The Major looked out at a patchy sea of clouds and said nothing in reply to Dorian’s words. A moment later he heard, again, "…Quinquin?" Whatever Dorian meant by that nickname—and Klaus couldn’t miss the tone, even if he didn’t recognize the word—it was most indiscreet and indelicate of Dorian to use it in public, or perhaps to use it at all. It was absolutely typical of him, in fact. He gave Eroica a quelling look of the sort that stopped his subordinates cold in their tracks.

"How are your men getting back?" asked the English voice, then, changing from intimate to chatty.

The Major gave him another quelling look; his orders to his subordinates were no business of Eroica’s.

"Isn’t the view charming?" tried the Earl. Klaus pointedly did not look around at him this time, preferring inanimate wisps of water vapor to the sight of sunlit curls and knowing eyes and a mouth which could only be called lascivious, no matter how objective the observer.

"Very," he said in a voice inspired by the temperature conditions at several thousand meters above sea level.

The Earl said in a conspiratorial whisper, "I’m going to eat some breakfast. Would you like a scone?" There was a suggestive rustle of motion beside Klaus, who continued to stare steadfastly out the window. "That is, I think they’re scones. The Palace of Seoul’s chef never quite got the concept right. But they’ll fill you up."

Food was the last thing Klaus worried about at the best of times, and today did not qualify as good under any criteria. "No. Go eat," he hissed, "somewhere else."

"What was that about keeping me in your sight until Bonn?" asked the drawling English voice, not moving.

"Try getting off this plane before then," suggested Klaus levelly. "The flight crew have parachutes. You don’t."

"For the moment," muttered the voice, but Eroica took himself, his suggestive voice, and his Korean scones off to another seat somewhere further down the cabin, leaving Klaus to his solitude and his uncomfortable thoughts.

Bonn. Or, to be more precise, NATO Intelligence HQ for West Germany. And Klaus’s Chief, who would laugh his head off at Eroica’s report, and laugh again at Major Eberbach’s, which deserved it. Klaus had failed his objective, and Eroica gave only a slim hope of recovering it. If the woman who’d stolen the information packet from under the Turkish Ambassador’s nose could be found again, there was a chance… Failure was a bitter and unaccustomed flavor in the Major’s thoughts, and failure that Eroica might rescue was peculiarly distasteful. Under the circumstances, it was excruciating.

Nevertheless, his duty was clear. Eroica held the best clues to their search, and knew far more than he should about the contents of the message packet. Eroica would have to be debriefed by this operation’s director, who could, Klaus hoped, impress on the capricious English thief the importance—and danger—of his knowledge. Klaus stared out at the clouds and tried not to think about the Chief’s reaction to all the ancillary intelligences Eroica would undoubtedly give him in the process.

Disgrace was the least of it. Failing the mission left him disgraced anyway, though that might be recovered, somehow, if everyone moved fast. Klaus knew how to move fast. He was doing so now.

The Chief would laugh. That was galling. The Chief had his own weaknesses, as everyone knew, but he would have no leniency for Eberbach’s. Nor should he, thought Klaus. There had never before been occasion for him to hope for lenience from a superior. He wasn’t sure what he hoped for at the moment. He would fulfill his duty; after that, he would see what was left of his career.

And what was he going to do about Dorian? About Dorian’s lascivious suggestions and unavoidable presence and impossible desires? Not impossible. Oh, hell.

The view outside blazed with white as the clouds thickened beneath them. Klaus shook his head to clear tearing eyes, then was startled to find himself yawning. He’d missed another night’s sleep, and there was nothing else to do until Bonn. He settled back in the uncomfortable seat and closed his eyes.

* * * * *

"Klaus."

The Major awoke instantly at Eroica’s voice.

"We’re stopping for more fuel. You have to sit up for the landing."

Klaus discovered that he was lying full-length on the cabin floor, covered by a heavy gray blanket of dubious cleanliness. Nevertheless, he felt immensely more alert than at any time he could recall in the past two days. He might be, just possibly, capable of living through the next crisis.

Refueling? Pakistan, then. "What time…?" he croaked.

"The flight crew have some coffee," said Dorian. "Come on, sit up. We’re over Pakistan. I’ve never been there before. Isn’t it exciting?"

He seemed to be sincere. Klaus refrained from snapping out an adverse opinion of Pakistan merely for having the temerity to be their refueling stop. "It won’t be. You and I will stay on the aircraft." He clambered to his feet without using the hand Eroica offered, sat in the nearest seat, and fastened the crash belt. Eroica had done likewise next to him, a fact Klaus didn’t bother to object to.

The sun was high in the sky. Still. "How long has it been?"

"Eight hours," said Dorian. "I had a nap, too, and then I talked to the flight crew. They’re awfully impressed with you." Just then the landing gear creaked and thumped its way into position, and Klaus concentrated on the pilot’s handling of the craft.

During their time on the ground Dorian made no move to free himself. Instead he leaned against Klaus and said calmly, "They’ll all be outside for a while," and took Klaus’s hand.

A blaze of shock, and something more, ran through him. Klaus let the shock glare out of his eyes at Dorian. "You want…" He did not move his hand away.

"I love you just like this," said Dorian, warm curls crowding Klaus’s jaw. "I love sitting here with you. I loved watching you sleep." His right hand moved gently on Klaus’s left one. "Did you dream?"

Klaus felt his mouth drop open for a moment, and only after another moment did he find a word. "You pervert," he whispered numbly.

"Is that a compliment?"

"It’s a statement of fact. Isn’t it?"

"I don’t really care for the term." Dorian’s head pulled back enough to let him meet Klaus’s eyes. "Are you sure you like it?"

"It’s accurate. My opinions don’t matter."

Dorian blinked, infuriatingly, and nestled his head back onto Klaus’s shoulder. "Oh, yes, they do."

"They won’t matter to the authorities in Bonn."

"Ah. And?"

"The mission comes first."

For some reason this made Dorian raise his head again and smile very oddly. The hand on Klaus’s clasped tighter. "The beauty of high-sheened steel," he said. Klaus was certain he’d heard the words correctly. "You are so…characteristic. Don’t change."

"What?"

"Nothing important, Major." He squeezed the hand once more and released it. "You almost frighten me at times, and that’s when I love you most."

He sat up, then, shook his head at the sound of fuel pumps and distant shouts around the jet’s body, and said something about decadent postmodern sculpture. He was still spouting nonsense on this topic—it seemed to Klaus that he approved of it—when the flight crew returned and the plane taxied out for another take-off.

Klaus stared unseeingly at the cloud layer as Bonn drew closer. What was he going to do?

* * * * *

The Chief interviewed him and Eroica together, first. Dorian behaved himself with unnatural restraint, much to Klaus’s surprise. His account of burgling Katya Delannes’ house covered no unnecessary circumstances, such as what he had been looking for originally or why he had chosen that evening for the exercise. Nor, Klaus noticed, did Eroica explain just how he had persuaded Korean immigration officials to re-admit his thieving team after their unauthorized exit from the country.

Klaus was content not to muddy the pellucidity of Eroica’s account, directing him only to repeat his description of the house’s study on the first two visits, and then on the last one, as a check on his own memory.

"One thing was missing from the top of the desk," said Eroica, again, with no hint of impatience and perfect assurance. "A framed picture."

"Of whom?" Delannes was no longer with the Turkish Ambassador, going by Mr. A’s latest report. Whom she might choose to attach or re-attach herself to next was of great interest in this case.

"Not whom, Major, what." Eroica sounded patient and Klaus braced himself for irritation. "It was a sketch of a house. It looked French—"

"The sketch or the house?" inquired the Chief, mustache snuffling eagerly. Klaus suspected him of unprofessional motives toward the sketch, the house or Eroica.

"Both," said Eroica, playing with a curl. "I’d date it in the 1800’s, so the house mightn’t be there any longer." He added, "But this was a quick examination in poor light. It appeared to be interesting but not valuable."

"What part of France?" asked Klaus.

"I’d have to think about it. Ask me again tomorrow."

Klaus glared, and even the Chief grimaced. "Major Eberbach, don’t you have an investigation to see to? The Earl of Gloria and I can find topics of mutual interest by ourselves. Perhaps I can prompt his memory."

That brought him back to cold reality. "Yes, sir." He dared not look at Eroica as he took a punctiliously correct departure. Topics of mutual interest! If that disgusting excuse for an Intelligence Chief dared to suggest even one untoward move to Eroica

He could not think what he might do, or ought to do, or even wanted to do. What was worse, he couldn’t predict Dorian’s actions either.

The mission. He found his desk and ordered agents H through L to follow up any clues as to Delannes’ whereabouts. Mr. A would arrive within the day with whatever was to be found in Seoul. B through F would remain to guard the T’ang horse and the French government’s pride. Paris had had its fun in this operation already. There had been a full day of the extremities of Gallic officialdom at the start of the case, and Paris would pay for that, but not with a porcelain figurine.

The only other person in the room not fully occupied was Agent G, who looked up hopefully as the Major dismissed L. Klaus lost no time in returning a virulent glare. He did not wish to deal with G just at present. The Chief knew G far too well. Klaus sat and tried to think of something more to do that wouldn’t be a waste of time. He wished Eroica’s information was available for use. Where was Dorian, and what was he saying? How was he saying it?

A filled ashtray later, Klaus was summoned for his own interview. He was very nearly grateful.

It was a formal debriefing, which meant that the Chief’s office was arranged so that Klaus sat in pitiless light and answered to both the Chief and to one of the specialists whose names he was not to know. Klaus was trained for it, had been through it innumerable times. It still made him nervous, a fact that would be well known to the two (was it only two?) on the other side of the light, and which he betrayed in no expression or gesture or attitude of body.

He sat back in an impression of easy confidence, wished for a cigarette, and said, "Sirs."

"Report, Major," said the Chief.

Klaus reported, in crisp detail, every professional aspect of the job in Seoul. At the end of it he allowed himself to straighten and address a point midway between the two listeners. "And, sir."

"Yes, Major?"

"I have become unprofessional with Eroica."

The Chief snickered, but it was only a warm-up. "Does that mean you’ve beaten him up or that he’s seduced you?"

Klaus had decided, or perhaps always known, that the only way of cutting the Chief’s amusement down to size was to face him with the flat facts. Unfortunately, Klaus found himself unable to enumerate the facts flatly. He smiled without mirth. "You’ve seen him already."

"He is in good health and spirits," said the specialist, neutrally.

"Correct, sir."

The Chief guffawed in porcine glee. "And he’s very pleased with himself! It’s an ill wind, Eberbach, isn’t it? Enjoying…ah…?"

The Major sat at confident ease again, wished desperately for a cigarette, and said into the predictably revolting flow of sewage from what the Chief called his mind, "It is your duty to discharge me, sir. Dishonorably."

"Don’t be an ass, Eberbach."

"Yes, sir. May I remind you of regulations number—"

"You may not!" The Chief wasn’t laughing quite so hard now, Klaus observed with limited satisfaction. "What would you do afterwards?"

"Retire to Eberbach."

"And?" It was a suggestive leer.

"I would prefer Eroica to stay out of NATO’s operations."

The Chief leered again at that, but the specialist’s eyes merely flickered out of focus for a moment. When Klaus maintained a stony silence, the Chief sobered reluctantly. "So that’s it. No. You will continue to work for this Department, as will the Earl of Gloria, for as long as he can be induced to employ his talents here."

"Sir, he is not a safe operative! He’s not a proper operative at all! You heard my report, and his."

"Yes I did. Fortuitous, don’t you think?"

"He is in danger as long as he works with NATO! He has no idea of the dangers or the implications! And he won’t be curbed, and he’s not trained. I want him out."

"No. You will work with him, when he is the best man for the job. As you have in the past."

"You mean, when I hated his guts?"

"Like that, yes." The Chief’s mirth overflowed again: "Ooh, haw, hoo! Of course you did!"

Klaus reminded himself of the impropriety of brawling with a superior officer, especially in the presence of another superior. "May I smoke?"

"Not yet. Stop trying to get yourself tossed out for your slovenly habits. You’re staying and he’s staying."

Eberbach sat back up, centered in the chair, spine straight. "Yes, sir." Then, casually and confidently, he reached into a pocket for cigarettes and matches. He lit one, puffed at it for a moment, and tapped the first ash onto the office floor. He wished the Chief had a carpet.

Whatever the Chief would have said to that was silenced by the specialist’s "Hmm," and his fingertip tapping the desk. "Chief, would you let me speak to the Major?"

"Eh? Oh, of course." The Chief rose and, to Klaus’s surprise, left the office with no more than a final, "Hoo, haw!" and a lewd snuffle.

The light, when he had gone, seemed less oppressively bright, and there was something Klaus should remember…

He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t need to know.

"My name is Sigmund Freud," said the specialist. "And you are Hieronymous Bosch." Klaus sighed, relaxing in truth, and put the cigarette down to burn itself out. He’d seen this man before, innumerable times. His name didn’t matter.

"Please give all the details you can recall about your meeting with Ambassador Ulkut."

Klaus recited an exhaustive account of that conversation, including the Ambassador’s lateness, taste in coffee, all pauses and shifts of emphasis, and his own calculations at the time on Ulkut’s veracity and capabilities for deceit. When he reached the passage which included his own sharp dismay at knowing he’d have to call on Eroica, unbearably vivid now in total recall, "Sigmund Freud" stopped him. "Go on to the next thing Ulkut said."

"It was," Klaus shifted to the Ambassador’s careful English. "‘I shall hope to hear of…your progress within the day.’" Klaus added, "His eyes were on his coffee cup at first, but before ‘your’ he paused and pulled himself straight in the chair…" His descriptions were in German, and so were the specialist’s questions: upper-class Köln-flavored Hochdeutsch. It was the voice of home.

"Good," said the questioner. "Now tell me about the incident when you as courier gave the packet to the Turkish messenger."

Several tens of meters of audio tape later, when the air temperature on that Seoul Sunday, a verbal map of Tse-tse street, every twitch and nuance of the six French sentences exchanged in the drinking house, as well as a close description of the then-sealed manila envelope, had all been recorded for whatever use it might be, Klaus again came to the arrival of the Earl of Gloria into his mission, his thoughts and his bed.

"No need to go past the Turkish courier’s departure," said "Sigmund Freud." "When did you next see the envelope? Describe the circumstances and the envelope as closely as possible."

"In the Arts Hall, in the smaller office waiting room," started Klaus. Sticking to the exact facts did not spare him thinking about Eroica this time, and he reproduced their English conversation, including Eroica’s precise intonations. He also detailed his suspicions and fears of the English thief, not knowing what the specialist would make of them. Perhaps Herr Doktor Freud would be able to tell Klaus what he wanted. Klaus didn’t know.

"Do you think Eroica’s intrusion into the operation was intentional?" asked Freud.

"I…have judged not. When he brought me the packet that night, I chose to believe his story. Under the circumstances, my judgement is not sound."

"Why did you continue his involvement? When you asked him to return the envelope to its course through Turkish hands?"

"I believed at the time that he had removed it from the placement NATO desired. If, as I believed, he was truthful about his motives, he was the individual best suited to return it without alerting its current, Turkish owner."

"And you did believe he was honest with you."

"We had had some conversation on the subject previously. I believed it."

"Do you still?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you are influenced by the intimacy of your situation with him?"

Klaus had wondered that himself, nonstop, since the night meeting at the Arts Hall; he did not bother to be offended by Doktor Freud’s directness. "I would like to think I am not; but my reaction was not reasoned. I did not evaluate him then. I trusted his word."

"Because you wanted to believe your selection of lover was wise?"

"I did not select him."

"All right. Then, because you did not want to find that your lover was not trustworthy?"

The questions were voiced neutrally, inviting Klaus to answer, not accusing. Nevertheless, he did not like them.

"Eroica, within the strictly defined limits of the jobs we have given him, has been extremely successful, often under adverse conditions. When he amuses himself by expanding on his instructions for his own profit, it is never at the expense of the job as stated. I see no reason to doubt his statements in this case."

"Particularly not, as they are consistent with his loyalty to you."

"That is something NATO has exploited shamelessly," said Klaus. Detached as he was, he gave it as a statement of fact. It was a fact he had participated in.

"It is understandable that you want your lover safe," said Freud, "but have you asked him what he wants? He’s more than able to take care of himself."

"In many situations, yes. Against NATO’s opponents," Klaus gazed at the unmemorable beardless face, utterly unlike the historical Freud’s, "he’s out of his league. If he becomes identified with my operations and is captured…"

"…you’d do your utmost to retrieve him. As you would for any of your subordinates. Wouldn’t you?"

"Of course. That is not the question. Eroica does not have their defenses."

"He has other defenses. Think of his situation. Eroica has been hiding in plain sight, in British society, for years. Why hasn’t he been caught?"

"Luck."

"Not after this long. There was, for example, that incident at the Vatican." Klaus remembered it clearly and fully, in all its confused pain. He’d got the better of Eroica there. Had Dorian liked it? Probably not, but he’d gone through with it. And it had not ended Klaus’s association with Eroica.

The specialist went on, after a moment, "Misdirection of that scope is a skill the agents in your Department should find useful."

"Eroica has said that it is an art rather than a skill."

"How do you interpret that?"

"I don’t know how. Eroica says such things frequently. I don’t understand them. He is always pestilentially annoying, involving himself in my cases without need or reason. Is that an art or a skill?"

Freud chuckled. "Both, perhaps. For what reasons did he become your lover?"

Klaus said stiffly, "His, I cannot answer for. Mine…are not easy to isolate." Klaus could pinpoint nothing except vast irritation with the petty annoyances of courier work, to account for his having taken Dorian’s offer. That was no reason whatever. He normally found such annoyances invigorating.

"Perhaps," suggested Freud, "you wanted to provoke your Chief in a personal way."

Klaus wished he’d thought of that at the time; it would have added some relish to his growing terror over the past few days. "No. It was…" he felt his skin heat, "…my own desire. For Dorian." How had he come to be answering a question like that in a debriefing?

"Very well, that’s probably the best reason you could have." Freud leaned back, changing the angle of eye-contact. "It’s a great advantage to the Department that you can’t be bought," he said. Klaus wondered if that was a non sequitur. "And I’m aware that’s due as much to your character as your fortune. But everyone has a price: sometimes it’s a person. I knew it wasn’t Marie, and so perhaps did you."

His liaison with Marie von Eisler had been brief. He did not recall mentioning it to NATO, not even during one of these interviews in the twilight… He stared anew at Freud. "I won’t remember this conversation, will I?"

The specialist smiled. "Very good, Major. Yes. And I appreciate your cooperation, without which this interview could not take place."

"What would?"

"A somewhat less pleasant interview, after which we’d take the first excuse—such as the Earl of Gloria—to send you home for an indefinite rest."

"Is that what this is about?"

"Dorian Red Gloria, yes. Marie could not have influenced you. Can Gloria?"

"Influence? For what?"

"To go against the requirements of your duty to NATO, for example."

"I have already done so, by my relationship with him."

"Aside from that. The requirements of your Department are both more and less flexible than many. Your proven abilities are suitable, and rare; your private life may be allowed some leeway."

This acceptance of indecency left Klaus blinking in surprise. "I…suppose that’s how the Chief is tolerated."

"Not your business. Would you ever put Eroica’s safety or needs ahead of NATO’s on a job?"

"No."

"That’s what I thought." Freud’s voice was quick and curious. "You’re a very interesting man, Major. I know a lot about you by now, but none of it quite explains you."

"How so?" The Major had had enough of explaining himself. Let Herr Doktor Freud try it.

"You’ve more property and money than anyone but the richest industrialists. Your family line includes Hapsburgs and Castilian kings; however noisily we kicked you out, it wouldn’t keep you from being welcome anywhere, to do anything you wanted, or nothing if you wanted. Yet you choose to spend your time running errands for NATO."

"My background explains that, I believe." His father, and his father’s father, back to the Prussians, the Junkers. Probably back to the Goths. There were stone heaps at Eberbach, older than the Roman roads, with burned Roman bones inside. The Eberbachs defended what was theirs. "None of those ancestors sat idle."

"Perhaps you’re right."

"I would like to make a condition of my own. To this new state of affairs."

Freud’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded. "Yes?"

"Eroica does not go out on any job without me."

"That will be his choice. He is an expert specialist. He may choose to accept any assignment we offer him."

"Has he ever agreed to work on something without me?"

"That’s not a question I can answer. Your concern is interesting. Will your lover share it?"

That word again. That true word. Klaus set his teeth and said, "I shall discuss it with him."

"Please do," said Sigmund Freud. "Please do, Herr Bosch."

END