He squeezed hard and got an appreciative groan from Nick in response. After one more squeeze, he let go and reached for a tablet computer that lay on the countertop. He picked it up and swiped through several screens until he came to a map.
“And while you’re drinking it,” said Jeff, holding the computer in one hand and picking up a cup of coffee with the other, “you can tell me where our young British friend ended up last night and prove to me your little tracking device is working.”
Nick sighed, took the coffee and tablet computer from Jeff, and walked away from the kitchen. He set his coffee cup down on a low metal table and stretched out full-length on the leather couch. Jeff followed and knelt down on the floor beside him. He reached forward and began working Nick’s cock with his hands, cupping the balls and sliding his tongue around their circumference. Nick groaned but continued the task Jeff had assigned him.
“He’s on the move,” Nick announced after a few moments. Jeff paused as he drew his tongue up the length of Nick’s cock.
“Where’s he off to?”
Nick scanned through the history log of the tracker.
“He stayed at that place where I dropped him last night, a couple of blocks from here,” replied Nick. “About ten minutes ago, he set off, heading toward Route 101. He’s not coming here. And I reckon he’s in a vehicle. Oh fuck—” He dropped the tablet computer as Jeff took Nick’s cock deep inside his mouth.
Nick lay back on the couch and thrust his pelvis upward. As Jeff pumped his mouth rhythmically up and down, Nick’s moans of appreciation increased in volume. Suddenly Jeff pulled back and looked at Nick with a grin.
“I’ll finish that in a moment,” he said and reached across for the discarded computer. “You’ve got some work to do first.”
Nick groaned with disappointment, took the tablet from Jeff’s outstretched hand, and slumped back on the couch.
“You sure know how to edge me,” said Nick, staring at the screen. He looked up. “Why are you fucking with me this morning?”
Jeff reached forward and slid one hand tenderly over the curls of hair on Nick’s chest. The other he used to gently massage a spot just below Nick’s balls.
“I’m not fucking with you,” said Jeff, “but I do want to bring you right to the edge. Then when you finally come”—Jeff leaned forward—“you’re going to explode.” Once again he took Nick’s cock in his mouth.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Nick sat up, his hand resting on Jeff’s head. “I can’t handle this.” He cupped his hand under Jeff’s chin and lifted it up and away from his cock.
“I’ve gotta tell you, sexy guy. You’ve always given good head. And I know you’re gonna do so this morning. But you also gotta know, our British friend has just arrived at the Saint Francis Memorial Hospital.”
THE TRIAGE nurse was a cute young Venezuelan called Alejandro. Tight ringlets of black hair covered his head. His long eyelashes curled up at the tips and looked almost fake. He sat with Steve in one of several small examination cubicles that formed part of the emergency room at Saint Francis Memorial Hospital. Steve described his symptoms to Alejandro and, unbidden, went on to recount what had happened in the front seat of the Tesla the night before.
The Venezuelan’s eyelashes flickered as he rapidly scribbled notes.
“And you think that this man may have….” Alejandro paused, seeming to consider the best English expression to use.
“I don’t know what he did, mate, but it’s throbbing like crazy now,” replied Steve. “And not in a good way,” he added as the triage nurse’s eyes widened.
“Will you permit me to examine you?” Alejandro stood up. “Please, lie down on the bed here, and I will prepare.”
Steve needed no second invitation. He stood up and pulled off his loose-fitting sweatpants to reveal he was wearing no underwear. Steve had decided that any layers of clothing were chafing and too uncomfortable. He lay back on the bed and tried to avoid getting an erection during the examination by the young male nurse. He forced himself to think of Margaret Thatcher.
“I’m glad to see you’re already shaved,” Alejandro said as he carefully inspected Steve’s groin. “We’ll probably need to take an ultrasound scan, and you’ve made that real easy for us.”
“Happy to oblige, mate,” replied Steve, lifting his head off the bed to wink at the nurse.
Alejandro looked back at Steve and smiled. “Does this hurt?” He pressed with two gloved fingers a little below the base of Steve’s penis.
“Fuck, yes,” responded Steve, recoiling from Alejandro’s inspection. “It’s like someone’s hammered a fuckin’ nail in!”
“I apologize.” Alejandro sat back and removed his gloves. He stood up and walked across to a small sink, where he washed his hands.
“I believe there is some kind of small, hard object in your perineum,” said Alejandro as he dried his hands. “It’s about four or five millimeters in size. The doctor will probably want to scan it first. Then we can consider how to remove it.”
Steve sat up, rested his hands on his knees, and peered down at his crotch.
“Does that mean you’re going to operate?” He stared at Alejandro. “How long am I going to have to stay here?”
“It seems to be just below the surface,” replied the nurse. “I’m sure it will be a simple procedure. You’ll be discharged in a few hours if everything goes okay. We’re not busy this time of the morning.”
“Procedure?” Steve groaned. “That means anesthetic and needles and knives and stuff.” He looked down at his crotch once more. “Am I ever going to fuck again?”
NICK LAY stretched out on the black leather couch, his hands tucked behind his head, a broad grin on his face. As he peered down the length of his torso, he could see his erect penis slowly beginning to detumesce. He could feel the last waves of orgasm ebb away, and he released a deep sigh as the muscles throughout his body relaxed.
Jeff walked back from the kitchen, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in one hand and a towel in the other. He set the glass on the table beside Nick and looked down at his partner’s body.
“How was your hackfest wake-up call?” he asked, and he tipped his head and smiled. “Did I hit the spot for you?”
Nick sighed again, a long, contented sigh.
“Fuck yes,” he replied. “You sure know how to milk a guy dry. I could lie here all day.”
A towel landed on Nick’s face, and he slowly reached for it with one hand. “I guess that means you want me up and about now.” He dragged the towel down to his cock and began cleaning up.
“Damn right,” said Jeff. “Plenty of work to be done today. Fortran and Cobol will be here soon. Then we’ve got the interns arriving, the caterers, and then the eager delegates will be at the doors, ready for us to start in just a couple of hours.”
Jeff squatted down alongside Nick and kissed him long and slow on the lips. “And you, my computer prince,” he said, running his hand over the hair on Nick’s chest. “You are in charge. I’ll be around, but this is your show.”
He kissed Nick once more, then stood and walked across to a set of sliding glass doors, where the sunlight was streaming in. He opened the doors and stepped out onto a balcony that gave a view over the bay.
“Get your ass out here!” Jeff called back through the open doors. “I need to brief you, and I don’t want to risk some damn bug picking up what we’ve got to say.”
Nick gave his cock one last dab, threw the towel on the floor, picked up the glass of orange juice, and took a long drink. He stood and padded across the floor. Jeff watched as his partner sauntered onto the balcony.
“I can see you’ve been working those upper arms again,” Jeff said admiringly. “You can put them to good use later. I need a massage.”
He sat at a round wooden table on the balcony. “Now, to business. Who’ve we got coming?”
Nick listed the delegates for Jeff. “Ten code writers. Ten system architects. Five data analysts. Five fic
tion writers. Five creative writers, ten storyboard artists, and five assorted composers and lyricists. Fifty in total.”
“What the fuck’s a ‘creative writer’?” asked Jeff. “I thought all writers were supposed to be creative.”
“It’s what they call them in the industry these days.” Nick pulled out a chair and sat opposite Jeff. “Dunno why. Perhaps it makes them feel special.”
Jeff rolled his eyes. “Well, as long as they’re not constrained by some corporate straitjacket mentality. We want them to think big. Think broad. In a few months, when the assault happens, we need people who can dream the impossible.”
Nick leaned back in his chair and absently scratched the hollow of his chest, between his well-defined pectoral muscles. “If it’s only a few months away,” he said. “We can’t recruit too many from this lot. The clearance will take too long.”
Jeff leaned forward and rested his arms on the table.
“How many d’you think we can take? Six? Seven?”
Nick shook his head. “I’d say four or five tops. The risk is too great otherwise. Now that the DG chip is missing, we’ve got to be on our guard against infiltration.”
“Okay,” said Jeff. “I’ll go with that. Now. You’re running the hackfest this year. Tell me what you’re going to do.”
Nick stopped scratching and lifted his hand to show four fingers. “So, there are four sections to each day. Briefing, pitching, building, and presenting. The main theme is storytelling.”
He stood and began pacing the balcony as he outlined the plan for the hackfest. “We start by telling them their brief is to tell and retell stories in new and different ways. We tell them we’re looking for the next big internet storytelling platform. We want audiences to engage, to share, to be part of a global narrative—”
“Good, good,” interrupted Jeff. “Meanwhile, you’ll monitor the coders and data analysts. The bored ones are usually the best. They go off on their own little cyber adventures—”
“And that way,” concluded Nick, “we’ll find the star hackers.”
“No.” Jeff shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “We’ve got enough hackers in the Ninety-Nine. When the assault happens, it’s far more than a hack. It’s a wholesale rewrite. We need fast coders with imagination, with originality, and with flair.”
From far below came the sound of a ship’s horn, long and mournful.
Jeff looked across at Nick.
“We’re going to rewrite the world.”
Chapter 20
IT WAS midafternoon by the time Dominic and Jonathan had collected a replacement mobile phone and returned with it to their apartment in Sitges. Jonathan went out to the balcony to text Steve the new phone number. Dominic entered the bedroom and started to pack their suitcases. After several minutes he stopped and called out to Jonathan.
“Have you sent that text to Steve yet? If you have, I could do with a hand here. Alfonso’s going to be back in just over an hour.”
Jonathan left the balcony and walked over to the bedroom door. “Have you decided if you’re coming to San Francisco after all?” he asked.
Dominic was standing by the bed, a half-filled suitcase in front of him.
“Just now, Jonathan,” he said, “I really don’t want to go to San Francisco. But I think I probably should.” He turned away and resumed folding a shirt. “Anyway, you should go to your friends’ wedding. It would be rude of you not to. And in between, we’ve got a lot to talk about.” He carefully placed the shirt in the suitcase and looked up at his husband paused in the doorway.
“Don’t just stand there,” said Dominic. “Can you deal with our carry-on bags? Get everything out of the safe, and sort out some books for the journey.”
“Books?” asked Jonathan. “I thought you said we had a lot to talk about?” He walked over to the safe and took out a bundle of passports and travel documents.
“We have,” replied Dominic, “but I’d also like to catch up on some reading. Anyway, I don’t want to stay here another night. Not after everything that’s happened. And it was very kind of Gabriel to invite us to stay with them tonight.”
Jonathan began to sort through the documents from the safe. “I suppose so,” he grunted. “But maybe we’re seeing a bit too much of those two when really we need to be alone.” He stopped for a moment and looked up at Dominic. “As you say, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“Yes, I know.” Dominic walked to the wardrobe, unloaded some clothes from their hangers, and carried them to the bed. “But we’ve got to be at Barcelona Airport very early tomorrow morning. It will be much easier to get to there from Gabriel and Alfonso’s place, rather than from here. Besides”—Dominic began carefully folding up jackets—“Alfonso will be driving us to the airport. He’s a policeman. Somehow I feel safer if we’ve got his protection.”
Jonathan snorted. “He’s hardly the Spanish SWAT team, Dominic. He’s a traffic cop, as far as I can work out.” He picked up a leather holdall, set it on the table, and then glanced across at Dominic. “I would have preferred an evening with you, that’s all. Talking over things.”
Dominic said nothing. Neither of them spoke for a while as they continued with their packing. Finally, Jonathan went over to the bed and sat. He looked up at Dominic and laid a hand on his arm.
“I need to know, Dominic. About you and Bernhardt. You said we could talk on the flight tomorrow. But I can’t wait that long. Please, tell me.”
Dominic studied his husband. Jonathan’s eyes were glistening with tears. Dominic sighed. He set down the clothes he had in his hand and knelt on the floor in front of him. Then he leaned forward, placed his hands on Jonathan’s thighs, and gazed up into his face.
“Jonathan, it’s not what you think. Yes, long ago I loved Bernhardt. I was infatuated with him. But that’s all in the past.”
Jonathan leaned forward and rested his hands on Dominic’s shoulders. “But you did go to see him before our wedding. Didn’t you?”
Dominic nodded.
“If it was just business, or some legal discussion,” said Jonathan, “then you wouldn’t be so mysterious about it now. Dominic, what aren’t you telling me?”
Dominic sighed and gripped Jonathan’s thighs more tightly in his hands.
“Two nights ago, Jonathan, we stood on the beach, waiting for Karl Michael. And you said that everybody tells convenient lies. I’ve not lied to you, Jonathan. But neither have I told you the whole truth.”
Jonathan’s hands tensed, and he gripped Dominic’s shoulders.
“I did go to stay with Bernhardt,” continued Dominic. “And it was just before our wedding. Bernhardt was helping me with a personal legal matter. It was sort of business.”
“What sort of legal matter?” asked Jonathan.
“He was helping me to get access rights,” replied Dominic. “It’s quite complicated in Germany.”
“Access rights?” Jonathan looked confused. “Access to what?”
“Access to whom, Jonathan. Not to what.” Dominic looked down, away from Jonathan’s eyes as he spoke.
“Bernhardt was helping me get access to my son.”
KARL MICHAEL walked along the rows of expensive yachts moored in Port Sitges. The afternoon was hot. The sun burned the back of his neck, and his feet ached from walking. He regretted not giving himself the luxury of a rental car, but he had made the decision to reduce the likelihood of being traced while he remained in Spain.
At the end of a row of gleaming white yachts, he found what he was looking for. Teaghlaigh was a fifty-five-foot Azimut S-type yacht. Standing on the deck was a tall, well-built man with a bald head and a small scar across his forehead. He was wearing a pair of white chinos, a tight-fitting white T-shirt, and trainers.
“Excuse me,” Karl Michael called from the walkway. “I’m looking for Janet Downpatrick. She’s asked me to meet her here.”
A woman emerged from a doorway onto the deck and stood alongside the man.
“Karl Michael,” she said. “You’re late. Come aboard. Viktor will help you.”
Karl Michael walked gingerly up the narrow gangplank that led from the walkway to the yacht. He took hold of the arm Viktor extended to help him and was pulled firmly onto the deck. Viktor maintained his grip on Karl Michael as Janet Downpatrick spoke to him.
“Take him below, Viktor. I’ll join you in a moment.”
Viktor escorted Karl Michael to the doorway from which Downpatrick had just emerged. He directed him down a flight of steep stairs to the lower level of the yacht. Once there, Viktor pushed Karl Michael forward to a small table next to a shuttered window.
“Sit,” said Viktor.
Karl Michael slid onto one of the two bench seats on either side of the table. Viktor stood at the end of the table, his arms folded across his broad chest. His head just brushed the low ceiling of the cabin. There was no natural light; the only illumination came from overhead spotlights. Air-conditioning hummed, and Karl Michael shivered as his body reacted to the sudden drop in temperature after the heat outside.
An uncomfortable five minutes of silence passed before Janet Downpatrick entered the cabin.
“Oh, but Viktor,” she said, “you’ve not got our guest a drink. He must be very thirsty, walking all this way from the town. Get him one of our specials.”
Viktor left the cabin, and Janet Downpatrick sat on the bench opposite Karl Michael.
“So tell me,” she began, “when will the Americans launch the assault?”
Karl Michael felt light-headed, and his mouth was dry. He had only met Janet Downpatrick a few times. The first had been in Berlin, when she seemed friendly and generous in her concern for him and how much she would pay in return for his help. Now, confined in the cramped cabin of this yacht over a thousand miles from Berlin, he felt very alone.
“They won’t start until they’ve got the DG chip back again,” he began. “But there’s a new development. They now have secured entry to the banking networks.”
The Deadly Lies Page 14