The Deadly Lies

by David C. Dawson

  “What are we going to do?” he asked. “We can’t stay down here like this. But if either of them sees us….”

  Alfonso took out his radio. “I can try my friends in airport security,” he said. “But without reasonable grounds, there’s probably little we can do. And we risk drawing attention to you.”

  “Alfonso,” said Jonathan, “their names are Janet Downpatrick and Viktor Krasov. I’m sure they’re on a hundred wanted lists around the world. If you just tell your chums now, they can arrest them straightaway.”

  “If they’re on a hundred wanted lists,” replied Alfonso, “then they’re hardly likely to come through an airport. They’d be picked up immediately, even if they used fake names.”

  Again, Jonathan looked up at Alfonso imploringly.

  “All right,” said Alfonso. “I’ll try.”

  Dominic took his mobile phone out of his pocket and tapped out a text message.

  “What are you doing, my love?” asked Jonathan.

  Dominic finished the message and pressed Send.

  “If those two are flying to London,” he said, “who’s to say they’re not following us out to San Francisco? It’s a strong coincidence, them being here, isn’t it? What if it was Krasov or Downpatrick who got into our apartment? They broke open the safe, so they’d know our flights.”

  Jonathan nodded. “You just texted Steve, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Dominic. “It’s a long shot, but he rescued me last time. Perhaps he can do the same again.”

  THE PEOPLE standing in the queue behind Janet Downpatrick and Viktor Krasov were beginning to get restless.

  “It’s impossible,” said Downpatrick. “Your computer must be wrong. We both have ESTA visa waivers for the United States. Dammit, woman.” She stared hard at the perfectly made-up attendant behind the desk. “We were only there last month.”

  “Then perhaps,” said the woman patiently, “your ESTAs have expired. I’m sorry. You may travel to London now if you wish. But you will not be allowed to continue your journey on to the United States. The airline is not permitted to carry you. We would be fined heavily if we let you on the plane.”

  Janet Downpatrick took out her mobile phone.

  “Oh very well,” she said as she typed a number. “Check us in to London. We’ll talk to somebody sensible there.”

  She turned to Krasov. “We’ve got no choice,” she said. “We may have to use that queer coder we hired. He’s in San Francisco, getting himself further into Charter Ninety-Nine.”

  “Do you really think he’ll do anything?” Krasov asked. “He’s paid to be a coder, not a heavy.”

  “I’ll pay him another hundred thousand,” replied Downpatrick. “He’ll do anything for money.” She held the phone to her ear. “I’ll let him know what’s happened. If we fail to get to San Francisco, he’ll have to recover the DG chip from Delingpole when he lands.”

  Chapter 25

  “THIS IS much more my style,” said Jonathan. He stretched out his long legs in front of him and relished his second glass of cava of the morning.

  He and Dominic were in the business class lounge at Barcelona Airport. It was quiet, with only a handful of other passengers scattered throughout the long, richly furnished room. Voices murmured softly, and somewhere in the distance, a large-screen television played the breakfast news—to the interest of no one.

  Jonathan turned to Dominic, reached out his hand, and massaged his husband’s arm.

  “You know, my love,” he said, “hobnobbing with the rich operagoers at Glyndebourne has rather robbed me of my innocence to sustain the second-rate.” He took a mouthful of cava.

  Dominic set down his coffee cup on the arm of the black leather armchair. He leaned forward to pick up a glass of orange juice. “It’s just after six in the morning, Jonathan. How can you possibly drink cava at this time?”

  “When it’s free, my love,” replied Jonathan, “I can drink it anytime.”

  Dominic took a sip from his glass of orange juice. The breakfast menu had described it as “freshly squeezed Seville orange juice.” “I must admit,” he said, “I’m actually really looking forward to the long flight to San Francisco.”

  He set down his glass, gathered up their empty plates from the low table in front of them, and stood.

  “Steve was very quick to work his magic with the computer,” Dominic continued. “Not only did he stop Downpatrick in her tracks, but he managed to upgrade us to first class all the way to America.”

  Jonathan nodded. “He’s a genius. But I do feel rather vulnerable, knowing that foul woman and her poisonous sidekick are still on the loose.” He looked at the plates in Dominic’s hand and grinned. “That’s very kind of you to offer. More of those wonderful pastries, please. And hurry back,” he added as Dominic turned and headed for the self-service food counter. “I’ve got things I want to talk about.”

  While Dominic replenished their plates, Jonathan looked around. There were a dozen other passengers in the lounge. They were all men, dressed in business suits, earnestly tapping away at laptop computers or looking at their mobile phones. Jonathan wondered why they felt the need to look busy and important, even at 6:30 a.m. As a landscape gardener—and occasional member of the chorus for the prestigious Glyndebourne opera—Jonathan never wore a suit, except if he was performing in a modern-dress production.

  He reached forward and picked up one of the complimentary notepads and a pen from the coffee table in front of him. He drew a line down the middle of the paper, wrote his name on the left of the line and Dominic’s on the right. He placed the notepad back on the table as Dominic returned with the food.

  “So tell me,” said Dominic, setting down the plates. “What are these things you want to talk to me about?” He sat and turned his gaze on Jonathan. “Or can I guess?”

  “Alfonso’s right,” said Jonathan, reaching for one of the plates piled with pastries. “This boy you see before you is finally becoming a man.” He picked up a pastry and bit into it. “Mm, buñuelos,” he said, his mouth full. “Stuffed with egg custard. I love ’em.”

  “I hope,” replied Dominic, “that now the boy is becoming a man, he isn’t going to become boring.”

  Jonathan gave Dominic a look.

  “Did you just roll your eyes out loud at me?” asked Dominic with a smile.

  “I’m trying to be serious for a minute.” Jonathan put his plate in his lap and leaned forward. “Look. We’ve just got married. I love you—”

  Dominic opened his mouth to speak.

  “No, don’t say anything yet,” said Jonathan. “Hear me out. I love you madly. And you love me. And I want that to last forever. I was serious when I proposed to you in that hospital bed last year. ‘Till death us do part’ and all that.” Jonathan took another bite from his buñuelo. “But here’s the thing. I don’t think being married means we now own each other—”

  “Jonathan,” interrupted Dominic. “I know what you’re going to say. And before you go any further, I must tell you that I’ve been doing a lot of thinking too.”

  Jonathan paused, the final slice of pastry frozen in midair.

  “Don’t look so worried,” said Dominic, placing his hand on Jonathan’s thigh. “I had a long talk with Gabriel last night. He gave me a lot to think about.” He leaned forward and took a bite from the pastry in Jonathan’s hand. “They are good, aren’t they?” He rolled the buñuelo around in his mouth.

  “I think that Alfonso and Gabriel have a very successful marriage,” Dominic continued after he swallowed. “They’ve known each other for thirteen years. They’ve been married for eleven. They have a wonderful sex life—”

  Jonathan raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t pull that face,” Dominic said with a mock frown. “Gabriel told me. They’re about to start the process to have a baby together. And yet they aren’t monogamous. From time to time, they both like to have sex with other men. And it works. And finally, I think I can see how.”

>   Dominic paused and noticed the notepad on the coffee table with Jonathan’s scribble on the top sheet of paper.

  “What were you going to do with that?” he asked.

  Jonathan picked up the notepad. “I thought it would be a good idea for us to make a list of what each of us wanted,” he said. “Then we could discuss where we had—differences of opinion. And then we could talk about them.”

  Dominic took the notepad from Jonathan and retrieved the pen from the table. He ripped off the top sheet of paper and drew a large circle on the sheet below. Inside the circle, he wrote their names.

  “I see us more like this,” said Dominic. “We’re not on either side of a line. We’re together, linked through marriage.” He set down the pen and reached for his glass of orange juice. “But, as you say, that doesn’t mean we own each other.”

  Jonathan had reached for a second pastry. He stopped, looked up, and his eyes met Dominic’s.

  “Now you’re agreeing with me,” said Jonathan. “You’re very intriguing, lover.”

  “Gabriel told me they have two simple rules in their marriage,” Dominic went on. “The first is always be honest with each other. And the second is never hurt the other person. You know, I think Gabriel is like me in many ways. Alfonso’s more like you.”

  “You mean he needs lots of sex,” said Jonathan with a grin.

  “Yes,” said Dominic, “and so does Gabriel, much of the time. But not all the time. So when Alfonso feels the need to go and play elsewhere, he talks to Gabriel first. He makes sure Gabriel’s never hurt. Sometimes they’ll invite a guy round and have a threesome. The thing is, they talk about it. Gabriel knows Alfonso loves him deeply. And he loves Alfonso just as deeply. But he feels strongly that marriage doesn’t mean ownership. It doesn’t mean control.”

  Jonathan leaned over to Dominic and embraced him. He rested his head on Dominic’s shoulder and planted tender kisses on his cheek.

  “I knew you were special, Dominic Delingpole,” he said at last. “But you’ve just reaffirmed that I made the best decision of my life.”

  Jonathan sat up and held Dominic’s hands tightly in his. He looked intently at his husband.

  “You are the most precious person in the world to me,” Jonathan began. “And I will never hurt you, my love. I will always tell you the truth. What you’ve just described, the rules in Gabriel and Alfonso’s marriage, that’s all I want. I want someone I can always trust. Someone who I know will never hurt me.” Jonathan looked down and sighed. “I’ve never had that in my life, ever since I was a boy.”

  Dominic leaned forward and kissed the top of Jonathan’s head. “I know, Jonathan. And I’ve spent most of my life not being truthful. Or at least,” Dominic corrected himself, “I’ve been sparing with the truth. Convenient lies, I think you called them.”

  Jonathan pulled back and gazed at Dominic. “Please disregard I ever used those words. A relationship based on convenient lies can never last.”

  Then he leaned forward and kissed Dominic on the lips.

  “But open relationships, with the right ground rules,” Jonathan said even as he reached for another pastry, “can last for years. Did you know that San Francisco State University’s done lots of studies on gay relationships?” He took a mouthful of the pastry, then held it out for Dominic to take a bite.

  “They’ve been doing it for the last decade,” Jonathan continued. “They’ve found that half of gay relationships are open. And quite a lot of them have lasted for twenty, thirty years or more.”

  “Yes,” replied Dominic. “Gabriel told me about that last night. He even told me that the pioneer of gay porn in California, a man who has a very open relationship, has been with his husband for over forty years.”

  “There you are, then.” Jonathan sat back in his armchair and finished the pastry. “It’s true. We gays are leading the way to healthier, more honest, and above all, sexier marriages.”

  A grunt sounded from behind them, and Jonathan turned to see a man in a business suit shaking his head.

  “Have you been listening to our private conversation?” asked Jonathan.

  The man ignored the question. “The trouble is,” he said, “you gays want to have your cake and eat it too.” He grunted again and went on, “But then, so do we straight people.”

  He sighed.

  “I just wish I could talk to my wife the way you guys talk.”

  Jonathan laughed. “I’ll tell you another thing we can do. We can leave the toilet seat up without anyone nagging us about it.”

  SINON CROSSED the floor of the Creative Cavern at 101 Grain Street and joined the five people at table alpha. It was about eight in the evening, and no one was giving any signs of wanting to stop for the day. The Creative Cavern was buzzing with activity.

  The floor around table alpha was littered with large pages of flipchart paper—pages covered with diagrams of database structures and scribbles of half-written computer code. The table itself was strewn with discarded pizza boxes and crumpled soda cans. Some of the boxes still contained curled, stale-looking slices of pizza.

  A disheveled teenager wearing jeans and a T-shirt bearing the logo Truth is Relative drew on a sheet of paper on the floor. At the same time, he addressed the group. He spoke with a strong Russian accent and a rapid, staccato delivery. An older man in the group interrupted the teenager.

  “Alex,” said the man, “are you telling me there are multiple backdoors like this already in the US banking networks?”

  Alex laughed and ran his fingers through the ringlets of his curly mop of brown hair.

  “Not just US networks,” he replied. Alex slammed the tip of his black marker pen against the flipchart paper and drew a broad circle. “All. All networks in world.” He looked up with an expression of conceit on his face.

  The older man shook his head, appearing skeptical. “It’s not possible. Not on the scale you’re talking about. When it comes to software, the banks are the most cautious of all organizations. Especially in the US. Shit, we’re still using old-fashioned checks here. The rest of the world has long since switched over to contactless and wireless.”

  Alex pointed his marker pen at the man and shook his head. “You are naïve, my friend. American banks are not cautious. Just cheap. They make money but spend nothing on their systems. Or their programmers.”

  With his arms folded across his chest and a look of defiance on his face, Alex stood and addressed the table. “They pay peanuts, and they get”—he smiled—“us. We work for little money. We maintain their ancient computer code. And we insert little backdoors from time to time. Is easy.”

  Sinon’s mobile vibrated in his pocket as a message arrived. He took it out and checked the screen.

  Plan changed. I am unable to travel to US. Nor can Viktor. You must intercept Delingpole and destroy the DG chip. Use force if necessary. Additional fee arrangements to follow.

  Chapter 26

  THE THREE-TONE chirrup of Grindr erupted on Steve’s phone at regular intervals. He was perched at a table in QBAR, about five minutes’ walk from Sinon’s apartment. Steve had arrived there just under two hours ago. The place was finally filling up with some cute-looking guys.

  After Sinon had left him sitting in the garden of the apartment, Steve quickly got bored. He decided to go for a cruise around the local area. Despite the obvious tourists, the Castro district of San Francisco remained true to its gay liberation origins of the ’60s. Whenever Steve returned to the West Coast, he tried to spend at least one evening there, checking out the changes since his last visit.

  He usually ended up in QBAR at some point. In his hometown of Brighton, back in England, Steve’s regular haunt was a club called Legends. QBAR was similar. It attracted a young twink crowd, and there was a good dance floor.

  When Steve arrived, it was still early in the evening, and there was little talent of interest in the bar. He perched on a stool at a small table with his beer. In between checking Grindr, he thought about the
impending arrival of Dominic and Jonathan. It was less than a day before they would be here, and Steve had no idea how he could protect them.

  It was obvious that Dominic was carrying a valuable—and dangerous—cargo. Recent events made it clear that people on both sides of the Atlantic wanted the little computer chip. It seemed to have been the reason Dominic and Jonathan’s holiday apartment was burgled. And the appearance of Janet Downpatrick at the Barcelona airport was no coincidence. She and her sidekick had been booked on the same flight out of London as Dominic and Jonathan. Steve congratulated himself on how quickly he had hacked into their ESTA visa records and deleted them.

  The thought of the visa records reminded him of Nick Poole from the hackfest and the close attention he had shown Steve ever since he landed in San Francisco. Was Nick also involved with Downpatrick? Were they both after the computer chip?

  Steve rubbed his crotch at the memory of Nick’s attack in the front seat of the Tesla. Why was Nick so interested in tracking Steve? Perhaps there was something more sinister behind the hackfest. Steve had planned to question Sinon in more detail about the event, but when he left the apartment earlier, Sinon said he was not returning until after midnight.

  Steve took another drink of beer and stared out the window of QBAR. Once Dominic and Jonathan landed at San Francisco Airport, they were going to be very vulnerable. Steve tried to think of a way he could get them some kind of protection. He picked up his phone and switched to another app. It was one he preferred to use when he wanted to hook up with guys into leather or uniform. After several minutes thumbing through his list of bookmarked profiles, LeatherCop appeared on the screen.

  Steve had met Mike from the San Francisco Police Department two years ago. It was at the Folsom Street Leather Fair. Mike was wearing a leather police shirt, leather chaps, tall boots, a Muir cap, and mirror sunglasses. It had been a good night at Mike’s apartment. It was only the next morning Steve discovered Mike was a real police officer, based at the airport. That was two years ago, and now was the time to call in the firm hands, not to mention thighs, of LeatherCop.