The Professionals Circuit Archive - Fantasy in C Major       Fantasy in
C Major

 

by Elspeth Leigh 

 
 *Prologue*

 George Cowley stared unseeing into the glass of rich amber liquid in his
hand. He was sitting in towelling robe and bare feet in the reading chair
next to the bed, lights dim, the faintest rays of a rising sun peeking
through the drawn drapes.

 He glanced over at the figure sleeping so soundly in the bed. In his bed.
The top sheet--once crisp, now rumbled, sweated and stained with use--had
slid down to reveal Murphy's muscled back, skin almost delicately white,
cap of dark hair above it a counterpoint to the white sheets. Murphy
shifted. The room was warm. The sheet slid further, defining firmly
rounded buttocks and solid thighs.

 Cowley watched, silently admiring the beauty of this man revealed.

 Beauty. If this was beauty, then he himself must be the beast. It was a
sour thought. Play time back thirty years and it would have been
paedophilia, or something akin. On the other side, it was almost rape,
save that Cowley had acquiesced. If two take something from separate
situations, is it taking advantage, he wondered? Is mutual need
corrupting?

 Thirty years. Thirty hours. Yesterday so very different from today.

 ******

*Thirty Hours Earlier*

 The doorbell buzzed incessantly, an irritating chorus to the Beethoven
sonata softly playing on Radio 3.

 The Controller was in shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up, heavy glasses on his
nose, pen in hand, working at his desk, the length of the day showing on
his face. Neat stacks of reports were ordered about him, and a partial
glass of single malt scotch was at his right hand. He looked over at the
door and cursed inwardly at the interruption as he rose to answer the
persistent and annoying buzz, glancing first out the front window before
crossing to the door.

 It was late, drizzling and a bit foggy. The streetlight cast an eerie
glow on the cars parked nose to tail in the street. Everything appeared in
order, normal for a Tuesday evening, and he thought it must be a
deliveryman taking a pizza to the wrong flat.

 The buzzing stopped as he neared the door, silenced by some invisible
hand, Beethoven again the featured tune. Shifting his glass of scotch to
his left hand, he flipped the switch to light the front step, peered out
the spy hole, and saw nothing.

 He removed his glasses and set them and the single malt scotch on the
small table next to the door, peering once more through the spy hole
before releasing the series of locks and bolts that served as silent
sentry. There was no one there.

 He moved cautiously out onto the step. It could just be a prank; it could
be something far more sinister. As Controller of CI5 he was not without
considerable enemies, some of them more formidable than others, many with
agendas he could not begin to fathom.

 Suddenly a cabbie called from the street and Cowley looked up, barely
able to make out the dark boxy shape of the London cab double-parked
several doors down.

 "Oi, got some lad here passed out, guv," called the man. "Said you'd be
good for the fare, so I brought him over. Give us a hand then, he's a big
lad."

 Mindful that he could well be walking into a trap, Cowley headed down the
steps to the cab. The driver's door was open and as he approached, he
could see that the interior light was on and Murphy inside, tilted against
the passenger door as if holding up the taxi's whole frame.

 "Oh for..." Cowley sputtered. "What's this about?"

 The cabbie shrugged. "Dunno. Not my day to watch him is it, guv. Now do
you want to get him out or wot? No harm to me, the meter's running, so I
can be pleased to sit here all night 'long as you're good for the twenty
quid."

 "Oh, I'll pay it all right," Cowley muttered with a glaring glance at
Murphy. "And he'll pay after."

 "Hey, whatever your arrangement is okay with me, guv. Pretty lad.
Everyone 'as a different fancy. Free country and all that. Not my style
though. No offence to you or your boy 'ere."

 Cowley's response was a cross between a growl and an epithet, but Scots'
economy got the better of his irritation and he rapped his knuckles
against the car window, right at Murphy's face. Murphy stirred and opened
his eyes, not quite focusing. "Are we there?" he mouthed, glancing about,
clearly struggling to get his bearings, but with little success.

 Was he drunk? Drugged? Injured? Concern crept in and began to colour
Cowley's impatience.

 "Murphy? 6.2? I am going to open this door. Pull your head back, lad."

 "You open it and I'll catch him, guv," offered the cabbie. "He's a big
lad, and no offence, but you are a bit slight, aren't you--not exactly in
your prime. No offence."

 "My condition is no business of yours. Just get on with it, man." Cowley
slowly pulled the door open, allowing the cabbie to move in beside him and
catch Murphy as the agent toppled out, half stumbling into the stocky cab
driver's outstretched arms.

 "There you go, laddie. You're a big one, ain't you. Bet you give 'em
value for their money." The man laughed raucously and Cowley began to
protest, but thought the better of it. No point in entering into a battle
of wits with an unarmed opponent.

 "Murphy, lad--can you walk on your own?" he queried.

 Murphy looked about as if trying to assess his situation and promptly
dropped to his knees and vomited, the smell foul and the quantity
significant. The smell of alcohol was ripe in the night air.

 Drunk then. Cowley's impatience began to rise once more. He hardly needed
intoxicated agents showing up at his home in the middle of the night. "Oh
for.... Get yourself up and inside if that's where you're bound to be," he
ordered, ignoring the beseeching glance from Murphy, now on hands and
knees, losing the rest of everything he consumed that day onto the brick
walk.

 With a concerted and less than organised effort, the cabbie and Cowley
managed to get a now befouled Murphy inside Cowley's flat, dumping him
like a sack of potatoes inside the front door, where Murphy sat balefully
while Cowley found his wallet and paid the fare.

 "Twenty quid," he grumbled as he closed the door behind the pleased cab
driver. "Absurd." He waved his wallet in Murphy's direction. "That will
come out of your pay, 6.2. Make no mistake about it."

 Murphy was slumped forward head in hands, elbows on knees. He looked up
and painfully nodded his head in what passed for acknowledgment. Cowley
could see there was vomit on the man's thick gray jumper, and some on his
trousers as well. Despite his intentions to the contrary, the Controller
found his temper waning and curiosity and concern taking its place. He
sighed deeply.

 "All right, laddie. Let's get you cleaned up and then we'll get to the
bottom of this."

 "Sorry, sir," Murphy managed to mumble. As Cowley looked on in dismay,
Murphy lurched to his feet, grabbing for the small table by the front door
to steady himself and instead pulling it over, adding Cowley's scotch to
the various unpleasant odors already on his person, while the tabletop
contents scattered across the once clean floor.

 Murphy made a vain attempt to right the table and collect the glass and
glasses that had tumbled off.

 "Leave it," Cowley said sharply, taking the agent by the arm and
directing him to the pristine bathroom.

 He pushed Murphy down onto the closed loo seat and collected towels and
his own towelling robe, setting them on the lid of his laundry bin.

 "I'll leave you then to get your things off," he said, somewhat
awkwardly.

 Murphy looked up, pathetic and childlike, as if he had been naughty and
scolded, or knew he should have been. "Sorry, sir." He struggled with his
jumper, inept and uncoordinated in his movements. It was evident he wasn't
going to be able to manage anything other than twisting the garment about
his neck and face and getting his arms stuck in the sleeves.

 "You'd better have a damned good explanation for this, 6.2," challenged
Cowley as he stripped the agent of his jumper and the polo neck beneath,
tossing both filthy garments onto the floor in disgust. The smell was even
riper now this close--Murphy's fouled mouth and sweat and booze-soaked
skin adding to the nearly overpowering stench.

 Murphy bent over in an effort to untie his boots, but was no more
successful at that than he had been with the jumper. With a snort of
disgust, Cowley knelt down, removed the boots and socks and then grabbed
Murphy under the arms and pulled him to his feet. Murphy retched again at
the movement and Cowley was gratified that the man apparently had nothing
left to spew, though Murphy's breath was horrific and Cowley had to bite
back his own rising bile.

 He'd seen men drunk before many times--drunk and sick, but something
struck him as wrong about this. Murphy was a big man, healthy, young and
strong--and he was fond of his pint. It would take a lot to put him in
this condition and Cowley started to wonder what this was really about.

 Well, enough time for that later. For now, he set about unfastening
Murphy's belt and unbuttoning the brass buttons on his skintight jeans.
Young lads, tight trousers. He remembered when he wore his own trousers
tight, revealing his assets, reveling in his assets and the testosterone
high that seemed to be as involuntary and natural as breath itself.
Virile. That's how Cowley had felt in those days. It had been a long time
since he'd given those feelings purchase, or they had called for it.

 With awkward tugging and much shifting, he pushed Murphy's trousers and
pants down past his hips, noticing almost absently the thick cock and
round testicles nested in a thatch of dark curling pubic hair. Men didn't
often look at other men--it just was not done--but in the service there
are few secrets or moments for privacy, regardless of intent, just as
there are needs to be satisfied, alone or with others, that are part of
desperate times calling for desperate measures. Cowley hadn't thought of
any of that for a very, very long time. He was not sure he wanted to think
about it now.

 Murphy was sitting again, nude now, and had his hands on Cowley's
shoulders. Cowley looked up from his position on the floor and met
Murphy's eyes, both surprised and horrified at his reaction to the sick
and wretched man before him. His cock twitched and he felt instantly
ashamed.

 Murphy seemed to be trying to fight the fugue, albeit unsuccessfully. He
opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it along with his eyes as if
battling vertigo, or something more onerous. Then his grip on Cowley's
shoulders loosened and his head slumped against the Controller's chest.

 It was then that Cowley noticed the bruising--track marks--lines along
the inside of Murphy's right elbow. The injections, whatever they were,
had been carelessly given, the marks bruised and raised. Not a pretty
sight on so pretty a man.

 Cowley gripped Murphy's arm. "Did you do this to yourself, 6.2?" He
yanked on the arm to get Murphy's attention. "Did you?"

 Murphy shook his head, sagging further until Cowley was forced to take
him into an embrace just to keep him from falling over. "All right. It's
all right. We'll sort it out." Cowley smoothed the other man's hair in a
comforting gesture that would have seemed absurd to him an hour before and
might an hour hence.

 The agent was mumbling something unintelligible and Cowley tilted
Murphy's face toward his, trying to make sense of it. Murphy was not on a
case at the moment--in fact things had been relatively quiet as of late.
Bodie and Doyle were on stand down and holiday wherever it was they
usually went off to, and Murphy had been off as well on his own business.
Perhaps this was that business. He hated to think what the lad might be
involved with--legal or not. CI5 agents were a notorious breed unto
themselves, looser, less structured, and less bound by social norms or
restrictions. If Murphy had seen something, suspected something, Cowley
had no doubt the man would have stuck his nose in, regardless of the risk.

 "Who did this to you, lad? What's it about?"

 There was no reply.

 "All right. Let's get you cleaned up and see where we can go from there."

 He led Murphy to the shower, turned on the water and pushed the man under
the pulsing stream. Cowley's own clothes were getting splashed, but there
was little choice to that.

 Murphy stood with his back against the lime green tiles, his legs braced
apart, toes digging into the mat beneath his feet. Cowley unfastened the
spray hose from the wall and rinsed him off, considered handing him the
soap, but decided it would be faster and more efficient to do the job
himself. It didn't look as if Murphy had it in him to stand long.

 He set the spray down in the tub, thumbed the water off, and then with
clinical attention to detail, began to soap Murphy down. Murphy's body was
firm and muscled from hours under Macklin's instruction and Towser's less
than tender attentions. Genetics had blessed him with strength and beauty,
high cheekbones and useful, yet pretty hands. Cowley tried not to notice
any of this, tried to keep his mind on the job at hand, tried to respect
both himself and Murphy. He hesitated at the genitals, but went ahead,
soaping quickly, yet carefully, and then called the job done, rinsing away
the soap, even rinsing out Murphy's mouth before he shut the shower off
once again.

 Murphy slumped onto the edge of the tub, accepted the proffered towel and
then immediately dropped it, fumbling to pick it up again. Cowley sighed
with resignation and began to dry him, settling the towelling robe about
Murphy's shoulders.

 Unless looks were deceiving. Murphy seemed a bit more alert since the
shower, was concentrating a bit better, and Cowley could see the glaze was
dimming from his eyes and intelligence and reason returning. He looked
exhausted, however, almost fragile. It was unnerving to see someone so
young and hale appear so frail.

 Briskly finishing off drying Murphy's feet, Cowley blotted himself dry as
best he could with another towel and led Murphy from the bathroom into the
flat's efficient kitchen, settling him on one of the two chairs at a small
table Cowley used for his own meals.

 "We'll get some tea in you and see how that does." Cowley moved with ease
about the tidy room, putting on the water, finding the tea and getting the
tea tray set up.

 "Sir...."

 Cowley looked up, surprised at the clarity and expecting the weariness in
Murphy's voice.

 "Thank you, sir. For all this. For taking me in when I was such a mess."
Murphy rubbed his face with his hand.

 "You're still a mess, lad, but improving." Cowley knew he should be angry
at the interruption--angry that Murphy couldn't handle this problem on his
own, angry that he had probably brought trouble to Cowley's door--but at
the same time, he was strangely pleased and gratified that the agent had
sought him out, had trusted him, had thought him a peer. Since the war and
since taking on CI5, Cowley's life had been regimented, lonely actually,
despite the regular and enjoyed game of golf, consorting with ministers
and the periodic lunch or dinner at the club.

 There was a man inside that critical, all-business shell who had known
what it was like to have a pint with the other lads at the local, to talk
for pleasure, to socialize in the company of those who wanted nothing more
than his company, to have value not imposed by the authority of his
office.

 He glanced over at Murphy, meeting the man's uncomfortable and troubled
gaze. "It's all right, 6.2."

 Murphy nodded, though the relief didn't make it to his eyes. "Sir...I
need to tell you...."

 "Whatever it is, it will keep, 6.2. Won't it?"

 "Yes, sir."

 Cowley nodded. Now the relief in Murphy's eyes seemed to be real. It was
a start--get the lad calmed down and then try to make sense of it. Cowley
busied himself with a tin of biscuits to cover the trembling of his hands.

 Cowley stirred several large spoonfuls of sugar into Murphy's tea and
then passed the mug across the table to him along with the plate of
biscuits.

 "Ta." Murphy sipped at the hot tea, cupping the warm mug with his hands.
It appeared to Cowley that he was working up the nerve to say something.
Cowley let him be, turning his attention to his own tea, stirring it
slowly.

 "My cousin runs a pub in Soho..." said Murphy suddenly. And then he
paused and looked up, obviously waiting for some reaction from Cowley. A
pub in Soho likely meant a gay pub.

 Cowley raised his eyes from his tea mug and nodded, bidding Murphy to
continue.

 "He's had some problems there. The trade can get a bit rough, but that he
can handle--they're randy lads, but mostly don't mean any harm. But
there's been drugs lately and he didn't want the law down on him and can't
stomach that anyway."

 "So he asked you to help."

 Murphy nodded, slurping more of the tea. "I started to go in every now
and then just to see what he was on about and then waited until I had a
few days holiday and...."

 "And did the job you should have had the sense to involve the police
with." Cowley could not hide his exasperation.

 "The coppers aren't actually keen on helping out a pub in that part of
town," Murphy said defensively, warming to the topic as the caffeine and
sugar hit his system. "Nor welcome. I said I would see what I could find
out. I didn't promise anything."

 "So you started taking drugs? Even you know better than that, 6.2. What
is it?"

 Murphy paused with the mug half way to his mouth, his eyes hardening.
"I'm no fool, sir. It's only a mix of powders that an old chemist friend
helped me fix up--so I could go along with the lads. It's a mild
stimulant. But that's it."

 "Then you weren't drugged tonight? That was all the result of too much
liquor?"

 "I didn't do any drugs deliberately, no, sir, but I think someone slipped
me a mickey. I need to go back. I need to find out what's really
happening. But I need back-up this time." Murphy leaned forward earnestly.
"I thought you might...."

 "You thought wrong, 6.2. I have no intention of allocating any department
resources or otherwise becoming involved in this absurd scheme of yours."

 Murphy took a deep breath. "I sort of promised, sir. The lads seemed like
they might be catching on to me, wanted more from me than I was willing to
give.... I told them I couldn't get involved, that I was involved with
someone...."

 "With me? You told them you were involved with me?" Cowley was
incredulous. "Dammit man, what kind of irresponsible...."

 "Not you per se, sir, but that I had a good thing with an older man. That
I couldn't risk fouling that up."

 "Why on earth would you even think of that?"

 "I thought you should be involved, sir. I think this goes high up--not
just a little drug scheme at a pub. One of the lads is a cabinet
minister's son, I recognised him right off from that reception I guarded
last spring."

 "Ach, and you don't think he would recognise me?"

 "No, sir, I don't. First off, it's not where he would think to see you,
so he wouldn't be expecting it at all. And usually he's either so high or
has a cock stuffed so far up his arse that he wouldn't notice any...sorry,
sir."

 "And just what is it you expect of me, 6.2? To corroborate your story? To
fund you?" Cowley glared across the small table. "I won't become involved
in drug sales, or involve our department in that."

 "No, sir. I just need you to keep my cover, sir. And for back up. And in
case things turn sour with that lad. And to be able to bear witness."

 Cowley pushed his tea mug aside, fighting the feeling of interest that he
knew he couldn't afford to have. To be involved on the street level, to
actually be part of an op--even if unofficially--had a cachet, gave him a
thrill he didn't expect and hadn't felt for years. Yet it was absolutely
foolhardy, even the risk of being noticed going into a gay pub was more
than he dared take.

 Murphy leaned forward expectantly, his face a bit flushed, anxious now
that he had asked his favour.

 Cowley pursed his lips and was silent a moment before finally nodding.
"All right, I will consider it, 6.2. Consider it, that's all," he warned,
knitting his brows together. "I presume this pub of your cousin's doesn't
get active until the evening?"

 "No, sir. Not until later, actually--half-eight at the earliest."

 "All right then. We both need some sleep. You may stay here on my couch
for night and I will drop you back at your car--I presume you remember
where that is--on my way into CI5 in the morning. At the end of the
working day, I will give you my answer. Until then, you stay away from
that pub, is that understood?"

 "Yes, sir. And thank you. Really, I mean it. I am grateful and my cousin
will be as well."

 Cowley waved off the remark. "All right then. Enough of that. I've only
promised to look into it, nothing more. Finish your tea and let's call
this night done. We'll say no more about it until I make my decision."
******

It wasn't until mid-day that Cowley had time to think of the events of the
night before, or his promise to Murphy to consider the agent's
ill-conceived scheme. The morning had been consumed with phone calls,
expense reports, budget requests and briefings--the minutiae and
bureaucracy of running an organisation as complex as CI5. It was
exhausting--sometimes overwhelming.

 Permitting himself a break, Cowley sighed, tossed his glasses aside and
pinched the bridge of his nose as he rose to stretch his legs. His injured
leg was stiff and he groaned as he moved and put weight on it.

 "Ach, even getting too old to sit behind a desk," he muttered to himself,
ineffectually rubbing his thigh. It never helped to rub it, except to give
him something to do--a physical placebo, but there were days when the
combination of the job and the discomfort pushed him to the limits. One
day--and perhaps sooner rather than later--he would need a successor. Even
now an assistant would be helpful; someone he could trust to follow his
orders, share his vision for the organisation. His mind roamed to Murphy
and then he just as quickly shut that path down. He'd helped the man take
a shower and now was thinking of appointing him deputy controller? It was
absurd.

 "You're going daft--losing your wits over a pretty head," Cowley
chastised himself. "Deputy indeed--the man can't even look after himself
properly."

 Still, Murphy had seemed better this morning, Cowley allowed--his blue
eyes bright and filled with humour and intelligence, his bearing
confident. There had been nothing of the child-waif from the night
before--Murphy was again the consummate agent--tough, capable and
enigmatic.

 Breakfast had been surprisingly pleasant. He and Murphy shared their tea
and toast along companionable conversation at the small kitchen table, the
Times open, but ignored at Cowley's right hand. They discussed sports, the
upcoming general election and the new model cars--chatting as if one man
had not bathed the other, touched him, washed him, offered comfort; and
the other needy and accepting of it all.

 Now alone in his office, Cowley could not help but think of Murphy in the
shower that night before--muscled chest, heavy genitals, corded
thighs--tantalising even more so for Murphy's utter ignorance of his own
beauty. Cowley had dreamed about him, waking with his own cock thick and
pulsing, settling the problem with a cold shower and his hand, rinsing the
evidence of his misplaced lust from the green bathroom tiles. The response
was inappropriate, but it was intoxicating nonetheless. Even now he felt
his cock twitch and he picked up his teacup, the china rattling quietly
against the saucer.

 For a man who spent his days managing ministers, controlling the press
and dealing with temperamental agents, this was a challenge Cowley was not
equipped to meet. What had wakened in him? Where was the familiar,
cautious, conservative Scot; the man he had created, the man who
understood the price paid for rashness? Then again, where was the youth
who had become that man?

 He warred with himself, yet knew with a certainty he was loathe to admit
that he wanted two things--Murphy hard and deep inside him, and to be part
of the obbo the agent was running at his cousin's pub. He was just as
certain both were not only out of reach, but also out of the question.

 He shook his head and set the tea aside. It wouldn't hurt to make a few
calls, check with a few contacts of his own, see what he could find out.
Information never hurt, it could be the best way to arm oneself. And he
had promised Murphy he would consider the plan, so he would. He told
himself had no obligation beyond that.

 ******

The quiet rap on his door was repeated. At the second knock, Cowley
glanced up, realised it was growing dark in his office and that Betty had
gone home over an hour ago--it must be nearly half-six. He switched on the
desk lamp and then called out a reply.

 "Come in."

 "Sorry to disturb you, sir...." Murphy poked his head into the office,
but Cowley delayed before looking up. He knew it was Murphy--knew from the
man's soft voice and from the scent of his aftershave, freshly applied, if
Cowley was any judge.

 Finishing the report before him, Cowley signed the bottom, capped his pen
and returned it to his pocket, and then deliberately removed his glasses,
pocketing them as well before meeting Murphy's gaze.

 When he did look up he found Murphy slouched against the doorframe, arms
crossed over his chest, one booted foot crossed over the other, waiting
patiently. Why was it that all agents tended to slouch? Cowley thought in
an irrational burst of irritation--at least all the men on the A team
seemed to assume that casual posture. It made them appear to be lazy, when
they were anything but that. Sometimes he thought they did it deliberately
to wind him up, or perhaps to deceive their prey--tigers waiting to
pounce.

 Murphy was showered and changed, wearing soft black cords and a short
black leather jacket, a black polo beneath. The tight trousers hugged his
hips, emphasized his genitals and made it appear as if the garment had
been formed on his strong, slim body. Cowley felt his initial irritation
slip away.

 "Sit man. Sit." He gestured vaguely toward one of the office chairs,
waiting until Murphy had taken his seat before speaking again, his hands
folded on the desktop, his expression sober.

 "I did some checking on the minister's son and the situation at your
cousin's pub," Cowley began.

 "Thank..." Murphy interrupted, but he could barely get a word out before
Cowley cut him short.

 "What I will thank *you* for is to not interrupt me, 6.2. I didn't do it
for you, man. I did it for the department. I don't want to see us caught
up in some street-level intrigue. I have a hard enough time now with
legitimate projects and I do not intend to add to that."

 "No, sir."

 Cowley shuffled some papers, fumbled for his glasses and retrieved them
from his jacket pocket. He pulled one folder to the top of the stack on
his desk and opened it, scanning the contents as he spoke. "As I was
saying, I did some checking. Your hunch was a good one as it turns out.
The minister is being blackmailed."

 "For his son being gay, sir?"

 "That's the threat, aye--to reveal that and the drug use. It even appears
the lad is in on it--or at the least not objecting."

 "Perhaps he thinks it's a good way to wind up his old man."

 "Perhaps," Cowley allowed.

 "So then they want us to pursue it?" Murphy sat forward in the chair,
resting his forearms on his thighs, hands clasped loosely between them.

 "The minister would be most appreciative if we could resolve the
situation, or provide evidence to that eventual end, correct, 6.2."

 "Then you are going to help me, sir?"

 "Aye," Cowley acknowledged. He wagged a finger. "But with the full
authority of our department, not as some poor man's film version of James
Bond. That means we plan this ahead of time instead of rushing in half
cocked."

 Murphy raised an eyebrow at the word choice, a grin escaping.

 He was charming, Cowley thought, as the agent hid the smile with a cough.
Disarming and charming. Cowley coughed himself, to conceal his own
reaction to Murphy's appeal and the inadvertent Freudian slip.

 "Yes, well, enough of that. I estimate we have two hours to develop a
solid plan."

 "Yes, sir--the floorshow isn't until near nine."

 "Floorshow?" Cowley glanced up sharply. "I don't recall you mentioning a
floorshow, 6.2. What other details have you left out?"

 Murphy had the good grace to look contrite. "Sorry, sir, bad choice of
words. There's no floorshow. I was just...sorry, sir."

 Cowley glared. "I expect you at your best for this operation, 6.2--is
that understood? I want no cock-ups."

 Murphy chortled, then coughed, then choked.

 Hunching over his desk, Cowley busied himself with the folder, tidying
the papers inside. He was not about to let on that the remark was
deliberate--he could wind them up as well as the next man. He
surreptitiously looked over his glasses and watched as Murphy pulled
himself together.

 The agent's face was flushed, his breathing a bit heavy. He was gazing at
Cowley through dusky eyelashes when suddenly recognition lit his face.
"You were having me on, sir...."

 "That's for me to know, 6.2." Cowley tapped his finger along side of his
nose.

 Approval, surprise and respect were reflected in Murphy's earnest blue
gaze. Cowley wondered if it was possible to be smitten more than once in
the same day by the same man.

 Murphy cleared his throat. "I wondered, sir...since you're helping me
out...could I buy you dinner? You did say we need to plan."

 Cowley raised an eyebrow, managed to conceal his very real interest and
simply nodded his assent. "That would be acceptable, 6.2."

 ******

"As I told you, I made some inquiries about the minister's son--Elliot is
the lad's name." Cowley paused and took a sip of the cabernet, savoring
the dense, full flavor. It was a good accompaniment to the excellent steak
tartar. Despite Murphy's generous offer, they had ended up at Cowley's
club. Cowley kept extra clothing there and wanted to change before they
went to the club, so it handled both problems.

 Murphy wiped his mouth and drank a deep swallow of lager. "Winchell.
Elliot Winchell. At least that's what he goes by...."

 Cowley nodded. "Correct. Winchell is his mother's name. He used it while
at Harrow. Apparently that's where some of this mischief started. It
continued on while he was at university and has got more serious as of
late."

 "Since he started hanging out in gay pubs in Soho."

 Cowley raised an eyebrow. "Since he became more public, aye. And since he
got a new boyfriend." Cowley reached to the floor and pulled the file
folder out of his briefcase, setting it on the table and using one hand to
flip through it for a photo. He pushed the picture across the table to
Murphy.

 The photo was of two young men sunning themselves on some unidentifiable
private beach. One of the men was nude, lying on his back, head cosied in
his arms. The other, wearing impossibly small Speedos, had a generous
erection that made the swim trunks all the more revealing. Both lads were
tan, fit, and unmistakable on the blanket beside them was a variety of
drug paraphernalia, casually displayed and obviously used. Both men looked
languorous, intoxicated by the heat or as a result of the drugs, or both.

 "This was earlier this year, in the south of France at a friend's villa,"
advised Cowley.

 Murphy peered at the picture and feigned a wolf whistle. "It looks like
they were having a good old time of it."

 "Aye, too good a time."

 "This other lad with Elliot, he looks familiar..."

 "He should, 6.2." Cowley nodded approvingly. "He's Matthew Kent."

 "The arms dealer's son." Murphy shook his head and pushed the photo back
to Cowley. "He's lost the beard and moustache, and is a blond now, but the
eyes are the same. Winchell picked bad company. Kent is into some nasty
things. He's got form longer than my arm."

 "Indeed. A poor choice of companion for young Winchell."

 "So it's Kent who's directing the blackmailing scheme, then."

 "Aye. The scheme started as a way for Winchell to get at his father--but
the extortion has been escalating. As you might guess, young Elliot and
the minister have a less than easy relationship."

 "What about the drugs?

 "Winchell apparently had some trouble with drugs while at university, so
he was susceptible. It was removed from his official records...."

 "Typical," interrupted Murphy, knife and fork mid-air, giving a moment's
respite to the lamp shank on his plate. He waved the silver. "And we're
supposed to protect these idiots."

 "Protect, aye, for the public safety--but not take responsibility--that
young Mr. Winchell will have to do on his own. We will help him see his
way out of this, but only because it may also benefit CI5 in the long
run."

 Murphy raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Benefit? How so, sir?"

 The minister is very influential, 6.2. According him this favor may give
us a very powerful and valuable ally."

 Murphy raised his glass of lager and leaned across the table. "Well then,
to a successful alliance, sir."

 "Aye." Cowley clinked his wine glass to Murphy's. "To a successful fry."

 "And, to our new alliance as well," Murphy added with a wicked grin and a
flirting wink, lifting his glass once more. "Always did want to be a kept
man. Only please, be gentle with me, sir. You'll be my first--controller,
that is...."

 Cowley choked on his wine, sputtering wildly, and capturing the attention
of the maitre'd who quickly signalled for the waiter and a glass of water.

 Alternating between glaring at Murphy and fits of coughing, Cowley
reassured the club staff that not only was he going to live, but that he
did not require their very kind assistance.

 Across the table, Murphy chuckled quietly and finished off his drink.

 ******

The gentleman's salon and changing suite was spacious and well-appointed.
It was a slow night and well past the dinner hour, so Cowley and Murphy
had it to themselves. Cowley was in the shower room, rinsing away the
detritus of the day, while Murphy lounged in one of the leather chairs in
the ante-chamber, a brandy in his hand, long, lean legs crossed at the
ankle, blue eyes hooded and nearly closed. Classical music played quietly
over the room's speaker system, harmonising with the sound of the water
falling from the showerhead onto the terrazzo tiles below.

 Cowley ran the bar of soap across his chest, under his arms, around his
neck...he worked up a lather in his hands and cleaned his belly and then
dropped to his groin, fingers finding a familiar path through the tangle
of sandy curls. His cock was half-hard and had been all evening--a
reaction to the excitement of the operation and the sexually electric
presence of Murphy, all tight cords and attitude. If the agent wasn't
openly flirting, then Cowley had been out of circulation far too long. Man
or woman, interest was usually clear, and Cowley sensed interest. It
intrigued him as much as it thrilled.

 It had been years since he had had a sexual encounter at all; decades
since that partner had been a man and that mostly groping and panting,
although he had fornicated with one man. It was a Sergeant during the
early days of the war. He was a pretty man, but a blond, and a Scot like
himself. Short and stocky, he lacked the cool and elegant lines of Murphy,
but was still, a good chap. They had spent the night in an abandoned
farmhouse while waiting for the rest of their squad to parachute in the
next morning, found a stash of wine that was not broken or soured, drank
enough to loosen their inhibitions and then drank enough to eliminate
them.

 Cowley still remembered the feel of his cock driving into the man's arse,
the sound of his partner's orgasm, the sound and power of his own. There
was something about that experience, about being with a man, about not
having to worry about the formalities or the afters, that had been
incredibly freeing.

 His hand reached down automatically to his cock, thick now just from the
thought of those days.

 "Need a hand?" Murphy leaned indolently against the wall opposite the
shower, eyebrow raised.

 Cowley hastily shut off the got and reached for the towel he had left
ready on the hook. Murphy snatched it away, waving it teasingly on one
finger as he advanced.

 Then, abruptly, and with a gentlemanly flourish, he proffered the towel,
bowed slightly and sauntered out of the shower room. It was all Cowley
could do not to rush after him and nail his blasted hide to the wall.
Instead, he pushed the towel back onto the hook, turned the got on again
and stepped back under the water to lather and wash his hair. He be damned
if he'd let that insolent tease get the better of him. If it was a dance
Murphy wanted, then a dance he would get.

 ******

Cowley surveyed his naked image in the mirror, stepping forward a pace to
wipe the steam from the glass. He was alone in the changing room, door
closed and locked [bolted?] to prevent any unexpected company.

 On first review, Cowley decided he was in moderately good form--lean at
least, although his skin showed the sag that marked aging, fit or not. He
turned to the side and drew back his shoulders, pushing his chest out and
standing straight, at attention, sucking in his stomach; time for a closer
examination. His arms were fleshier than he wanted; there used to be more
muscle there. And his chest lacked the firm smoothness of youth. He
relaxed abruptly and shook his head.

 "Ach! You're a dammed vain fool, George Cowley. You won't be young again
and that's that. You're not the saddest specimen I've seen, but you could
be better. And this game leg doesn't help either."

 He slapped the thigh of his bad leg and momentarily traced the faded scar
that marked the bullet entry site. It hurt in the cold and damp, which
meant most of the time given London weather. It was too near the main
artery to risk removal, they had told him, so he kept it as a war prize,
along with the slight limp.

 The reactions of the women he had been with since that event were as
varied as the women themselves: pity, curiosity, even disgust. Battlefield
surgical units did the best they were able, but their concern was saving
the patient before them and moving on to the next--triage, little more. By
the time Cowley had been rotated home for further care and rehabilitation,
the hard long puckered scar had become part of the topography of his limb.

 With a sigh and one last furtive glance in the mirror, he began to dress:
pants, socks, trousers, a fresh shirt, a gray-green jumper over that and
finally, his shoes. It wasn't high style, but it would have to do. He
picked his jacket off the hanger, unlocked the door and stepped out, half
expecting to see Murphy waiting for him, glass to the door listening for
signs of life, but the agent was nowhere to be seen.

 Cowley tossed his wet towel into the laundry bin, stowed his shaving kit
in his locker and shut the door, pocketing the locker key along with his
wallet. He had made sure to get an expense advance earlier that day--as
Murphy's "benefactor" he expected to fully finance their evening at the
pub, whatever interesting and unusual amusements came their way.

 He stepped out into the anteroom and stopped dead in his tracks. There
was Murphy, sprawled bonelessly on the leather settee, pillows stolen from
the window seat cushioning his head, his feet up on the armrest, boots
crossed at the ankle. His brandy glass sat empty on the floor next to him.
He was snoring softly. Cowley was mesmerised; Murphy was quite simply
stunning.

 Cowley crossed the carpeted room on silent feet and stopped beside the
couch, admiring the man before him. He reached down for Murphy's glass and
brought it to his nose, savouring the scent of the brandy. Then he put it
to his lips, put his mouth where Murphy's mouth had been, a kiss by proxy.
He had to force himself not to bend down and press his lips to those of
the sleeping man, yet he could not help but slip his fingers through the
soft silk of Murphy's dark cap of hair.

 Murphy stirred at the contact, stretching and opening his eyes just as
Cowley pulled his hand back. Cowley looked quickly away, setting the
brandy glass on the side table and stepping to the window, as if something
interested him there. Murphy blinked rapidly and eased to a sitting
position, hands loose between his knees. For a moment, neither man said a
word, nor needed to.

 What was happening here? Cowley wondered, gazing blanking out the window
to the lush club garden beyond. He was experienced enough and cynic enough
to understand this was not love, at least not reciprocated, and probably
not at all. Lust, then, but lust was too simple and this was far more
complex. Just some reenactment of lost youth? But that did Murphy a
disservice, for the attraction was very real, and mutual, or so it seemed.

 He felt the light touch of hands on his shoulders and a face pressed into
his hair, the pressure of thighs to his legs, hips to his rear. He leaned
into it, felt it fade away, wondered if it had happened at all. He would
have thought not, save for the musky scent of Murphy's aftershave
lingering close in the air.

 ******

They had agreed to leave Cowley's car at the office and take Murphy's
assignment from the CI5 car pool. The gold Ghia was sportier and flashier
than Cowley's staid vehicle, and it made sense that Murphy would drive,
not his benefactor. Cowley had not been down to this part of Soho for
years, not since a case had taken him here to check out evidence. It
looked seedier than he remembered, as did those who frequented the area.
As he and Murphy stepped from the Ghia, Cowley wonder idly if the car
would still be there when they returned.

 Murphy's cousin's pub was not unlike its counterparts in the district,
except it was cleaner, the glass not cracked or broken in the front
window, the pavement swept, and the paint fresh on the sign which read
simply, and ironically, Queens Arms. There was noise coming from inside,
chatter and music, which intensified as Murphy opened the door and moved
aside to allow Cowley to enter first.

 The thing Cowley initially noticed was the wide spread of ages in the
pub. He had expected to be the only man over fifty and found himself one
of several, with a few customers even older than him. The youngest patron
was probably too young to be legally drinking, not that it appeared to
stop him, or the others near to his age. Apparently Murphy's cousin drew
the line at drugs, but was casual with anything else. It was no wonder the
man didn't want the police involved--he would not be keen for their kind
of attention.

 They threaded their way toward the back of the pub. A small dance floor
was arranged on one side, opposite the bar itself, and a few men moved
about there, slowly dancing to music from the juke box, bodies entwined,
hips grinding against one another, hands tucked down trousers or slipped
up shirts to reach bare flesh. It was erotic to watch, like a
floorshow--maybe that's what Murphy had really meant. There seemed to be
little inhibition as lips met and tongues teased, but Cowley saw nothing
outright lewd--everyone was clothed and there were normal activities
underway as well as the dancing. A darts competition was in progress--two
teams battled it out for victory with other patrons cheering on their
favourites, and for the most part, the men just sat about at tables,
drinking and chatting up their prospective partners for the night.

 As they found a quiet table near the back, Cowley noticed a doorway
leading from the rear of the main pub floor. He shrugged toward it and
raised a questioning brow.

 "It leads upstairs," Murphy advised quietly, pulling out a chair for
Cowley and then leaning his hands on the back of another, hips canted.
"It's the private rooms, I mentioned--where the nasty business has been
going on. We'll need to go up there later, but for now, what will you
start with, something pink and frothy with an umbrella and a fruit pick
perhaps?"

 A teasing glint in Murphy's eyes told Cowley he was being wound up. "A
cocktail would be lovely, yes--as long as it's pure malt scotch and
nothing else," he threatened.

 Murphy's chuckle lingered as the agent headed to the bar. A grin crossed
Cowley's lips. This felt oddly like a date. His blood was tingling and his
head felt a bit light. He watched as Murphy leaned into the bar, long legs
behind him, arse in the air, and ordered their drinks, pulling out the
thick wad of bills Cowley had reluctantly suppliedprovided on their drive
over.

 "I've made sure I am well fit to meet expenses this evening," Cowley
advisedinformed Murphy..

 "Hand it over, sir."

 "I beg your pardon?" He glanced at Murphy's outstretched hand and open
palm. "And I'll thank you to keep your hands and mind on the road, 6.2."

 "Yes, sir. But give me the money. It would be expected that I would take
care of things for you."

 Cowley eyed him and then sighed. "I presumed that as benefactor, I would
be expected to pay...."

 "You are, sir--to fund it, that is--and me."

 And so Cowley had complied, although grudgingly, passing across half of
what he had withdrawn, keeping the rest, just in case.

 Now Murphy peeled off several bills and pushed them toward the bartender,
making a show of the cash wad and nodding toward Cowley as the source of
the funds. Was this Murphy's cousin, he wondered? There was no resemblance
as far as he could see. It all made Cowley feel slightly uncomfortable,
too much in the public eye, and a bit pathetic, although the attention was
the only goal.

 He watched as Murphy slowly manoeuvered his way back to their table,
stopping or being stopped by those he knew or wanted to know him. Not just
one hand found it's way onto Murphy's arse and each time that that
happened he gestured to Cowley, who began to wonder about his own role in
this whole scheme--if he was really there on a case or was just the
entertainment for the evening. Most likely it would turn out to be both,
even if the latter was just a by-product of the first.

 Murphy set the drinks down. For Cowley, a single malt scotch, up, no
rocks--the controller nodded approvingly and took a small sip. He examined
the amber colour of the liquor for a moment and then examined his new
partner even more closely, waiting until Murphy was seated and had taken a
healthy swallow of his own drink, Irish whiskey by the look of it.

 "You seem to be very popular here, 6.2," noted Cowley, managing a casual
tone. "Just how much time do you spend in this pub?

 "It is my cousin's place, sir."

 "Aye...." Cowley took another sip of scotch, quietly observant while a
new arrival waved and signalled to Murphy, who coughed and shook his head
no at the open invitation to dance.

 "I take it, then, you are a regular?"

 Murphy shrugged. "Often enough, I suppose. I know some of these lads from
other...well, I know them."

 "I see...."

 Murphy's body tensed.

 Cowley waved his hand lightly. "I am making no judgments, lad, just
commenting."

 "If you say so."

 "I have no objection if you dance with your friends."

 "No?"

 "Why should I?"

 "No reason."

 "I presume I trust you--in my role as benefactor."

 "No reason not to."

 "No. No reason at all."

 Murphy was silent and Cowley alternated between studying his drink and
observing the growing crowd in the pub. He was startled when Murphy next
spoke.

 "Why don't you dance with me?"

 Now it was Cowley's turn to sputter. "I beg your pardon?"

 "Dance with me. It will be a slow song. It will cause a bit of a stir,
let folks know we are here and what the score is with us. We're not going
to get attention sitting back here in the corner--and getting attention
was our plan, wasn't it, sir?"

 Cowley pursed his lips. "Aye. Although why I ever agreed to.... Aye." He
downed his drink in one swallow, rose and led Murphy onto the floor.

 The trio of lights above the small dance area pulsed red and gold, fading
from one to the other, exuding a heat that was intensified by the dancers
below. The song coming from the jukebox was slow and smoky. Cowley had
hold of Murphy's hand and pulled him closer, slipping one hand under
Murphy's jacket against his back, sliding the other down to Murphy's hip.
He felt Murphy's hands ease down to rest on his arse and a gentle tug as
he was drawn in.

 They moved together, slowly. Their feet hardly changed position; it was
just their hips swaying, grinding together. Cowley thought it would be
more tiring than it was, but Murphy's arms were strong and supportive, so
he had only to stay on his feet and rock gently to and fro.

 "Kiss me," whispered Murphy, leaning his head down.

 Cowley inhaled sharply and then tilted his face and met his lips to
Murphy's, Scotch meeting Irish whiskey. His cock was hard now and he could
have been in front of the PM for all he cared. No one knew him in this
place--not beyond his role as Murphy's benefactor--nor would they. He
experienced a freedom and exhilaration he had dare not contemplate.
Murphy's tongue sought his mouth and he opened to let it in, his heart
racing as their tongues tangled. He could have taken the agent right then
and there on the floor, sodomised him in public view. Only Murphy's
murmured "easy" calmed him back.

 They danced for nearly an hour, falling into a comfortable rhythm that
surprised Cowley for its easy, natural feel. Each took turns leading and
watching the room, aware that they were being observed at the same time.
Now Murphy's hand was oddly comforting on Cowley's back as the pair
threaded their way across the room to their table for a much welcome
break.

 Once again, Murphy collected their drinks and brought them to the table.
Once again, he made a show of the roll of cash. And once again, he was
groped as he returned from the bar. However, it appeared to Cowley, that
this time he did not linger as long on his way back.

 "No sign of your lads," Cowley observed as he accepted the drink.

 "Anytime, I would expect." Murphy was sitting facing the door and could
see whoever came in.

 "Aye."

 Cowley scanned the room. Things had heated up as the evening progressed.
Two lads at a table near the dance floor were sharing a chair, face to
face, one in the other's lap. He watched as they rose, untangled, and hand
in hand slipped outside. Another pair was leaning casually against the
wall, ostensibly watching the darts game--but Cowley could see a hand
shifting against a groin, and the glitter of a zipper as it moved and was
caught in the light. The man giving the hand job stepped closer to his
partner and blocked the view below the waist, but it was clear from the
expression of the man pinned to the wall that he was very near orgasm.
Cowley watched absorbed as the man climaxed, a mesmerised voyeur.

 He heard the scraping of a chair as Murphy slid closer, and then felt
fingers fumbling at his own flies. Involuntarily he spread his knees and
then realised what was about to happen.

 "Are you insane, man?" he hissed.

 The fingers eased off the zipper, but continued to stroke. Cowley
shuddered.

 "They're here," Murphy whispered, nodded his head toward the door. "They
came in about five minutes ago. They've already been told you're here.
It's time for the floorshow."

 Murphy's breath was on Cowley's throat, his hand stroking his cock.
Cowley could barely think, let alone remember why they were in the pub,
who their prey was, and why he should care. Think, man. He forced himself
to focus and with only a second's hesitation, pushed to his feet, shoving
Murphy away, toppling his chair as he stood. He was shaking with anger.

 "From now on, you wait until you are invited," Cowley growled loudly,
reaching for his drink and tossing the amber liquid in Murphy's face.

 A hush came over the club as Murphy rose, scotch dripping from his
handsome chin, hands fisted at his side, gaze murderous. Cowley met his
glare, challenge for challenge, cockfight, neither man giving ground.
Gradually Murphy's hands relaxed, though it was apparent to those watching
that he was still barely under control.

 Reaching across the space between them, Cowley swiped his finger across
Murphy's liquor-soaked lips, and then brought his hand to his mouth and
sucked the finger in, making a show of cleaning it off. He reached into
his pocket and drew out a handkerchief and, after carefully cleaning away
the mess he had made, he took Murphy's hand and drew it to his mouth,
gently kissing the knuckles. Murphy breathed in sharply.

 "Forgive me?" Cowley asked, caressing Murphy's palm. At Murphy's grudging
shrug and nod, Cowley smiled, twined their hands and led the agent from
the table, into the back hallway and up the steps, the pub chittering with
gossip behind them.

 As they got part way up the steps, Cowley paused, gripping the handrail.
His knees were shaking. So much for the daring agent on a live operation,
he thought with disgust. Old fool. He'd have wet himself if had gone on
much longer. Controller, yes, actor and agent, no. Better to leave that to
a younger man. And worse, after that tortured effort, he had no idea if
their now seemingly idiotic plan had even worked.

 "They've noticed," Murphy whispered, satisfying Cowley on that score.
"Keep moving."

 The upstairs was decidedly seedier and less kempt than the floor below.
Four doorways went off the dimly lit narrow central hallway, two on each
side. They passed the first room; the door was open. Three men in various
stages of undress were engaged in just as various acts of sex on a ratty
looking mattress on the floor. Cowley watched as one of the men, trousers
around his ankles, pumped forcefully into the arse of a second, who was
masturbating while engaging in fellatio with the third. The sounds the
trio were making were brutish and Cowley wasn't sure if it was the
setting, the men, or the acts that made it all seem so sordid.

 Murphy tugged his hand and Cowley moved on, feeling like Alice in a
bizarre and twisted Wonderland, wondering when the Mad Hatter was going to
pop out, or the Queen of Hearts to lop off his head.

 The second room was empty even of a mattress, but it didn't stop a youth
from sodomizing an older man against the wall, pumping the man's cock with
his hand as he pumped into his arse. The man was naked, his skin fleshy
and loose and there was a roll of fat about his middle. The youth's face
was spotted, his skin pale, and his expression disinterested. He made
encouraging sounds to the man--giving him his money's worth? Cowley
wondered. It was grotesque. Is that how he appeared to Murphy when the
agent saw him in the shower?

 A gentle pressure on his back urged him forward. They quickly bypassed
the closed third door in what Cowley was starting to consider a chamber of
horrors and went on to the fourth. It was open. A dilapidated settee was
pushed against one graffitied wall; several chairs in various states of
disrepair faced it. There was a small scarred table between the couch and
the seats and drug paraphernalia sat a top that: obviously-used needles, a
bag of white powder, a smaller cooker. A short, thin man about ten years
past Murphy's age stood behind the chairs, out of the light of the
hallway, blowing smoke from his cigarette through an open window. As
Cowley and Murphy entered, he stepped forward and peered at them.

 "Ah, there's my lad. Wondered if we'd see you this evening. And this must
be the big man himself." Flicking the cigarette away, the drug dealer
approached them and Cowley had to fight an irrational urge to take one
step back for each one the man took forward.

 "Looking for a bit of relaxation, then?" The man asked, smirking. "You
usually bring your own stash, blue eyes. Don't tell me you left the house
unprepared?"

 "Actually, we were looking for a private party, but I see you're having a
quiet night." As he spoke, Murphy glanced about the room--looking for
what, or who, Cowley didn't know, until he noticed a standard mattress and
bed against the far wall, currently not in use.

 "I might be able to round up some willing company for you," the man told
them. "Assuming you're paying for the party favours?"

 "Oh, we're paying all right," interjected Cowley. "As long as the company
is young and pretty." He slid his hand down to cup Murphy's arse. "I think
you can tell what I like. Just not too young, if you don't mind.
Paedophilia has never been a particular interest of mine."

 Cowley and Murphy were left alone in the room and Cowley took the
opportunity to test a sample from the bag of powder on the table. He wet
his finger and touched the powder, bringing it to his tongue. "Ach, this
is just speed, not worth our effort," he said with disgust.

 "Kent will have the hard stuff with him," Murphy assured him. "They'd
never leave anything that good in a room here. Are you ready for what
comes next?"

 Cowley took a deep breath. Ready? He had no idea if he was ready. No idea
if any of this would come down as they planned and hoped. No idea what the
events of this day--and night--would do to him, what personal agonies it
would cause him. Ready? He exhaled and nodded at Murphy. "Aye, lad, I am
ready as I can be."

 "We should make ourselves comfortable, then."

 "Aye."

 They headed across the room to the bed. Cowley tried not to notice how
filthy it was, the sorry excuse for bedding, the dirty pillow. He sat down
gingerly.

 "Sorry, sir. Pretty nasty, isn't it? Lucky for us we won't be staying."

 Cowley felt the bed sag as Murphy sat down next to him and he offered no
resistance as the agent pushed him onto the coverlet and slipped his hand
to Cowley's groin. He felt his flies being opened, the slight chill of air
on his genitals, his cock rise, the touch of Murphy's soft mouth, and the
agent's fingers reaching down to cup his testicles. The groan that escaped
was his own, he realised as Murphy's tongue stroked the length of his
erection. He pumped his hips, wanting this so badly he felt he might beg
for it.

 Mercifully, voices and footsteps in the hallway brought the reality of
their situation home again and his cock began to contract. He caught
Murphy's eye and soft "now, sir," and just as the voices arrived at the
doorway, he made a bravo imitation of man reaching climax, jerking his
groin toward Murphy's mouth, crying out loudly with every bit of grammar
school acting ability he could muster.

 "I see you wasted no time," snickered one of the voices.

 Murphy made a big premise of swallowing, swiped the back of his hand
across his mouth, and then quickly did up Cowley's trousers.

 "We got tired of waiting for you, didn't we," Murphy replied calmly,
helping Cowley shift to a sitting position on the bed.

 Cowley wondered when he had felt dirtier as he looked up to find Kent and
Winchell staring down at him, some kind of sick gratification reflected in
Kent's eyes, Winchell's simply drug-glazed. He felt dirtier yet by his own
response to Murphy in this very public and foul place. He was not
particularly squeamish, but neither was he an exhibitionist--or he hadn't
been. He testicles ached from the sexual tension of the night and he had
to force himself not to reach down to adjust and rub them. But he also
knew that if he didn't get release soon, the discomfort would begin to own
him. He wondered if Murphy felt the same. He wondered how he could not.

 "We understand you're in the market for a private party," said Kent. It
was clear the drug dealer was going to do all the talking.

 "Aye, but not here." Cowley stood and gestured about, his grimace
expressing his distaste. "This room is well below my standards. I have a
flat in the West End--our...party...will be more...comfortable...there, I
believe."

 Kent frowned. He was man used to calling the shots.

 Reaching a hand over to still Murphy, Cowley went on the offensive. "It
matters little to me. If you are not interested, I'm sure there are others
downstairs who are willing to meet our needs." He shrugged. "Of course,
you will lose whatever it is I would have spent with you on party favours.
But again, I am sure there are those downstairs who would accommodate us
there as well."

 The drug dealer wavered and then he also shrugged. "Sure, why not. I
guess an old queen and his Nellie aren't likely to be the coppers, now are
you?" His voice and eyes hardened at the last comment, a clear challenge.
"And you wouldn't want to cause trouble anyway, not after I just watched
your Nancy boy give you a blow job."

 "Trust us or not," replied Cowley, "but my patience is nearing it's end."

 Winchell whispered something to Kent, who raised an eyebrow at the
comment, grinned sardonically and nodded. "All right, then. We're in. Lead
on."

 Here we go, thought Cowley. Time to find out if this was all worth it.

 ******

The flat was one of CI5's safe houses and ideal for their little sting
operation. Kent and Winchell opted to come in their own vehicle, following
the gold Ghia the short distance and then splitting off to find a parking
space, the four to meet at the flat. The drive gave Cowley and Murphy a
much-needed chance to regroup.

 "Remember, 6.2, it is not our job to make any arrests tonight--we merely
obtain sufficient evidence on Kent to force him to end his extortion of
the minister, and to cease his drug dealing at your cousin's pub."

 Murphy snorted. "In other words, we make a deal."

 "We do what is expedient in this case," retorted Cowley, more sharply
than he intended. He was tired and the evening was wearing. "I'm sorry,
6.2. It's been a long night. I was under the assumption this was the
outcome you wanted."

 "Yeah, it is." Murphy sighed and scanned about for a parking spot. "I'm
just used to having a bit broader authority."

 "You're lucky we've any authority at all. If Winchell wasn't the
minister's son, I don't think I could have helped you."

 Murphy eased into a parking space. "Not in an official capacity, you
mean."

 "Not in any, 6.2. I risk the entire department with my actions."

 "That didn't seem to bother you earlier," observed Murphy dryly,
down-shifting the gears and turning off the ignition.

 "Should anything have come of our little performance, it was sanctioned,
and that prior approval goes a long way to dispelling any gossip."

 "Meaning you can officially slap a 'D-Notice' on the whole thing."

 Cowley pushed open his car door. "Meaning just that, 6.2."

 "It might not stop someone from sharing what they saw with their
hairdresser or publican."

 "True, but then that is hardly public, now, is it?"

 They walked up the road from the car, surreptitiously checking the flat
numbers as they went. "This is it," Cowley announced, turning up the steps
with scarcely a moment's pause, for all appearances, a man coming home
after pub closing with his mate. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys,
found them, and unlocked the door.

 The flat was not sumptuous, but it was respectable--a place they might
keep a visiting dignitary if they needed him safe in the city. Mostly
importantly, they knew it was secure. It was home turf, and here they had
the advantage, and the monitoring equipment they would need.

 Above anything, Cowley was desperate for a drink and he eyed the liquor
tray greedily. The second round in the pub had gone nearly untouched when
their prey arrived and the first was too far in the past to be of much
good. Yet, their first obligation to was to check the flat and get set-up,
and quickly, before Kent and Winchell arrived. Murphy went down the
hallway to clear the two bedrooms and bath, while Cowley did a quick sweep
of the lounge and the kitchen, activating the surveillance camera from a
cupboard in the hall. All was in order and they met back in the lounge
just as the door buzzer sounded.

 Cowley quickly poured a neat scotch and took a seat in the room's single
arm chair, facing the door. Crossing his legs and relaxing back into the
leather, he nodded at Murphy who opened the door to admit the pair.

 Kent whistled as he sauntered in and glanced about. "Not bad. No
Buckingham Palace, but you're right, it beats that squat at the Arms."

 "I'm glad you approve," said Cowley with just a hint of sarcasm. "Murphy,
aren't you going to offer our guests a drink? Please, have a seat." He
gestured broadly and Winchell gingerly sat on the couch, setting the small
case he'd been carrying on the cushion beside him.

 Kent paced to the window, pushed the drape aside and peered out, then let
the curtain fall back. "I'll take a GT if you have one," he said finally,
sprawling on the couch next to Winchell..

 "The same for me.," advised Winchell warily , easeding back back into the
cushions a bit, hand protectively on the case at his side..

 Murphy fixed the drinks and then perched on the arm of Cowley's chair.
Cowley slipped his hand onto Murphy's thigh and let his fingers wander
aimlessly, sliding toward the man's groin and away.

 "So what kind of partying did you exactly have in mind?" wondered Kent,
taking a sip from his glass. "Watching? Participating? Maybe a nice gang
bang? I wouldn't mind sinking my cock into you, blue eyes," he said
pointedly to Murphy, running his hand over his own crotch.

 Cowley squeezed Murphy's thigh possessively. "Murphy is my property--and
only he touches me. I want to make sure that is clear from the outset.
However, I have no objection to sharing him, given the right
circumstances."

 "Good. Then to that end, I think we need to relax a little. Give me the
case, Elliot."

 "What I saw at the Queen's Arms held little interest for me," said Cowley
as he leaned forward to watch as Kent unzipped the black pouch. "I hope
you have brought more interesting party favours with you."

 "I hope you can afford them."

 Handing his drink to Murphy, Cowley reached into his jacket and pulled
out his wallet, removing the thick stack of bills that he had held on to.
He tossed the entire bundle onto the coffee table in front of Kent. "I
believe this should cover any...incidentals."

 Kent fanned the bills and then pushed them back into a neat stack. "I
believe we can offer you some top-of-the-line party favours for this."

 Cowley recovered his drink and took a casual sip. "To be clear, just what
are we talking about?"

 Kent lifted an eyebrow and then shrugged and nodded, removing two bags of
powder from the case and tossing them both casually onto the table. "Your
choice--confetti or streamers."

 Murphy reached across and set his drink on the table, hefting the bags,
one in each hand, balancing them as if he were a scale. Cowley estimated
they were an ounce each--one heroin and one cocaine, he presumed, enough
quantity to land both men behind bars for a very, very long time.

 "May I?" Cowley gestured toward the bags and Kent nodded.

 The controller waited as Murphy opened first one bag and then the other
for him, and he dipped a finger in each, tipping them onto his tongue.
Indeed, he had guessed correctly--cocaine and heroin, and superior quality
at that.

 Cowley nodded. "Satisfactory."

 Kent smiled, reached for the money and pushed it into his jacket pocket.
"Then let the games begin."

 "Indeed," echoed Cowley, inclining his head toward Murphy. "It is time."

 With a smooth motion, Murphy reached behind his back and pulled his gun
from the holster at his waist, leveling it at Kent.

 Cowley's smile was feral. "There are just a few more rules I need to
share with you."

 ******

That the affair had concluded so easily was a bit of a surprise, but Kent
knew well that he was caught out in serious trouble and had got off
easily. With a little encouragement, he agreed to stop the extortion and
find a new place to do business, especially after Cowley advised informed
him they had been filming the entire incident, and that he would not
hesitate to turn the tape over to officials should Kent fail to cooperate.
With that in the balance and Murphy's gun in his face, there was little
choice.

 Winchell, on the other hand, was given the unhappy news that his father
not only knew all about this business, but that should he fail to make
significant changes in his life, his allowance would be severely reduced,
if not eliminated all together, and with the next incident, publicity or
not, he would be handed directly to the authorities.

 Kent left of his own accord and they called a cab for Winchell and saw
him off home. Now Cowley and Murphy stood alone on the steps to the flat,
the evidence secured in the flat's safe for retrieval the next day, the
alarms set, and an anxious tension resonating between them both.

 "Sir," began Murphy awkwardly. "I want to tell you how much I appreciate
this. It was a difficult evening, I know, and...."

 Cowley looked up into the deep blue eyes of his agent, felt himself
falling into them and stepped back. "It is late," he said. "I suggest we
find your car and conclude this."

 "Right."

 They walked in silence back to the Ghia and said little on the way back
to Cowley's flat except for a mention of the lack of traffic by Murphy and
one suggestion for a short cut by Cowley. The controller's leg ached. He
was tired. His testicles felt like they might explode--he was sexually
frustrated beyond anything he could recall. Murphy's proximity didn't
help.

 When they reached Cowley's flat, Murphy parked the Ghia instead of just
stopping it near the door. Cowley looked over at him and raised a brow. In
response, Murphy simply slid his hand along Cowley's thigh from knee to
groin. "Better than your hand in the shower, sir. That is, if you don't
mind...."

 Cowley inhaled and then nodded. "Aye, I suppose we could both use the
company."

 They headed into Cowley's flat, both men a bit uncomfortable and awkward.
Cowley turned on a single light on the desk and offered Murphy a drink.

 "Scotch?"

 "Yes, thank you." The agent took off his jacket and laid it across the
back of the couch, then carefully removed his gun and took off his
holster.

 Cowley made the drinks and then removed his own jacket, arranging it on
the back of the desk chair. He sank into the couch next to Murphy and
offered up his glass. "To a successful operation."

 "To a successful operation," Murphy echoed. Their glasses touched and
both men took healthy gulps of the amber liquid.

 Murphy set his glass aside and rested his hand on Cowley's thigh, sliding
it toward the controller's groin and then bypassing that area entirely,
working his fingers under Cowley's jumper and shirt to bare skin.

 Cowley trembled and he was sure Murphy could feel it. The touch of
Murphy's hand on his skin was incredibly erotic. His mind jumbled.
"Please," he said softly, and he felt Murphy's hand on his chin, turning
his face toward his. Their lips met, a hard kiss that became almost
violent. He realised that Murphy was as sexually frustrated and turned on
as he was--and why not? Reaching out blindly, Cowley found the coffee
table and pushed his glass onto the surface, not really caring if it made
it there or not.

 Murphy stripped off Cowley's jumper and shirt and then his own, tossing
them into a pile on the floor. Cowley felt himself pushed down into the
cushions of the couch, his hands held over his head, Murphy's lips
bruising his, his strong torso pressing down on him, his hips and hard
cock grinding into his groin. He couldn't breathe. He didn't want to. He
needed to. He gulped and gasped, pushing Murphy away so his lungs could
refill.

 His shoes were tugged off and then the flies on his trousers unfastened
and both trousers and pants removed and discarded. Murphy's mouth worked
its way down Cowley's chest, biting hard enough at his nipples to make him
wince and cry out, and then a soft tongue replaced teeth and soothed. He
was so utterly lost that he didn't care if he would be bruised or sore the
next day, he only felt the driving pulse of his cock calling for
release--a release Murphy kept denying him.

 Moving lower, Murphy smoothed his lips across the old battle scar on
Cowley's thigh, offering a tenderness that surprised and moved Cowley. In
a way, Cowley himself was a scar, damaged and improperly healed. Murphy's
gentleness to the wound was a balm to both man and skin.

 He spread his legs and gasped as cold scotch was trickled onto his cock,
immediately calming the erection, followed by Murphy's mouth to make it
hard again, and the action then repeated with the scotch. The man was an
apparent expert at sexual torture and Cowley's hands dug into the cushions
as his hips bucked and begged. Cowley's emotions were raw and his drives
primitive and he wanted release now.

 "It will be easier in bed," Murphy whispered, and Cowley nodded and
somehow led the way. Murphy was nude by the time they reached the austere
bedroom, his boots, socks, pants and trousers discarded along the way. His
body was hard and lean and suggestive, just as Cowley remembered it from
the night before, his cock thick and jutting from black curls. Cowley knew
he had been wrong--he did not want his cock in this man's arse, he wanted
Murphy's hard strength driving inside of him. He lay down on his stomach
on the bed and was surprised when Murphy guided him onto his side. "It
will be more comfortable like this," said Murphy softly. Cowley would have
believed him no matter what he said.

 ******

And now it was morning. Cowley sat and watched Murphy sleep, sprawled,
relaxed, boneless. They had woken in the night to grapple with each other
again. It wasn't lovemaking, it wasn't even passion, but there was a
respect to it nonetheless, despite the raw power and near violence. The
rocketing climax of their first encounter had left Cowley nearly unable to
breathe and his arse pulsing--he wondered now if he would ever feel that
kind of high again.

 He fought against seeing that what they had done as sordid, against
seeing what they had done as love-making; tried to understand it was no
more than release when Murphy's body had tensed in orgasm, almost
viciously pumping his seed into Cowley's arse, while a primal cry ripped
from this throat. He wondered how he could be having such mixed feelings,
why he simply could not appreciate the experience. And he knew at the same
time he mourned that this would not, could not, happen again, not with
this man, nor given Cowley's position, likely with any other. It was a
beginning and end, a fait accompli. Still, he should be grateful, not
grieving.

 ******

*Epilogue--days later*

 There was a rap at the office door. It was after hours, Betty had long
gone home and only a small group of staff was on duty, those mostly in the
computer room and at the front door.

 Cowley smelled the musky cologne, steeled himself and looked up. Murphy
stood in the doorway to the office, an ingenuous smile on his face. Cowley
felt his pulse race and abruptly calmed it.

 "Yes, 6.2?"

 "I just thought you might want to know that my cousin says Kent and his
group have shifted elsewhere. And that he decided to close off the
upstairs and run a bit cleaner operation."

 "Wise, I am sure. And I am gratified to know that we were successful."

 "Had there been any word on Winchell?"

 Cowley removed his glasses and set them aside. "Apparently he has decided
to visit his mother's family in South Africa for a while. The minister was
very grateful. I believe CI5 has a new ally in him."

 "That's good news."

 "Good news, indeed."

 "And Kent?"

 Cowley leaned back in his chair, a sly smile lighting his eyes. "It seems
Kent was greeted by certain members of the drug squad when he tried to
leave his flat the next morning. He is now in custody."

 Murphy raised a inquisitory eyebrow. "Is that so?"

 "Hmm. Yes, indeed. Apparently they had received a tip from a reliable
source. They were quite happy to accept custody of the cocaine and heroin
we collected as evidence. Young Kent will be locked up for a very long
time."

 "I'm glad to hear that, sir."

 "I thought you might be."

 "And the tape, sir?"

 "The tape shall remain in my personal safekeeping in case it is later
required."

 "Ah. Of course."

 Murphy lingered.

 "Was there something else, 6.2?"

 The agent pressed his lips together, started to speak, but instead just
shook his head. "No, sir. I just thought you would want to know about the
pub, and I wanted to pass along my cousin's thanks...and mine, too, sir."

 "Very well, 6.2. Carry on."

 "Yes, sir."

 ******

It was a long time before Cowley left for home that evening; he was not
ready for the solitude of his flat. He stood watching out his office
window as Murphy headed for his car, shifted his length into the driver's
seat and headed off into the night. He wondered if the young ever felt as
lonely as the old, or if they could. And he blessed Murphy for making him
feel, if for just one night, like the man he was inside his body's aging
shell.

 -- THE END --

 *Originally published in *Sidekicks*, Sidekicks Press and Angelwings
Press, May 2003*

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