by James Lear
Details were sketchy. An “exhibition match,” Vaughan had said, but that could mean anything from two men in satin shorts pretending to box for a roomful of dirty old men all the way to a hired venue with press and promoters and champagne for the front rows. I needed, at the very least, a time and a location. The longer I waited, the more I believed we had been sent here simply to be out of the way.
I kept Lukas busy. I can put the toughest athlete through his paces in a tent, in a patch of desert, in the back of a transport lorry if necessary, so the Third Avenue apartment made a pretty good makeshift gym. I had him skipping without a rope, doing tuck jumps, push-ups, planks, the whole repertoire. In between training sessions I kept Lukas’s hole well stretched with my fingers and my dick, and I gave him every opportunity to improve his oral technique. I don’t subscribe to the theory of sexual abstinence before a fight. I was determined to get as many orgasms out of Lukas as possible, each and every one of them with my cock in one hole or another, until he couldn’t come without it. Basic operant conditioning.
We watched TV on the couch, making out like a new couple. We went to bed.
The intercom buzzed at 8:00 a.m. Lukas was in the shower, washing off the jizz.
“Delivery for Cooper.”
I put on a bathrobe and waited at the apartment door. The courier was wearing a motorcycle helmet and a leather jacket. Could be a hit man. I could overpower him, unless he had a gun.
He did have a gun, as it turned out. It was in a large padded envelope which he handed to me. Then he left.
A 9mm semiautomatic Walther Creed, two magazines and enough rounds to stage a major incident. It was good to be home.
There was a letter in the package as well. A compliments slip from a company called HomeWay Investments Limited, that said simply “See you there!”, no name, no number. Stapled to that was an itinerary.
G. COOPER
C. LUKAS
Arrive Hammond Hotel, W 43rd/8th Ave, 1700
Identify yourselves at reception and ask for Peter Logan, HomeWay Investments.
Event is taking place in 3rd floor meeting venue space, look for the sign reading Investors in Sport Annual Conference.
Please note you are responsible for your own security.
There was no information about the “event,” what was expected of us, what kind of equipment we should bring, but from what Vaughan had told me about “core business” I assumed that Lukas would need his boxing kit. I would obviously need the gun, and the note about “security” told me that there was some concern that there might be another attack. This time, I guess, it was me who was supposed to be doing the shooting. Another young guy like Oz, with me in the role of the executioner.
It was not a role I relished, but if they believed me capable of that then my penetration of Vaughan’s inner circle was complete.
Lukas came into the kitchen, naked, drying his hair. He saw the gun.
“What the fuck is that for?”
“A gift from our clients in New York. It feels good to have firearms again.”
“I suppose you know how to use that thing.”
I didn’t bother to reply, just grabbed him by the dick and pulled him in for a kiss. Once I’d got him good and hard, I said, “Now, we’ve got nine hours. We’re going to spend that time getting you in peak physical condition. How do you feel, champ?”
In reply he dropped to his knees, undid the belt of my towelling robe, and started sucking my cock. I began to think more seriously about that cabin in the woods. Perhaps we could keep the outside world away. Yes, I’ve thought about this before, with other men, and it’s always gone the same way—I fuck it up, they fuck it up, the world fucks it up for us. But wouldn’t it be funny, I thought, as Craig looked up at me with tears streaming down his face, as my cock entered his throat and he controlled his gag reflex, if he was the person I came out of this with. Not any of the obvious ones—not Oz, not Kieran, not Jackson, none of the boys that I would usually go for—but Craig Lukas, the straight celebrity boxer with the bad attitude. When it was all over, when Vaughan was behind bars and I was free of my obligation to the CIA, I’d tell him the truth about Greg Cooper, I’d lay it on the line and we’d build a future together . . .
I saw it so clearly, both of us with beards, up in the woods, chopping wood, fucking like animals . . .
And then I came.
I was so focused on Lukas’s training that I almost forgot to check the phone that Luiz had given me. I guess this happens to everyone who goes deep undercover—you start to forget who you really are, and who you’re working for. When I noticed that there was a new email waiting for me, I resented the intrusion. There were only a few hours until we were due at the Hammond Hotel, and I had planned to spend at least two of those fucking. They could be my last.
Once I’d gone through the necessary sign-ins, this is what I read.
URGENT meet with Agent Oliver 1430 today at Finnegan’s Bar E40th Street. Come alone.
Who the fuck did they think they were? I didn’t have time to go out and meet some uptight spook in a phony Irish pub. And then, fortunately, I remembered Ethan Oliver’s tight little ass and preppy haircut, and I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“Hey, lover boy, I’m going out for a walk. Need some fresh air.”
I thought he might take some persuading—Lukas was following me around the apartment like a puppy dog, and I expected him to sulk if I left him alone. But in fact I’d fucked him into submission.
“That’s okay, I need more sleep. You’re wearing me out, man.”
“When this is over, I’m going to show you a few new tricks.”
“What’s left?”
“Oh, we’ve just begun.” I kissed him on the mouth. He was turning into a good kisser.
“Don’t be long, man,” he said, his voice croaky with sleep. “I’m just gonna . . .” He padded off to the bedroom. Okay, I might have overdone it. Maybe Lukas wouldn’t be on top form for this sham boxing match this evening. I didn’t care much. The sooner he gave it all up, the sooner we could get clear of Vaughan and find that cabin in the woods. And, of course, it didn’t matter how well he fought in terms of my operational objectives. I reminded myself of that as I walked down the stairs. Don’t lose sight of the mission. Don’t let it become a second thought.
Sitting at the bar, Agent Oliver looked like any other daytime drinker, down on his luck, drowning his sorrows, in between jobs or hiding from his wife.
I took a stool near him. There were only three other people in the bar, and they looked like they were on serious meds, but even so, I played the game of discretion. The barman got me a beer, which I sipped once and ignored.
“Hey,” said Oliver.
“Hey.” I played my part, scowling, avoiding eye contact. We sat in silence for a while, then, once Oliver was satisfied that I hadn’t been followed, we moved to a table in the back corner, as far from the window as possible.
“You’re still alive, then.”
“As you see.”
“And are you still Dan Stagg?”
“He’s in here somewhere.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
“So, what am I here for?”
“You’ve done well, Dan. London is satisfied.”
“You mean they’re going to bust Vaughan?”
“Maybe.”
“How much have they told you?”
“Enough.”
“About the murder?”
“They’re not calling it murder.”
“What are they calling it? A young man accidentally walked into the path of an oncoming bullet?”
“The case will be handed over to the relevant authorities at the appropriate time.”
“I see.”
Oliver was pissing me off. Perhaps if I hadn’t spent the last couple of days fucking and falling in love with Craig Lukas I might have given him a fair hearing; as it was, his disregard for Oz’s death, and his tunnel vision about Vaughan, just
annoyed me. He couldn’t see the bigger picture, and he certainly didn’t give a shit about the human cost. Why had he summoned me here? To check that I was still following orders? To reprogram me?
“Luiz tells me that you and Lukas are being well looked after.”
“He told you that, did he?”
“Have you received further instructions from Vaughan?”
“Why ask me? You know everything.”
“Is there anything on your mind, Dan?”
“Just waiting for my orders.”
“Hmmm.”
We sat in silence for a while. I wanted to get back to Lukas, to get the match done. I wasn’t in the mood for CIA bullshit, the hints and evasions.
“So,” he said, “he hasn’t contacted you.”
I showed him the itinerary.
“Anything else?”
“It came with a free gift.” I tapped my coat pocket. “Nine mill Walther Creed.”
“Why would you need that?”
I shrugged. “The boxing world in New York is still run by the Mob.”
“Really?” Oliver raised his eyebrows. “I hope you won’t be using it.”
“Only if necessary.”
“Please remember who you’re working for, Dan.” He looked so fucking prissy when he said that, like a junior schoolteacher losing control of his class.
“You mean if I start shooting people it might be inconvenient for you?”
Oliver moved his glass around the tabletop in a neat geometrical pattern. I watched his hands—very nice hands, with hairy wrists and neat nails—and wondered what was coming.
“We believe that you and Lukas, or possibly just one of you, will be moved up to Concord, New Hampshire, later tonight.”
“What’s happening?”
“The extreme right-wing group that Vaughan has been funding is planning an attack on an army base.”
“Why? That’s insane.”
“They’re not expecting the attacker to survive.”
“A suicide mission.”
“Exactly. And that’s where Osman Rafiq fitted in. Send a Muslim in to attack the US Army. Increase terror and paranoia. Legitimize the aims of the extreme right.”
“Not so extreme anymore.”
“And this is how they’re planning to secure their position in the mainstream: attacks by the enemy within. Oz was perfect. A British Muslim. Synonymous with terrorism.”
“And now that he’s dead?”
“You’re the replacement. Or possibly Lukas.”
“In other words, if you can’t get a Muslim, send in a queer.”
“You’ve got it, Dan. Maximum headlines. Set back the equalities agenda by decades. Give every redneck an excuse for gay-bashing.”
“But we’re not going to do it, are we?”
“You’ll have to go along with the plan up to a point.”
“You mean one of us might get killed.”
“We hope not. As soon as we have credible evidence of the plot . . .”
“Yeah, I know, you send the cavalry in, we get rescued in the nick of time, screen kiss, roll credits.”
“That’s the plan.”
“I guess I have to trust you, then.”
We sat in silence for a while, staring at our drinks.
Oliver broke the silence. “What happened to Oz, Dan?”
“I’m not sure. I think one of Vaughan’s clients treated him too roughly. He was beaten up, covered in bruises and cuts, they gave him an overdose . . . poor little bastard.”
“Are Vaughan’s clients into S&M?”
“What do you know about that kind of thing, pretty boy?”
“Enough to realize that some clients will pay a good deal for a prostitute that they can torture without fear of prosecution.”
I felt something cold and hard in my throat, and for a moment I thought I was going to be sick. I needed that beer now, and took a swig to wash down the disgust.
“Oz wanted to get out of the whole thing. I should have listened to him, shouldn’t I?”
“It’s too late for him, Dan. But we can still stop this.”
“Why don’t the state troopers just go in and bust these assholes? Why do you need me?”
“Because they won’t show their hand until they believe the attack is going to succeed. And for that, they need the hit man that Vaughan promised them. An outsider, someone who has nothing to do with the organization. A foreigner. Oz would have been perfect, but you or Lukas will do just as well.”
“Lukas has a lot more to hide than me.”
“People like that are easy to manipulate. Vaughan’s been blackmailing him for years.”
“Says who?”
“The information you supplied to London about Vaughan’s business activities encouraged them to look closely at the bank transactions of a few key individuals. Some of them were the businessmen whose addresses were being visited by Vaughan’s sex workers. Among the others was Craig Lukas.”
“You mean he’s been paying Vaughan to keep quiet about him?”
“Apparently.”
“Jesus.” Was Lukas lying to me? He’d mentioned prize money that hadn’t been handed over—but if Oliver was right, it went a lot further than that. Now, perhaps, Vaughan was offering to let him go if he’d do one last job for him . . . Delivering a package to a synagogue in New Hampshire . . . Lukas would be desperate enough to ask no questions. “Will I go with him?”
“We don’t know for sure. Vaughan may have sent you here just to get you out of the way after Oz’s death. But he may also want you to go in with Lukas. We expect you to receive instructions after the fight.”
“If it is a fight.”
Oliver looked puzzled. “What else would it be?”
“The last exhibition fight I did for Alan Vaughan involved more fucking than fighting.”
He flushed a little, and swallowed before he spoke. “What do you mean?”
I gave him a brief, brutal resume of the four-man event that preceded Oz’s death. Whose cock went where, who came in which hole, and so on. Oliver licked his lips and said, “Do you think Vaughan’s flown you all the way to New York to do that?”
“Why not? We’re very good at it. Want to come along and see?”
“No thanks. I’m not into public sex.”
“Perhaps I can give you a private demonstration.”
He drank, holding my gaze. “Perhaps you can.”
“But not now, I guess.”
Oliver laughed. “Definitely not now.”
“But if we had more time?”
“The mission will be over, one way or another, very soon.”
“So if I survive, I get to fuck you.”
Oliver smiled, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms. “I thought I made that clear the first time we met.”
“I guess you did.”
“I’ve thought of little else.” From the bulge in his pants, it looked like he was thinking about it right now. “Fortunately for the Firm, and for homeland security, I’m good at switching that side of my brain off.”
“I’m not.” I pressed my knee against his leg.
“You better learn to be, Dan, if you’re going to be useful to us in the future.”
“Who says I want to be useful? Fuck usefulness. I’ve given Uncle Sam the best years of my life. Can’t you just put me out to pasture now? All I need is food and shelter and plenty of young tight ass to fuck.”
“Maybe I could do with a change of direction myself.”
Now, how would Ethan Oliver look without the sharp haircuts and the close shaves? How would he look in that log cabin in the mountains? If he grew a beard he’d probably just look like a hipster, but what the hell? I’ll fuck hipsters.
We looked at each other for a while, trying to imagine what kind of couple we’d make. The preppy young agent and the battle-scarred veteran. One with a career and a public reputation, the other dead to the world, past caring, with a head full of bad memories. Was there a futur
e for us? Was I the only one imagining this? Had I lost my mind? Only a few minutes ago I was dreaming up a future with Lukas. Christ, I needed a vacation. PTSD must be kicking in.
“So what are my orders?”
“We know it will be difficult for you to communicate with us. You’ll be observed all the time. The phone you have been given contains a tracking device, of course, but it will probably be taken away from you. Do you still have the tracking devices you were issued in London?”
“There’s a couple left.”
“Use them.”
“On myself?”
“On yourself.”
“Sure you don’t want to help me put one in?”
“You can manage.”
“Shame.”
“Hopefully they’ll last long enough for us to pinpoint your whereabouts. Think you can get one into Lukas?”
“Of course I can.”
He sighed. “Yeah. Of course you can.”
“It’s a bit late for jealousy, Oliver. You recruited me because I have the morals of an alley cat, remember?”
“I remember. Now, just try to keep out of immediate danger, Dan. But if necessary . . .”
“I can look after myself. And I have my friend here.” I patted my pocket, where the gun weighed reassuringly heavy. “I’ve faced worse enemies than Vaughan and his pals.”
“I know.” He stood up; he was still erect. “See you on the other side, Dan.”
We hugged like two old buddies, and Oliver walked out of the bar.
14
The Hammond Hotel was an ugly, anonymous building, the kind of place where I’ve attended military briefings, second-rate from the crappy carpet in the lobby to the frayed furniture in the events room. It hadn’t been decorated since the 90s, and it must have looked like shit even then, with tacky mirror panels and acid green wallpaper. I’m no decorator—my idea of perfect décor is a double bed with a naked man on it—but this gave me a headache before I’d even got to the reception desk.
We were given name badges and welcome packs with the HomeWay Investments logo on them. When we stepped out of the elevator at the third floor we were met by a fat, sweaty man in a cheap suit.
