Love is a Stranger

by John Wiltshire

  “You don’t believe in fate, remember? Maybe Gregory has given up and gone back to Russia.”

  “It’s possible.” By the tone of his voice, Ben knew he didn’t believe this. “You need a haircut.” He pulled some of the long, black strands to illustrate his point. Ben smiled and rose, sliding over Nikolas’s lap, straddling him, careful not to put too much weight on him. He pretended to assess Nikolas’s ridiculously long hair at the front. Nikolas cuffed him lightly, and they regarded each other close up and in this unfamiliar, intimate position. Ben bent and kissed him, lingering with the touch of tongues, then stood and held out his hand. Nikolas took it and allowed himself to be led to bed and all that awaited him there.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The food was gone in four days, and by this time Nikolas wasn’t limping at all, and the wounds had closed well and had healthy pink scar tissue forming. With care, they wouldn’t open again. They packed up early on the morning of the fifth day. They’d been there almost three weeks, and it felt strangely like home, despite the lack of home comforts. Ben eyed the pool as they left, wondering whether he should break the dam. They’d left no other evidence of their occupation at all, but this was clearly manmade. Nikolas was watching him and put a hand on his arm. “Leave it.”

  Ben smiled, and they set off. Ben was carrying some of the weight from Nikolas’s pack, which Nikolas hadn’t argued about. He knew it was going to tax him to get back to Okehampton Camp, which was further than the route he’d taken to the house. They stopped frequently, and whenever Nikolas needed to rest. But the weather had improved again, and although it wasn’t hot and sunny, it wasn’t raining and it wasn’t cold, and they were both enjoying the walking, despite the circumstances. They stopped that night and set up camp in the shelter of some rocks, which almost formed a shallow cave. It was enough shelter to light a fire and sit out of the wind as the temperature dropped in the evening. It was incredibly quiet, just the occasional bleat of a sheep that had strayed from its flock or tweet of a bird neither of them could identify. They’d saved some crackers, and with a flourish, Ben produced the tins of SPAM and corned beef. He enjoyed Nikolas’s dilemma whether to attempt them or not. For once, he wasn’t that bothered if he didn’t eat—more for him. Radulf actually drooled at the smell and got a whole tin to himself. Nikolas tried some, spat it out and said he’d eat tomorrow. With a grin, Ben produced a tin of wild salmon—it was even from Denmark. He held it out of reach for while until he was pinned down and, still laughing, taken, face down on the soft moorland grass.

  It was cold that night, uncomfortable, and the pressing weight of Gregory and their future weighed on their minds. For all that, there was a sort of boyish camaraderie between them that had been developing at the old house and was now given full rein up in the clear moorland air. They were both soldiers and shared that unique bond, Nikolas finally able to admit this side of his personality and forget, for a time, the other man he had impersonated for so long and for so well that he had almost believed in his own mind he was Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen—urban, sophisticated diplomat. Up here on the moors over their small campfire, and later in their shared bed, he was all soldier, all physicality and demanding presence. He wouldn’t tolerate Ben taking him, only wanted to top, and Ben finally began to doubt his earlier belief that if push came to shove he could take Nikolas down in a fight. This Aleksey was incredibly strong and wasn’t afraid to wrestle submission out of Ben, wasn’t afraid to hurt him when he thrust into him, but knew when pain turned to pleasure, and then wasn’t afraid to show that he had far more experience of this activity than he’d ever admitted. “You are the only man I have wanted to give my body to…” Wanted to or not, he clearly had given, and in many ways. Perhaps it was his returning feeling of health and strength, perhaps it was the imminent meeting with his past self, but for that night, Ben was left in no doubt that he was being fucked for the first time—and very thoroughly—by Aleksey Primakov.

  §§§

  Nikolas’s good humour lasted for most of the next day, too—right up to the moment when they got to the car. Ben had forgotten all about the Lada. Radulf hadn’t, and would have warned Nikolas, had he been able. Nikolas looked past the Lada and around the car park with a puzzled expression. Ben went up to the car and dropped his pack. “I reckon Tim won’t mind us keeping this for a while until we get things sorted.”

  Nik swallowed. “Where is my Range Rover?”

  Ben frowned. “I had to leave it. It was probably bugged.”

  “Leave it? Leave it where? And could you not have searched it for bugs and just removed them? Where is my car, Benjamin?”

  Ben coughed. “Well, it was in the Taunton bus station, but I don’t suppose it’s still—”

  “Unbelievable. Unfuckingbelievable.” He continued in this manner in English, Danish, and, Ben suspected, Russian for some time—at least until they hit the M5. Ben just kept his eyes on the road ahead and let him rant. He was a bit too stiff and sore to argue.

  §§§

  When they got to London, Nikolas decided they’d check into a hotel for the night to get sorted before they made their first overtures to Gregory. He directed Ben to Claridge’s and paid with cash. He seemed entirely unconcerned at their appearance in muddy, bloodstained fatigues, unshaven and scraggy haired. He treated the hotel staff with his usual impeccably polite distain and seemed to hover uneasily between being Aleksey and Nikolas until they entered their suite. Then he lowered himself gingerly to the bed and asked in an uncharacteristically plaintive tone, “Do we have any painkillers left?” Ben came over and squatted down in front of him. He eased the fatigues off and inspected the wounds. They were closed and looked healthy. He gave Nikolas’s hair a ruffle and handed him a couple of aspirin. Nikolas didn’t seem very impressed, but he crunched them up anyway.

  Suddenly, Ben realised their surroundings. He stretched, stripped off all his foul clothing and went into the bathroom. It was enormous with a marble tub built for two. And it had jets. He almost fainted with pleasure. He ran a very deep, very hot bath and then went back to fetch Nikolas, who was by now deeply asleep. He sat alongside him for a while just enjoying the view then prodded him awake.

  They basked in the luxury of the deep tub for far longer than any ex-Special Forces soldiers should want or need to, occasionally letting cooling water out and topping it up via the jets with hot. It was something they’d never done before—share a bath—and they enjoyed the novelty, bringing in some wine and then gradually working their way through the minibar as well. They talked around the problems of the meeting with Gregory, and Nikolas was adamant that they couldn’t do anything until they’d contacted Kate and had her take care of any problems that had arisen with two dead Chechens in their house.

  The house had actually been in his name, or at least in the name of Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen, and clearly this was a potential issue. When they’d had enough of the bath and had begun to wrinkle unpleasantly, Nikolas had a good idea, possibly one born on two bottles of wine and various small, high-proof minibar offerings, Radulf should have a bath, too. To be fair, the dog was filthy and stank, so he wasn’t being wholly mean—although he did seem to enjoy a bit too much the sight of a miserable Radulf covered in soapsuds. Ben, though, remembered the ball he’d bought and when he produced it and tossed it into the water, Radulf dived happily under the bubbles to retrieve it. After five minutes of this game, the dog was spotless. The bathroom wasn’t. They pulled the dog out, wrapped him in the finest, fluffiest towels that Claridge’s could provide, and returned him to his basket and hotel-provided dog treat.

  By this time, all three of them were exhausted. It had been a very long, tiring day since they had woken in their cave on Dartmoor. Ben knew Nikolas was still in pain, although he wouldn’t admit it openly. He climbed into bed and stretched out, patting the empty space next to him. Nikolas crawled in as well and immediately stretched, boneless and obviously as delighted as Ben on the extreme comfort. Being a soldier again was
all very well, but three weeks of sleeping on a mat and washing in black water was enough. Ben curled into Nikolas’s back, slid a hand over the lean waist to see if there was any interest in some fun, and the next thing he knew he was waking to daylight streaming in and to the noise of a busy London street. He frowned and glanced at the bedside clock. It was ten in the morning. He’d slept, almost unconscious, for twelve hours. Nikolas was still asleep, but then his stomach wasn’t as fine-tuned to starvation as Ben’s. Ben sat up, rubbing his hair. Even Radulf was still asleep. Ben could see this very easily because sometime during the night, he’d crept from his hotel-issue basket and onto the bed and was now upside down with his four hips seemingly disjointed and legs splayed to uncannily unnatural angles. Ben reckoned they were breaking every hotel rule, but when he saw the state of the bathroom after climbing out to take a piss, he realised it didn’t matter all that much.

  Ben’s thoughts returned to food, and he examined the room service menu. Before he could place the call, Nikolas asked him from the bed, “Is there somewhere you used to go with Kate that she would know immediately?”

  Ben glanced over. “Morning. You ever getting up?”

  Nikolas grunted. “Despite appearances, I have been thinking and working things out while you were sleeping. So, you and Kate?”

  Ben frowned then grinned, pleased with himself. “Yeah, London Motorcycles in Barnet. I bought my bike there. Went with her almost every Saturday for a month or so. She’d remember that.”

  Nikolas just looked at him for a long time then commented dryly, “Yes. I’m sure she would.” He swung his long legs out of bed and went to the bathroom. “Get dressed, we are going out. If you’re good and behave yourself, I will feed you as well.”

  They dressed in the only clean clothes they had left—old jeans and T-shirts—and strolled out into the warm Mayfair sunshine. Nikolas found a payphone and placed a call. “Kate? Yes, it is. Yes, I am fine. We are both fine. Can you meet? You may be followed, so use department protocols. Ben says do you remember the place you went on Saturdays? That you so enjoyed. Yes, I thought you would remember that.” He laughed at something she said and added, “He would not dare with me. Anyway, this afternoon at four. Remember the protocols.” He put the phone down. “She was relived to hear from us, I think. Come, we’ve a few hours to kill, and I know what I want to do. No, not that.”

  He led the way straight to Alexander McQueen. Ben usually shopped on the high street if he shopped at all; Nikolas had bought all his better suits for him, anyway. So this was something of a new experience. Nikolas had an account, and very quickly they were out of their jeans and boots and into suits and beautiful leather shoes, and shirts that felt like butter against skin. Ben thought they were done, but Ralph Lauren and Louis Vuitton later, he was loaded up with bags and Nikolas was light many thousands of pounds. The next stop was what Ben would’ve called a barber, but which was termed Michaeljohn—like some crazy scientist had taken two perfectly respectable men and sewn them together to make one bizarre one: Michaeljohn. They both had their long, shaggy locks washed, cut, and styled. Nikolas didn’t appear to need an appointment here either. Ben could’ve died with embarrassment when he saw the place, but he reckoned if Aleksey fucking Primakov could sit unconcerned with a hairdresser styling his hair, he could. Even he had to admit that when they emerged in their new suits and styled to perfection, they turned heads. He enjoyed that part and could swear he saw Nikolas twitch a smile once or twice at the reaction they got as they walked together to find the food he’d been promised. The French restaurant Nikolas selected was not the place Ben would’ve chosen, but he felt good in his new clothes and his new look, so he relented. He felt damn good next to Nikolas who was positively edible.

  The menu was awesomely pretentious, so Ben tossed it across to Nikolas and told him to order for them both. The waiter tried to be supercilious in French, but when Nikolas replied nonchalantly, native in the language, they came to an understanding and got very good service—but at almost £200 each, just for lunch, Ben kind of expected good service. He reminded himself to tell Nikolas how much he loved him, realised there was no time like the present, and did so.

  Nikolas took this in the spirit it was intended and kept a straight face.

  Even Nikolas, he noted, managed to find something he wanted to eat at this restaurant. But he did have the grace to say, and sounding perfectly truthful, that he’d enjoyed Ben’s cooking just as much for the previous three weeks.

  They were clearly getting slightly drunk and pleased with themselves. But Ben reckoned they both deserved it. He knew Nikolas was still in considerable pain—you don’t get shot three times and not suffer that pain for some months after. They had also weathered and survived some emotional pain that would have broken many other relationships. But then they hadn’t really had a relationship. They’d been acquaintances who fucked. But they weren’t now. And despite the fact that everything Ben was wearing was paid for by Nikolas, that even his hair and food were courtesy of Nikolas, Ben had never felt more that they were equals now. He put some of this down to Nikolas being a total fraud himself. In some ways, it was as if Nikolas were merely borrowing or even stealing the money anyway, funding both their lifestyles on lies. But it wasn’t just that. Ben had never seen so clearly before just how balanced their relationship had become. Nikolas provided the material things, and Ben pretty much everything else—which was unfair on Nikolas in many ways, but the essential truth in many more.

  §§§

  Although Nikolas didn’t know, Ben had added a Louis Vuitton dog lead and collar to their purchases. After all, they were only £248 and £170 respectively, a bargain. Radulf appeared to think so too. Memories of the bath fading, and with his new accessories, he hardly resembled the homeless creature they had taken on. But then Ben reckoned he didn’t much resemble the Benjamin Rider Nikolas had first come across either. Only Nikolas was unchanged at the centre of all this, and he was the one who, in truth, had changed the most. He was an entirely different man, after all.

  They lounged about until three and then called a taxi. Nikolas reckoned it was safest to leave the hotel entirely and find somewhere else that night, so they packed up and took everything with them. First stop was Ben’s lock-up, where they left everything but the dog, and then they gave the driver directions to the meeting place.

  Ben had no fears about Kate’s ability to elude surveillance—if indeed she was being watched in the first place, which was unlikely. She could tap into the resources of the department, after all. Even so, they sat in the taxi for some time watching her waiting for them, checking out any likely tail before they climbed out to meet with her. She saw them walking across the street, and they couldn’t read her mood. They read it slightly better when she came up to Ben and slapped him hard, then pulled him into a hug, and then slapped him again. She looked as if she wanted to slap Nikolas as well but refrained from going that far. She rounded on Ben again. “You bastard. Three weeks, Ben, I thought you’d both been killed.” He nodded apologetically.

  Nikolas didn’t deign to take part in any of this until she was over her wrath, and then he asked, formal, learnt English once more, “What has been happening? Shall we…?” He waved vaguely at a small café across the road, and they went over together. The owner said the dog couldn’t come in, but for £50, he was not only allowed in but also given a bowl of water and a shortbread biscuit.

  Kate filled them in on events since their spectacular disappearance: two unknown men found dead in their kitchen, one tortured before death, damage to the kitchen in a fire and the residents of the house missing. The police hadn’t closed the case but were no further forward with their investigations.

  Nikolas nodded. “We have been in France. I need you to create this fiction. Tickets on the Eurotunnel, I think. We stayed in the Louis XIV. I have always wanted to stay there; I’ve heard it is quite tolerable. I think our appearance on some CCTV would be useful as well. We ate in various restaurants
, but certainly at the Plaze Notre Dame. Ben had something disgusting with congealed blood, and I ate something light, salad maybe? But check their menu first. Also wine…hmm, Chateau d’Yquem? Yes, but check the wine list. Do select a good vintage—2001 if they have it, obviously.”

  Kate was busy inputting all this into her tablet, nodding. She added, “A traffic ticket maybe, sir?”

  Nikolas smiled. “Absolutely. Ben is a very erratic driver, as I have told him repeatedly.”

  Ben was ignoring them both totally. He could still feel the sting of Kate’s slap on his face, and he was acutely aware that although Kate knew what he and Nikolas were to each other, this was the first time she’d actually seen them together since this great revelation. He was also very aware of the fact that Kate still believed she was working for Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen, the charming Danish diplomat. He was enjoying charming her now, Ben could tell. He wondered if Kate would be quite so amenable if she were made aware she was working with the enemy, so to speak. And, for that matter, that he, Ben, was actually sleeping with the enemy.

  For the first time, seeing Nikolas with someone else, something that hadn’t happened since he had discovered Nikolas’s real identity, Ben was having something of a crisis of conscience. Sitting there in the café, drinking good transport café tea, he realised that for all of his working life, Nikolas—Aleksey—would have been his enemy, someone he was trained and paid to kill. And had, in fact, killed; he’d shot Spetsnaz in Afghanistan with no qualms at all. He could’ve and would’ve shot Aleksey had he come across him. Perhaps their paths had crossed. Perhaps the man currently sitting across from him had killed one of the many colleagues Ben had lost. Until he’d been ripped out of their little bubble of unreality and forced back to the real world—which Kate represented—he hadn’t really had to face any of this. He was therefore less than ready to hear Nikolas reply, when Kate pointed out that if they were to set up a meeting all they needed were contact details for the Russians who had attacked them, “Oh, I know how to contact Gregory. I have always known that.”