two minutes after he stepped in the door. Unfortunately he was held up by the police, who had, of course, questions. It all resulted in another pile of reports on his desk the next morning.
Wednesday was quiet. Thursday made up for it. A car blew up in the car park and took out the surrounding vehicles as well, including is own. The car he signed out from the motor pool was a piece of crap. He wasn‘t happy with the brakes and turned it in again within the hour. He had F drive him out to the schloss to pick up his second car. Waste of time.
****
Two weeks later, all hell broke loose. It began with Agent A leaning in to call to him, “Eroica! Reuters is reporting that they’ve arrested Eroica!”
The agents were crowding into the viewing room, where the TV was on and blaring. Eberbach shouted, “Shut up!” because they were babbling so loudly no one could hear the TV. The noise level dropped to almost nothing.
The screen showed a man, flanked by two burly policemen, being led from the front door of a mansion. The man was fighting them, screaming, shouting, cursing, kicking.
The man was Taylor Sandhurst.
Huh! thought Eberbach, patting his pocket for his cigarettes, eyes focused on the monitor. What the hell was this? The crawl on the bottom of the screen gave information about the arrest as the video showed the fighting man as he was stuffed head first into a police car and driven away. The TV continued to show a loop of what had already happened, padding out sparse facts with speculation and solemn pontificating from news readers and hastily scrounged art experts. They showed a doctored photo of Sandhurst with yellow curls. It made him look like an entirely different man.
Eberbach had no tolerance for the repetition and soon went stomping back to his desk.
His chair was occupied by a tall man wearing a red shirt, a long braid and a wide smile. He held a long poncy cigarette in one hand. Eberbach reached out and grabbed the cigarette, took a long draw on it, then threw it to the floor and ground it to dust. “What the hell are you up to?”
Dorian laughed. “I? I am a concerned citizen, merely….”
“Merely up to something,” Eberbach made it a flat statement. “What have you done?”
“What have I not done, perhaps you should ask. I’ve been a very, very busy boy, you know.” He smiled, his blue eyes almost twinkling.
“Stop prevaricating and spit it out.”
“Oh, very well. You see, it was plain to me that…”
“The short form,” Eberbach growled.
“Oh, the short form? The man annoyed me past bearing. I’ve ruined him.”
Eberbach blinked. That was, indeed, succinct, especially for this idiot. “Go on.”
“I’ve made the biggest heist of my career. I’ve stolen his entire life. Although I must admit, he led me through a great deal of introspection and self-evaluation, first.”
“Go on about something I would want to hear.”
“Yes. Well, the man was harassing me. Threatening my people. We looked into it. He had harassed others and most of them were unavailable to discuss the details. In fact, I spoke to several worried mothers who had not seen their sons in months. One begins to suspect the worst. The problem was, we could not pry information out of anyone, at first. The man had a good many people in his pocket. He thought himself untouchable.” The slender lips twisted into a slight smirk.
“And?”
“Everything is his own fault. He started it, with his boorish behavior. I finished it.” The grim satisfaction in his tone seemed unlike the usually blithe earl.
The major gritted his teeth and hissed out, “Does it always have to be about you? Start making sense!”
“In this case, it is about me! He would not leave me alone. I was forced into action. He really shouldn’t have been so nasty, and smug with it. He even threatened poor Jamsie. With actual death. He sent me...parts of someone else. To show that he could, and would, do it.
"Yet, Mr. Sandhurst had so carefully arranged things that it really was difficult to make him responsible for his own crimes. He pays for excellent lawyers. So I just gave him new crimes.”
“Yours?”
“Oh, more than that. When you think of it, my crimes are rather small, in the big scheme of things.”
“Eroica!”
“No, no, dear, weren’t you watching the news? They’ve arrested that man. Why, did you know they are discovering long blond wigs and black catsuits in his size in his closets even as we speak?” He giggled.
Klaus clutched his head and sank down into the uncomfortable chair beside his desk.
“You see, I had to re-evaluate my situation when I realized how odious it was to have someone haunting one’s every move. I asked myself, seriously, is this the way to get a man? Certain things were just too much.
“Plus there’s the fact that the more one become embroiled in certain associations, the more time it takes and the more it violates a personal agenda. The favors become--constricting, shall we say?
“I decided that the aspect you abhor most in my life was not the gayness--it was the crime. My…um, activities…put you in such a bad position, vis a vis your job. You could never love me with duty between us.
“You planted information that led the police to think he was Eroica!”
“Oh, not just that. In order to sever ties with the criminal world--you know I’ve been an active leader in the community for several years--I had to resolve that connection in a way that wouldn’t leave me dead. So I called together some influential men and women and asked what other little surprises I could lay at Sandhurst’s door. After all, if he’s convicted--or the police are sure he is the criminal in a certain case--then the actual perpetrator will be able to rest more easily. I had a great many volunteers and a splendid number of crimes to lay at his door. We’ve discreetly salted all his houses, and collected up a huge pile of spy information for my new friend, George, too.
“We pinpointed the crooked vice presidents of Sandhurst’s corporation and others who collaborated with him, and each one of them has also had some evidence planted within his company or organization, evidence which will bring up some terribly embarrassing questions.
“I coordinated the largest cooperative venture among the underworld which has ever been successfully carried out. Brilliant, if I may say so. My swan song. In exchange, I am free of obligations within the criminal community. Divorced, so to speak, from it.
“Sandhurst, however, is going to find himself in court for years, even if he does managed to squash all but a tenth of the accusations. And I don’t feel sorry a bit because he may not have done those particular crimes, I’m sure he’s killed at least a dozen very beautiful men. You know how I feel about those who destroy beauty and art.” This was said with a toss of his head. It was not as effective without that blond mane of curls.
“You did all that in a few months?”
“I was motivated! And quite angry at him. Did you know he put a contract out on you?”
“That does explain the car bomb, I suppose.”
“And the bank robbery. I understand you were to be accidentally caught in a firefight. But you were too good for them,” Dorian said, with a proud smile. The smile faded as he said, “You’re not going to like the next part.”
“Probably.”
“Well, I needed a small bit of help with a few details, and someone put me in contact with George Cowley. Do you know of him?”
“CI5.” There was grudging respect in his tone. Cowley got results, but he was too twisted by half. He wasn't a man to cross.
“Apparently he’s broadminded about the backgrounds of his agents. I’ll be helping his mob out, occasionally. I’ll be in the same business as you are! Oh, dear. You choked! May I get you a glass of water?”
Eberbach gave an impatient wave and as the German struggled for breath Dorian went on, “Let’s see, what else has kept me busy? I’ve had to find new endeavors for my dear boys. George said he didn’t have a lot of use for an entire horde of pretty lads with criminal tendencies. Only James and Bonham have stayed. Oh, and the place is rather empty for another reason as well. All the beautiful bits of art which I collected without benefit of purchase are squirreled away at various Sandhurst facilities, awaiting discovery by the gendarmes as they investigate this man. Oh, except a few I couldn’t bear to part with, or which he would have an alibi. But I have bills of sale for those, now. How was I to know they were stolen?” He fluttered his eyelids in a parody of innocence and smiled sweetly. “When I discover this about my beloved art, the art I bought from a certain soon to be in jail person, I’ll contact the previous owners and the insurance companies. Insurance companies can be very cooperative, you know.”
Eberbach frowned. He shouldn’t have taken that one puff of the nasty cigarette. His fingers were practically shaking with need for nicotine.
“Oh, and I want to thank you for *your* help. It was quite the thing at every stage. You must thank dear G. G must stand for gem, because really, he is.”
“G…!” Eberbach’s spine straightened and his glare turned up a notch.
“Oh, don’t be mad at the poor dear. I never spoke to him, or tried to get his help. I merely dropped by several nights to check on his progress, read his notes. He had more good data than Interpol, and more than the CIA, just lovely, and right when I needed it. His handwriting is wonderful, too. Such a time saver. I did try to lure him away once, a year ago, did you know? No go. For such a sweet gay boy, he’s awfully straight.” There was a long minute of silence between them.
“Is that all?”
Dorian frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Will you go back to annoying me?”
“I thought I might send you some roses every year on Valentine’s day. Just to let you know that you still have my heart. But yes, I intend to leave you alone.”
“Good. I am not gay!”
“Heavens, you say that like being gay is a plotted point on a number line. It isn’t, you know. One’s attraction covers all the points on a *section* of the line, and that changes, according to one’s mood, age, and situation. Why do you think there is sexual interactions in prisons? Not because so many in jail are gay. It’s that when nothing is available, one’s range of what might be acceptable stretches a little bit. Some of my friends who are gay have married. Love, or necessity, puts more points on your line.” Klaus was frowning. Dorian smiled at him.
“I have worked very hard to put a few more points on certain lines. Now I’m a former thief, with a legitimate job. I’m much less flamboyant. I’m not chasing you, and I no longer live with a dozen handsome men. I’ve reformed as much as I can, darling, all for you. I’ll be waiting for you, should you decide you ever want me, but I won‘t chase you any more. I won’t be like *him.*” Dorian’s lip curled at the very thought of Sandhurst.
Klaus found he had nothing to say. The blue eyes met his for a long moment, and then Dorian turned on his heel to leave. The braid hanging down his back swung out from his body. Some odd impulse caused Klaus’ fingers to close on the end of the black ribbon and jerk it from the end of the braid.
Dorian’s whirled, his fingers on the elastic band which had been under the ribbon, and which still held the hair confined. After a moment he smiled, pulled off the fastener, shook his head vigorously, then ran his hand through his hair. The braid unwound itself and the irrepressible curls began to take shape. Dorian shook his head again, peeked out from the golden mass, and smiled before he turned and headed for the door.
Klaus held the ribbon in his hand for a long moment, staring at the black velvet in horror before letting it fall to the floor.
Then he went to rummage through the drawers, looking for cigarettes. He obviously needed something for his hands to do. He could feel them ache, wanting to bury themselves in that mass of yellow hair. He could feel something else, too. A frustrated sort of respect for a former thief who had apparently been able to learn to deal with his own addictions. Could Dorian really give up thieving and his pursuit of Klaus von dem Eberbach? He clenched his jaw and thought about it. And then he found himself wondering how many points there were on the lines which affected his life, which points he might control. Could he move himself closer to...to a place where he and Lord Gloria.... Would the Englishman really be waiting for him if he...when he....
Klaus froze. His hand stopped groping for a cigarette, and something inside him eased. Cigarettes didn't seem to be important any more. He went back and picked up a black ribbon from the floor, and tucked it into his pocket. When the urge to smoke came upon him again, his fingers went, not to his shirt pocket, but to the strip of black velvet in his pants pocket. And he pondered much about the points on a line.
.
Spelling out words with agents.