The protagonist of this story is Dorian, Earl of Red Gloria, a

beautiful and dashing aristocrat, aesthete and international art

thief who operates under the code name 'Eroica'. Outrageously, openly gay, he is madly in love with Major Klaus von dem Eberbach, a foul-tempered foul-mouthed painfully straight (in all senses of the word) intelligence agent with NATO. Into their story (and series: From Eroica with Love by Aoike Yasuko) comes the mysterious Sergei (from *his* series, Papuwa Boy of the South by Shibata Ami.)

A Garden in Paris

1.

An invitation to dinner at the Savoy Hotel with the man of one's dreams should be enough to make anyone happy, but not when one's beloved behaves as perversely as Klaus was behaving now. Bad enough that he looked as if Dorian had some pestilential disease that might be contagious, which from Klaus' point of view he did: and if only, thought Dorian, gazing dreamily into the sea-green eyes, Klaus would contract it. But worse, much worse, was being made to look at other men's pictures: and such unattractive men at that.

"You know the General, of course," Klaus said as if he doubted it, laying down a photo of a blond sharp-featured man in his late forties.

"I don't believe we've actually met," Dorian murmured, barely

giving it a glance.

"No of course you haven't met," said Klaus testily. "As far as we

know, he's never left his native Circassia: assuming of course, that it *is* his native Circassia. We can't be sure of anything about his origins."

"Oh, in that case, no, I don't know him. I've never been to

Circassia."

Klaus gave him a small smile. "Why don't you go?" he suggested mildly.

Dorian looked confused. "But isn't there a war on or something? Or am I thinking of somewhere else? All those little countries get a touch muddled in my head..."

"It's not just Slavic countries that get muddled, Lord Gloria, not in *your* head. And yes, for your information, there is indeed a war on in Circassia and has been for three years. A very bloody, bitter, sectarian religious war. There are two or three major armies involved and as many more small ones, and between them they've succeeded in tearing the country apart. All efforts to stabilize the situation, or even to negotiate a cease fire, have met with failure." Klaus sounded rather like a BBC newscaster. Since the BBC news was Dorian's favourite cure for insomnia, he found himself giving a reflex yawn.

"Religious wars are always so destructive," he sighed. "And so pointless. Rather like religion, some people would say."

"No doubt they would," Klaus replied with distaste. "But not the kind of person I prefer to associate with. In any case, the religious problem is minor compared to the tribal and territorial issues involved. Back of this war there are centuries of bad feeling, and because of it Circassia has been, until just recently, on the verge of disintegrating into a number of armed camps and nothing more."

He tapped the photograph. "But last year, one of the smaller armies began to have a series of stunning successes. The General is a mercenary with no known religious ties. Apparently he comes from one of the hill tribes. They've always fought among themselves but generally held aloof from conflict down in the plains. Using his own army of mercenaries, bolstered by defectors from other factions, he's taken three of the major towns and held them against all odds. He's now in the process of fighting for the capital. If he can take that, some kind of stability may return to the country."

This was all vaguely familiar. Dorian supposed he'd seen the face on the cover of magazines like The Economist and Time. The thatch of sun-bleached blonde hair, the amazingly bright blue eyes, the sharp features surrounded by a network of tiny, almost invisible lines... It was a good photograph. And it made him feel a little cold. The eyes were not quite sane, the mouth betrayed an ambition to be filled at all costs, and the whole face conveyed a virility that Dorian found oddly- very oddly- repulsive. Maybe if I were a woman, he thought abstractedly...

"I'm glad I don't know him," he said without thinking.

Klaus gave him a peculiar glance. "He's a dangerous and unprincipled man, with neither religion nor morals. But he's the only hope for the country. NATO wants to keep him alive. And unfortunately, someone else wants him dead."

"All the other armies, surely?"

"Naturally," said Klaus dismissively. "But this assassination plot appears to have originated outside the country, and to be connected to someone actually in the general's camp. Unfortunately our informant was killed in the shelling of Vbronsk. The details he managed to pass on to us are extremely scanty. The centre of the plot seems to be in Paris. That being the case we're fairly safe in assuming that the instigation comes from this man."

A second photograph was laid beside the first. It showed a large man with a black moustache, in formal dress, chatting animatedly with a woman in a ball gown and tiara. The face displayed an almost exaggerated wellbeing and bonhomie, but the pale pursy little eyes told another story.

"Taken at the Paris Opera last year. The exiled President is a great supporter of the arts."

"Oh," said Dorian. "Now this one I *do* know. He has- I mean, he had- quite a nice Matisse..."

"Please," said Klaus with distaste, "Spare me the details of your burglarious career. I dislike thieves almost as much as I dislike perverts, and you happen to be both."

"I don't think you've met enough thieves *or* perverts to form a reasonable judgment, Major. If you expanded your circle a little, you might change your mind."

"One is enough, thank you. Kindly pay attention to what I'm saying. It's important that you understand the background to this mission but I'd like to conclude this interview as quickly as possible."

"Oh very well. But politics make me thirsty; I hope you don't

mind if I send for reinforcements?

Dorian raised a finger and a young Beardsley faun of a waiter

appeared at his side, ready with adoring eyes to take his order.

"More wine, Major?" Klaus made a stiff sign of refusal. "Ah well, in that case, a half bottle of the Macon '75 please, dear."

He smiled winsomely at the young man who trotted off on his errand with the expression of one who has been vouchsafed a glimpse of the beatific vision.

"If I may continue..." Klaus said repressively. "The civil war began after a coup d'état which sent the President- and the fortune he amassed during his term of office- off to a pleasant exile in Paris. In spite of the fact that there's virtually nothing left of his native country worth going back to, he seems desirous of returning. He's been trying to get his supporters in the capital to arrange an amnesty. The General has said he'll personally castrate him if he sets foot on Circassian soil. He probably means it."

"Fascinating," Dorian murmured, watching the Macon slide into his wine glass. "You're sure you won't have some, Major? Dear, bring another wineglass. I'm sure he'll change his mind in time."

Klaus ignored the interruption. "Now we come to the area where you're involved. Are you acquainted with the de Marquère family?"

Dorian was surprised. "Why yes, of course. I've been to the

Baroness' salon several times. A charming woman, even if she does collect only modern art of the obstinately ugly school. Braques and Bacon and such. Her husband at least buys eighteenth century prints: too pale for me, though the composition can be charming enough..."

"Never mind their artistic tastes. Our agent said that de Marquère was definitely involved in the plot. We've been unable to turn up any connection between the de Marquères and the President beyond the most superficial social contacts, which argues that the conspirators are being very cautious. But we've discovered a Circassian connection in the Baron's personal circle, who must be the link between him and the conspiracy. It's possible that you know him as well."

Klaus laid the third photograph in front of Dorian. It was an interior shot and the lighting was not of the best. Madame la Baronne, small and vivacious, was standing next to the short dapper Baron, her head turned to smile up at a tall pale man on her other side. Beside the dark bird-like de Marquères, so vivid and alive even in a photograph, the other's features seemed to lack both definition and expression. His colouring looked washed out, almost albino, but that might have been the fault of the photographer who had taken a spur of the moment picture with too bright a flash.

"I don't think I do, but then he doesn't seem the sort of person one would remember offhand. It's hard to tell, with all this dirt on the negative." Dorian's finger indicated the dark blob which obscured part of the unknown man's face."

"That's an eyepatch. He lost an eye in the war. It makes him

easy to identify."

"And when he doesn't have it on, does it make it hard?" Dorian was simply being facetious, but Klaus stared at him as if he'd been struck in the face. Dorian grew alarmed. "Major, dear, whatever is the matter? Did I say something I shouldn't have?"

Klaus blinked and swallowed hard. "No, no, not at all. I forget occasionally that you are not always and necessarily a fool, Lord Gloria."

"Darling, you say the sweetest things," Dorian burbled, covering Klaus' chagrin with frivolity.

It worked. "Don't call me darling," Klaus snapped with reflex irritation. "This friend of the de Marquère's is called M.Serge. He seems to function without a last name, unless of course that *is* his last name. He runs an antiquarian book and print store somewhere back of the Boulevard St. Germain, with a number of distinguished clients, the Baron among them. He's probably the source of those prints you find so unsatisfactory. Claims to have studied in Berlin, has a degree in fine arts from the Sorbonne. Travels regularly to Holland, Austria and Germany, less often to Britain and Italy: always on business, attending auctions. I'm surprised you don't know him."

"Prints," Dorian murmured deprecatingly. "So dull, so--

colourless. Give me a good oil painting anytime."

"Or else, of course, you'll take it. Acquaintances say M.Serge is polite and pleasant but not forthcoming. Solitary, lives by himself, associates with his clients and other dealers but appears to have no close friends. He travels on a French passport which gives his irthplace as Circassia. With the present state of that country, naturally, it's impossible to verify any other facts about him. Including, as you've just pointed out, whether he really has one eye or two. He lives on the second and third floors above his bookstore. We want you to break into his house."

"Oh," said Dorian, only half pretending surprise. "But... I

mean, what do you want found?"

"Anything that would tie him to the President or a plot to kill the General. Anything at all suspicious. Large, unaccounted-for sums of money, lists of names, correspondence not related to business. Anything, in fact, that might shed light on the man and his movements."

"But Major- this is all so vague. If I know exactly what I'm

looking for, of course I can find it without difficulty. But I'm a

thief, not an agent. How do I know what's suspicious and what isn't? You know I love to be of use to you, Klaus, but really, wouldn't one of your own men be better?"

"I've said all this to the Chief already. He simply won't listen to reason. Tracing the source of this plot is absolutely important and- though God alone knows why- he's convinced only you have the background to uncover the truth about M.Serge. I don't think you've got the knowledge or the common sense to find what we're looking for, but I've received my orders." Klaus looked at him with an intensification of the old dislike.

For once, Dorian was almost inclined to agree with the Major's

assessment. This wasn't his kind of thing at all. He hoped the stakes weren't too high. Klaus' next statement immediately disillusioned him.

"NATO of course informed the General that there was a plot against his life which might involve some of the men around him, in the hopes that he'd take extra precautions. The General, unfortunately, is a true hillsmen. His distrust of outsiders is pathological. He refused to believe a word, demanded the proof we don't have, accused us of trying to cause disruption in his faction and had our agent slung out of his camp. If this plot is to be stopped and the country saved from ruin, we- or rather, you- are going to have to do it alone." Klaus' bleak expression left no doubt about how he estimated Dorian's chance of success.

"Here are your tickets to Paris and your hotel reservation. You leave tomorrow morning. I have to return to Bonn this evening; in fact-" glancing at his watch- "I must leave for the airport at once."

"But darling- I ran out and got us tickets for the opera as

soon as I heard you were coming. Pavarotti is singing Calaf--"

"I don't care for opera," Klaus said shortly. "Contact me at

this number tomorrow night when you've completed your mission."

He laid all the papers on the table. Dorian opened his mouth to protest, his instinctive dislike of the proposal intensified by Klaus' treating him like some underling who could be ordered about from here to breakfast. Realization dawned just in time. Of course Klaus would always obey orders conscientiously and never knowingly sabotage a mission; but unconsciously he was doing his best to make Dorian refuse. How tiresome. There was no chance this time of wringing concessions from the man he loved as the price of his co-operation. Klaus would only resist adamantly, and report to his superiors that Eroica had refused to give his services.

Klaus thought he would fail. Well, that made it all the more imperative that he succeed. Not merely to be of use to his beloved

but to have that beloved seriously in his debt. Dorian's self-confidence bounced back from its momentary doubts like a squash ball off the court wall.

"Of course, darling. Anything you say. And you *will* drink a

toast to my success, won't you?" He poured the last of the Macon into the other wineglass and handed it to von dem Eberbach.

Klaus smiled grimly and raised his glass. "To your success, Lord Gloria," he said, and drank it down quickly. Dorian felt giddy with wine and exhilaration.

"How about a kiss for luck?" he suggested.

"Absolutely not!" the Major roared, and seizing his briefcase

he strode out of the dining room.

"Au'voir, mon amour!" Dorian called to his fleeing back, and

sat smiling to himself for quite fifteen minutes afterwards.

2.

Sitting next day in a somewhat different restaurant, Eroica was feeling much less buoyant. It might be spring elsewhere but in Paris the sky was grey and, even in a Fair Isle jumper, Dorian was distinctly chilly. The dark asphalt streets, still wet with the rain that was falling when he'd disembarked at Charles de Gaulle airport this morning, breathed off a cold dispiriting dankness. He'd dropped by the print store, a narrow three-storey building in the rue Galande, to see what he could discover in daylight, only to find that M.Serge subscribed to the lunatic French custom of closing on Wednesday afternoons. It was all very well for sweet shops and iron mongers in small English villages to be closed on Wednesdays, Dorian thought in cosmopolitan disgust, but one

expected something more of the City of Lights.

So now he was sitting in the Café de l'Odeon at the corner of the Rue St. Germain and the Boul'Mich, while the thunderous Parisian traffic roared past him and the high-strung Parisian inhabitants sat smoking all around him. Wet pavement, diesel exhaust and Gauloises, that was the smell of Paris: and thanks to the latter two, the air was blue and nearly unbreatheable.

In the right mood and under the right circumstances Dorian rather liked the Parisians, but today he found them merely wearing. All the people who passed him leaned forward as if walking into a strong wind, and the slowest gait visible was a fast scuttle. Strolling seemed unheard of. Wherever the crowds were going, they obviously couldn't wait to get there. A little valium in the water supply, Dorian mused, would do the Parisians absolutely no harm at all... All the young couples at the tables around him-- they were almost all young, this being the university district, and almost all couples, the French being hopelessly

heterosexual most of the time-- were carrying on animated conversations, their hands and the inevitable cigarettes held in them never stopping for a moment. Dorian felt surrounded by a forest of fluttering little birds and was obsessively remembering the incomprehensible punchline to a joke some small American child had once told him on a trans-Atlantic liner: "Let your pages do the walking through the yellow fingers." Fortunately the steak and frites he was eating were excellent, and the pichet of red wine was superb, even for a vin ordinaire. Otherwise he might almost- almost- have been tempted to forget the whole thing and go home.

It was ridiculous, to think of the de Marquères plotting the

death of a Circassian general. Such nice people, in spite of their

unfortunate artistic tastes. It was, in fact, owing to those tastes that Dorian's acquaintance with them had been able to pass beyond a preliminary reconnoitre of the apartment. Surely it must be someone else?: except that there were no other de Marquères. The present Baron's grandfather's grandfather had been ennobled by Napoleon III for efficient victualling of the Emperor's troops, and since that time the family had produced one male offspring per generation and no more. Dorian had been admiring a picture of the only son, a dark charmer whose fascination with the mechanics of banking and the Bourse seemed almost to outstrip his own dear James', when that piece of information had emerged. He and the Baron had then commiserated with each other on the frailty of noble titles, always a melancholy subject for Dorian. But young Jean-Claude, with his Place d'Etoile friends, hardly seemed the

sort to get involved in assassination plots of minor East European

generals. Even the Baron seemed more likely.

Perhaps the de Marquères were simply being used by this mysterious M.Serge. Dorian was a little vague on how one went about passing secret information: his mind furnished the words 'cipher' and 'code' and mistily suggested something like a first edition of - oh, A Rebours, perhaps - no, an antiquarian dealer: Michelangelo's sonnets, then- with pinpricks under significant words... "My dear Baroness, could you possibly give this to the President if you see him tonight at the Opera? I meant to go myself but I have the most excruciating migraine..." Well, it was not impossible. The clue would be inside M.Serge's safe: and that

would have to wait another twelve hours until the dead of night.

Meanwhile, on Wednesdays the Baroness was 'at home'. The de

Marquère women had always been famous for the brilliance of their salons. It was a Baronesse de Marquère who'd charmed Proust out of his cork-lined room, in spite of his horror of parvenues, and who had cheered Oscar Wilde's exile by inviting a succession of artistic and charming young men on the afternoons when the Irishman was in attendance. Another had borne with unruffled equanimity the aging Colette's cats, which she'd insisted on bringing with her, the passes Garcia Lorca kept making at her husband, and Alice B. Toklas' regular requests for the recipe of everything she ate under the de Marquère roof. Only Ernest Hemingway had succeeded in making her lose her sang froid: she had requested that his one, drunken, visit not be repeated. The Baron's mother, an even more accommodating woman, had pretended

not to notice when Genet took the spoons and salt cellars, and had

allowed Cocteau to decorate her bathroom with a larger than life size

(in certain areas) nude drawing of Jean Marais.

The rain was still holding off, andit was a short pleasant walk to the apartment in the Rue de Bièvre. Dorian was not, in fact, prepared for the gendarmes in the street when he reached it, who stopped him and civilly inquired his business. They seemed delighted to learn that he was an English lord and that he was off to visit a French baron; especially as it transpired that they were presently guarding the residence of the new Socialist president. Wondering just why the French insisted on calling themselves republicans, Dorian at last found himself entering the third floor 'appartement de grand standing', and being kissed on both cheeks by Madame la Baronne in a cloud of Chanel perfume and a dress from the same house.

"My dear Lord Gloria, it's been an age, but simply an eternity, since I saw you last. Henri, it's Dorian."

"Ah, mon vieux, how are things going?" The Baron too kissed him twice. Though older than Dorian cared for, he was still a handsome man, with the high cheekbones and cat-like good looks common to many Parisians. It was as well that he also possessed a shapely skull because, like so many of his countrymen, his hair had started to recede when he was still in his thirties. All those hormones, thought the Earl, had certain drawbacks. Aloud, he said, "Oh, very well, very well, thank you. I came to catch the new exhibit at the Louvre. But my dear Baron, I'm taking you from your guests."

"Oh, that's alright." He looked down his thin nose with amusement and murmured, sotto voce, "This lot can take care of themselves. They never stop talking long enough to notice whether we're there or not. A new fad of Mathilde's. If you're going to sit in on the conversation, by all means let Georges bring you a gin and cassis. A double, Georges. And another one for me."

Dorian took his drink with some hesitation and perched on a deep-gold brocade armchair. A number of men and women were keeping up a lively conversation, finishing each other's sentences and laughing uproariously.

"Well," one was saying, "we no longer need to persevere, since the père sevère has traded l'amour for la mort-"

"Achieved closure," another chimed in.

"Taking his père versions with him," a third laughed.

"He never cared for mine. Said I kept inserting my Name of

the Father into inappropriate lacuna-"

"Lacana-"

"Never that. All I wanted was to bring signification to someone's manque, or some man's c- I won't say it-"

"Another repressed signifier?"

"Lack is expressed by zero, the round hole, hence the signified must be the same above and below and on both sides. After all, the woman doesn't exist..."

Eroica, who had thought he understood French, was utterly adrift. "The stern Father?" "Name of the Father?" It sounded like Christianity to him. Tentatively he tapped the shoulder of the woman sitting on his right.

"Excuse me, are they talking about religion?"

She looked at him in surprise. "No of course not. Penises."

Dorian, who'd thought he knew something about that subject too, was floored. He looked around for Henri or Mathilde, hoping for enlightenment or at any rate sanity. But the Baron was deep in discussion with a solid bull-dog of a man who had 'banker' written

all over him, while his hostess and a pair of woman friends were

having a simultaneous three-way conversation, their low voices swooping up and down like swallows and their hands fluttering like butterflies' wings: "Mais c'est terrible, cette pauvre fille..." "Bien qu'elle soit un peu complexée, quoi..." "Mais c'est tout a fait dingue, comme disent les gosses..."

Over in the corner, however, a single man stood leafing through one of the large folios that the Baron kept out on the table. A curé of some sort, to judge by the black cassock: although Dorian hadn't realized the Church had become so liberal in the length it allowed its priests to wear their hair. This one's blonde ponytail reached halfway down his back. Was that a soutaine he had on? On closer view it looked more like some kind of cossack coat with a slightly tailored waist, its severe black relieved only by a thin red piping on the front between the high rounded collar and the hem. The skirt stopped just below the calf,

showing black boots beneath. Something about the whole ensemble suggested old photographs of Dostoevsky and Rasputin...

"Hello," he said to the stranger. "Do allow me to introduce

myself. I'm..."

The other's head turned and Dorian lost his breath. A pale, plain face- no, a pale beautiful face- no, not pale... Even as he looked it changed almost out of recognition. It was like watching someone peel the backing off a transfer, the bright colours suddenly showing clearly where all had been undefined a moment before. Suddenly there was life and a world of meaning in the wide carved mouth, the long oval face with its high cheekbones, the upslanting brows, and the thick-lashed-- eye: because the other one was covered by a black silk eye-patch.

Serge, he thought, but remotely, while last night's opera sang gloriously in his head: o sognio, o maraviglia, divina belleza... Their eyes locked together. Serge's fingers, long and delicate, moved trance-like to touch, ever so gently and briefly, the ravelled gold silk of Dorian's curls, and a small spasm shook the slender black-clad frame.

"You are?" The voice was light in timbre, barely above a murmur.

"Dorian." His own hand reached undirected to place its first

two fingers on that beautiful mouth. The warm lips moved as the other said his name, "Serge", making it into a kiss.

"Shall we leave?" Afterwards, he wasn't sure which of them had put words to the thought that was in both their minds. Acting as if they had one consciousness, they slipped out of the flat, Serge flipping a hand at the Baron over the banker's head, Dorian kissing the back of Mathilde's neck in passing and murmuring

"A'voir, chérie. Des affaires..".

Five minutes brought them to the Rue Galande. Serge unlocked the narrow door and Dorian entered a green and brown twilight, eyes barely taking in dark wooden bookshelves and display tables in the dim light that came through the oilcloth blinds. As Serge turned from locking the door again, Dorian threw both arms about his neck in blissful anticipation. Oh. Oh, but--no...

"Oh, my dear," he said involuntarily to the look in back of the other's face. No; this was not, after all, going to be one of those long, slow, friendly sessions he himself liked so much. Not unless he insisted, and he didn't think he could. When you offer a meal to a starving man you don't make him sit through cocktails and canapes and an hour's chat beforehand. Serge's face in the darkened room was like a panther's glimpsed in the forest, full of a desperate hunger. But he was keeping himself rigidly in check, refusing, even now, to reach and grab for what he most needed.

There was no time to debate the whys and wherefores. Dorian

opened his arms wide, palms up. Take me, I'm yours. The only line of Rabelais he knew came conveniently to mind to make his meaning plain. "Fay ce que vouldras," he said, and gave his sweetest smile.

An answering smile flashed briefly across the pale features,

then Serge's arms were around him and his face buried in the mass of Dorian's curls. Hot breath, warm lips and blunted teeth stormed up and down the side of his neck, across his earlobes and over his temples. Strong fingers grasped his hips and pressed their groins tightly together. The Circassian knew what he wanted and Dorian had only to let him do it. This was all for Serge; his own needs could wait until later. Still he found himself longing for the moment when that exquisite mouth would come down on his own. Perversely, it didn't. His eyebrows, his eyelids, the hollow of his cheekbones, the back of his neck, all were subjected to a fierce and passionate adoration, but Serge bypassed his lips as if they didn't exist.

A faint sense of frustration tormented him but there were soon other, pleasanter torments to think about. The circular motions of the other's thighs had begun a fire between his legs that made the tight raw silk trousers he wore a hell of confinement. He undid the buttons of his fly, giving himself some relief. Serge pulled the bottom of his jumper free and slipped it up and over his head. The sight of the Earl's naked torso seemed to excite him further: a new shower of kisses fell on the bare shoulders and chest. Filament-fine strands of yellow hair brushed

down Dorian's skin, starting small shudders that had nothing to do with distaste. Long cool hands traced parallel lines on either side of his spine and slipped at last into the back of his trousers, moving down and ever down to the base of his body.

Dorian could only cling tightly with his arms around the other's

neck, feeling himself begin to slide away on a tide of pleasure. Serge steered them to the nearby desk. Loosing him just long enough to strip off his coat, fold it to a double thickness and lay it down as impromptu padding, he bent Dorian over the polished oak surface. Dorian's face nestled against the smooth fine-woven wool that smelled faintly of Sobranies and an indefinable odour that must be Serge's own, while his forearms and hands rested on the smooth worn desk top. He breathed deeply to relax the tension of anticipation, his finger tip idly tracing the shallow grain of the wood, while Serge pulled out a drawer and rummaged in it briefly. Behind him there was the quick snick of a zipper opening and a whisper of cloth. Strong fingers took hold of the waistband of his own trousers and peeled them down to his knees.

The mounded cream was cold at first, but warmed as Serge rubbed it gently into the narrow declivity and through the tight opening. A supple finger pushed itself in up to the joint, checking his readiness; satisfied with his acquiescent openness, it withdrew. Serge took hold of his hips, poised himself, and entered swiftly and smoothly. The worst moment was over almost before he could feel it, and he found himself once again in that happily ambiguous place where pain was indistinguishable from pleasure and pleasure so intense as to be painful.

The familiar fire began to run through his veins, from the centre of his body up to his forehead and back down his spine and legs. Serge was perfect, neither too big nor too small, filling him up beautifully. He adjusted his hips minutely to give the other the most complete access, and in response that lovely fullness began to move out of him, but slowly, so slowly, a centimetre at a time. Dorian knitted his brows in puzzlement. Why? Is he afraid of hurting me...? With infinite care, Serge withdrew almost completely, waited a long, long moment, and came back at the same agonizingly deliberate pace. Dorian fretted, his fire

dampened and flagging. This is too slow, he thought, I can't stand

it, but he willed himself to patience: this one was for Serge.

Once more Serge quitted him unhurriedly and then repaired back again in a leisurely fashion, apparently with all the time in the world. Dorian could have cried with vexation. Where was the violent ravishment promised a few moments before in that beautiful animal-like face? Deep within him he felt again the minute movements of withdrawal but this time there was a difference in his response. Subtle nervous messages, usually drowned out by the rising clamour of lust, were coming across loud and clear, tiny responses and unsuspected sensations producing a cornucopia of unknown pleasures. He felt every millimetre of that careful retreat and fought it each step of the way. The long instant when Serge stood within the threshold of his body stoked the fire of

anticipation, and every atom in him welcomed the loving, painstaking return.

Time as he usually thought of it ceased to have meaning: awareness was all turned inward to the exquisite minuet his heightened nerves were playing. Oh, he thought, but joyfully this time, I can't stand it, I can't stand it. This had definitely been worth waiting for.

He reared up on his forearms, the better to receive the gentle thrusts, and Serge's arms came round to encircle his belly and chest. His climax began mounting in him, slowly and relentlessly, a heat so intense as to seem almost cold. His fingers clutched convulsively at the material wadded beneath him. Serge's coat... A slight alarm sounded in the back of his head. There were few things that Dorian rated higher than sexual pleasure, but fine workmanship was one of them. For a hideous instant the certainty of a world-shattering climax fought his

instinctive respect for a beautiful object. Aesthetics, alas, won.

"Serge- love," he gasped, "Just a moment. Your coat..."

The deliberate movement stopped, disconcerted. The body welded to his began to shake. Serge put his head down on Dorian's shoulder and laughed silently but convulsively, so hard that he slipped out from him entirely.

"I'm sorry," said Dorian, crestfallen in more ways than one.

Serge shook his head, the loosened hair flying.

"It's- it's alright," he gasped. "I shouldn't have laughed.

Shall we start again?"

Without waiting for an answer he knelt and pulled Dorian's pants off completely, prising the shoes off along with them. He was in no hurry to get up, seeming to feel a need first to kiss and caress every inch of the sensitive skin on the back of Dorian's legs. By the time he reached the swelling hills at the top, Dorian was in a fair way to being in his previous condition. He pushed the coat to the far end of the desk: a wise precaution, because Serge's mouth suddenly enveloped the sac between his legs, causing a sprinkle of dew to fall on the desktop. He rocked a little on his toes, wanting to have his partner inside him before his climax came.

"Darling," he gasped through the pounding in his blood, "Please- take me..."

Serge complied- but with his tongue. Strong and pointed, it

darted between his cheeks, focussing unerringly on what had become

the tight centre of Dorian's being. It was more than he could bear. Fists clenched, mouth open, he succumbed so fiercely to his orgasm that for a few moments it was as if he ceased to exist entirely.

When he came back to himself, Serge had him turned around and

was holding him against his chest. Raising a flushed wet face, he

found the one grey eye regarding him with both tender satisfaction

and the predatory sparklings of lust.

"Ready?" the other murmured, and Dorian nodded. Serge laid

him on his back on the desk, legs hooked over his shoulders.

Stretching out a hand for the cream he renewed their lubrication, then entered him with the same easy mastery as before. He repeated the slow deliberate stroke, a little faster this time, in and out, then harder and harder. His long fine hair had slipped out of its band and fell across the blind sweating face as he laboured within Dorian. When the spasm began Sergei reached over and pulled him up by the shoulders; responding to his cue, Dorian wrapped arms and legs around the heaving body and held him through the violent upheaval of his climax.

Serge shook for several moments afterwards, his face buried in the waves of golden hair and his breath sobbing in Dorian's ear. Gradually he calmed, the muscles growing slack and relaxed. At length he looked up. His face was streaked with sweat and tears, and a painful red line showed across his forehead where the band of the eyepatch had shifted a little, but his expression was composed.

"Thank you," he said, simply.

"The pleasure's mine," said Dorian. "You're a very patient lover."

"My partners are patient. I'm just slow. I assure you I've

had complaints."

"The best things are always worth waiting for," Dorian rejoined cheerfully, retrieving his pants, "and that was definitely one of the best I've ever had."

"You're very kind," Serge said with an odd formality. "May I

offer you a little hospitality? My apartments are upstairs..."

"Thanks," said Dorian. "I'd be glad to freshen up a bit. Lead

on, dear."

3.

Serge took him silently up the cold stone stairway at the back of the building and unlocked a thick oak door on the second floor. Pushing aside the moss green velvet curtain which covered the entranceway on the inside, he let his guest into a parqueted foyer, dim in the halflight. He flicked on the overhead chandelier and pressed another button, hidden behind the curtain, which Dorian recognized as a security alert attached probably to the nearest police station. The walls of the hallway were papered in lozenged burgundy above dark wood panelling, and dotted here and there with gilt mirrors and miniature oil paintings. Halfway along

the corridor Serge indicated a bathroom to Dorian, and left him there to put himself to rights.

Fifteen minutes later, feeling better for a little hot water, sandalwood soap, and a thick white towel, he emerged and went in search of his host. Following an enticing smell of coffee and the muted clink of china, he found him in a pale green and gold livingroom, setting out small cups and saucers next to the large brass samovar.

"Do you drink coffee?" Serge asked. "It's very black."

"The way I love it," Dorian assured him, coming over and

hugging him from behind, "Serge."

"Call me Sergei," he said, crossing his arms over Dorian's.

"Is that your real name?"

"What it turns into in Russian. A bit closer to the original

than the French."

"French isn't much good with foreign names, is it?" Dorian agreed, remembering how he tended to turn into 'Milord Rei de Gloire' on hotel registers.

"And the dialect I speak is one of the more difficult ones. My real name is virtually unpronounceable by foreigners."

"Try me."

He did. The 's' was still there, but the vowel had an unfamiliar roll, the r was flapped, the g was somewhere between a v and an f, and the whole thing ended in a suppressed sneeze.

"I suppose I shouldn't ask about your last name," said Dorian, a little appalled.

"Better not," Sergei agreed serenely. "May I ask yours?"

"Red Gloria- but it's my title, not my name. I'm an earl-- an

English nobleman," he explained, remembering European insularity

about British noble orders.

Sergei turned his head, amusement lighting his face. "I'm

honoured."

"Not at all. Earls are fairly thick on the ground in England."

"My father was a sheep farmer. His son has definitely come up

in the world."

The curving smile and mischievous eye made Dorian's legs go

weak all over again. He'd never known anyone with such a shifting clear-and-cloudy beauty as Sergei's: but when the sun was shining, as it was now, he was irresistible. Dorian didn't even try. He turned the pale face towards him and reached over to give it a kiss. Sergei laid his hand gently but firmly over Dorian's mouth.

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding it. "I can't."

"But darling, why ever not?"

"It's a long story." His finger stroked Dorian's lips tenderly but his expression showed no sign of giving in. "Just accept that that's the way it is."

Dorian acquiesced gracefully- for the moment. He knew he was lucky that his own nature led him to have preferences rather than prejudices, and he tried to be patient with those partners whose ideas of masculinity forbade them the enjoyment of certain pleasures: patient, at least, until he could bring them round to a more balanced view of the matter. Well, like Klaus... But not being able to kiss Sergei's mouth was a definite deprivation: and, really, nothing else about him suggested one of those he-men who think tenderness an effeminate intrusion on manly sex. He was going to have to get to work very soon on this annoying little quirk of Sergei's.

Meanwhile he picked up his coffee cup and changed the subject.

"This is a lovely room. Did you decorate it yourself?"

"Yes, mostly. A pastoral theme."

It was easy to see what he meant. On the pale-green toile de

Jouy wallpaper, 18th century shepherds and sheperdesses cavorted

charmingly. The arm chairs and the small sofa were covered in floral silks, and the gold-green rug was dotted with small flowers. The furniture was light, cream-coloured Louis XV, court chairs playing at being peasant furnishings. On one wall, a large tapestry showed a group of women doing much the same thing, reclining gracefully under a tree with their silken skirts arranged to good advantage, listening to a white wigged shepherd reading verse from a book.

"It's based on Watteau's Divertissements Champêtres," Dorian

said, recognizing the subject.

"Quite right. Do you collect as well?"

"As much as I can. Oils and porcelain, mostly." He smiled

mischievously at Sergei. "I find prints depress me. So washed out.

And oil paintings are so glorious, so warm..."

"And so expensive. Especially in this period. The masterpieces are all in galleries. You can have third rate artists at astronomical prices, or a simulacrum, like that." He indicated the tapestry.

"I don't believe in settling for second best," Dorian said firmly.

"I used to agree with you. If I couldn't have the real thing it seemed more honest to have nothing. Now I'm not so sure. There's a certain comfort in substitutes. They remind you that the real thing exists, even if not for you."

"But why not for you?" Dorian argued. "If you want a thing it

belongs to you already. Acquiring it is just a formality."

Sergei was looking at him with an odd tenderness. "If you want a thing, it probably is yours. You're a very rare type. Most of us have to settle for what we can get- or what we can keep." His hand went involuntarily to his right eye.

"You lost that in the war?"

"Along with other things," Sergei said, turning his head aside. "I suppose the Baron told you?"

In fact, Dorian couldn't immediately recall where he'd heard the story. He was more concerned that Sergei was withdrawing from him and he sought for a topic to bring him back.

"Mm," he said. "It was you who supplied de Marquère with most

of his collection?"

"A large amount. Now, there's a man who actually prefers prints to oils. I think he finds them more- rational, if you understand me. He said once that he thinks oil paintings overdone. Mind you, we were talking about his wife's collection at the time, so perhaps it's not the medium itself he objects to."

"They are ugly, aren't they?"

"And she's such a nice woman."

"And you? Which do you prefer? You don't have any prints

here, I noticed."

"Books are my passion and prints are merely business. That way I avoid the dealer's temptation, to keep the best stock for oneself; and meanwhile the rent still has to be paid. But as between paintings and prints- I don't know. Sometimes I agree with the Baron. The world in the oil paintings- so sensual, so enticing, so fraudulent. It's not true, any of it. But I love them. Watteau, Fragonard, Boucher... That image of an Arcady: the perfect garden world where shepherdesses wear silk and powdered wigs, and life is a picnic on a long summer's afternoon."

His glance flicked over at Dorian, as if wondering how much he would understand. "My country is beautiful in a primitive way- the mountains at dawn, or the sunsets in winter; but there's no... no grace, no delicacy," he said as if in explanation. "The men are farmers, and like farmers everywhere concerned mostly with survival. From time to time they get drunk and start fights with each other; that's their idea of fun. I think they have feuds more to break the monotony of their lives than to get a little more land. The women marry at fifteen and are grandmothers- crones- twenty years later. When I look around me here, I can't believe such a place exists. I don't know how anybody stands it. No books, no paintings, no music to speak of; no scholars, no ideas, no

conversation..."

Sergei turned to him with a smile that meant to be sardonic but which succeeded only in being rueful.

"I'm greedy, Lord Gloria. I want it all. I want the beauty of my country, the simplicity of my life there; and I want the pleasures and amenities of civilization. In short, I want an Arcady, where the shepherds discuss the nature of love while they shear their sheep."

Dorian remembered a summer spent on his godfather's farm in

Shropshire. "Have you ever sheared a sheep? They don't give you much chance for conversation."

Sergei laughed delightedly. "No they don't. Sheep deserve all

their reputation for stupidity and then some. But I'm surprised

you know."

"Landed gentry often means just that. We're supposed to know

how to manage our farms. But the flies-"

"And the green shit-"

"And your hands get so greasy-"

"Lanolin is good for the skin."

"But it smells. I'll take mine from a tube."

"A jar, actually. It's what I keep in the desk."

Dorian blushed beautifully at the memory.

"So you've created an Arcady for yourself here. And the

shepherds?"

"There are enough of them. Willing and agreeable young men; and being French, they certainly know how to converse. It's more a question of getting them to shut up at critical moments. They take ideas seriously and life- including romance- not at all. Love comes and it's wonderful, and then it goes and it's sad, and then it comes again. Very pleasant and bittersweet, like a Piaf song. But I'm rattling on. Sorry. I'm usually what we call at home a no-mouth."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I don't talk much. More coffee?"

"Please." Dorian handed over his cup.

"If you'll wait a moment, there are some cakes from Printemps

as well." Sergei disappeared in the direction of the kitchen leaving his guest, bemused, to consider the things his host had left unsaid.

After all these months besieging the barbed and barricaded citadel of Major Klaus von dem Eberbach, it was a pleasure to be with someone as velvety smooth, as silkenly supple, as Sergei. The same ideas, the same tastes, the same values: all welcoming and easy, with no little frictions, no resistances. Sergei was like his own beloved Arcadia, a civilized garden within walls made only for delight. One could wander there at will, picking flowers and whiling away the time, with no thought but of pleasure. A few years ago that would have been enough for Dorian; and a few years ago he wouldn't have noticed anything more. It must have been his experience with Klaus that had sharpened his vision: for now he could see, clear as noonday, that in the centre of the garden was a tower, and in that tower a man whom, he suspected, few if any of

his lovers knew existed. Poor Sergei. That was the real hunger in him: not for sex, whatever he himself might think, but for someone who would have the love and the patience to besiege his isolation, demanding that he show himself as he truly was: someone who would do for him what Dorian was doing for Klaus.

And poor Dorian, if it came to that. Sergei knew himself better than the Major; he would be much more appreciative of Eroica's efforts. Whereas Klaus- beautiful, delightful, damnable Klaus- fought him at every turn, not giving an inch. But then again, maybe not. Sergei was obviously a veteran in the wars of love, one who knew all the tricks of strategy and sieges. It would be no easy matter to reduce his defences. Whereas Klaus had only the one weapon at his disposal, an hysterical denial of everything Dorian stood for; and when that was exhausted and his native honesty asserted itself, the citadel would capitulate at once and entirely. There was at least that advantage in loving a man with a

scrupulous conscience.

But how long would it be? When would he be as comfortable with Klaus as he was with this man he'd met less than two hours ago? He wanted the same friendliness, the same easy intimacy, the same delight in Klaus' face when Klaus looked at him...

Sergei, behind him, brushed a finger down the side of his cheek.

"Whoever he is, can't you forget him for a little, now that

I'm here?"

Dorian smiled up. "I will if you kiss me."

Sergei lifted the heavy mass of golden curls with both hands

and leaned down to kiss the bare nape of Dorian's neck.

"On the mouth," Dorian insisted, pouting. Sergei smiled a little sadly.

"I told you, I can't."

"Not even for me?"

"Not even for you."

"This is torture."

"I'm sorry. No-one else has minded much."

"No-one else has my aesthetic instincts. Everything beautiful in the world belongs to me by right. And your mouth is extremely beautiful. Why are you keeping it from me?"

Sergei sat down beside him.

"Try to understand. In my country we are very conservative. Men like me-"

"Us."

"How easily you say it. Men like us fear for their- our- lives. In my village, what we did downstairs would get us stoned in the streets."

"This isn't your village, it's Paris. Isn't it time you got

rid of your country attitudes?"

"That's not it." Sergei sighed. "This is hard to explain. When

did you first fall in love?"

"When I was four. The gardener's boy. I used to steal lump sugar from the tea-table and give it to him in the potting shed."

Unexpectedly, Sergei laughed. "I was a little older. After my

father was killed, my oldest brother took over the family. I had brains- well, he thought I did; and he decided I should go on to high school in the city down in the plains. I made a friend there." His eye was distant, looking at a memory too private to bring a change of expression to his face.

"We were inseparable. Studied together, ate together, bathed

together, shared a bed at night- nobody in my country sleeps alone; we don't have the space. You can imagine what it would be like even here, a hundred adolescent boys cooped up together with no women around at all. At home we see only our mothers and our sisters until they get married; I seldom met even my brothers' wives. And in my country men touch each other all the time, and kiss and embrace. The boys made jokes, of course. There was a lot of smutty horseplay. Everybody seemed to know what men do together. That was how I found out as well."

"And there were romantic friendships. The literature of my country, what there is of it, is all medieval sagas-- comrade warriors who use the same shield as a pillow, who swear vows of eternal devotion the night before the battle and die in each other's arms the next day. For him, I think, our friendship was like that. At least I hope, now, that it was."

"He always had an arm around my shoulder or my neck, and he would kiss me when he was happy or excited, which was a lot of the time... We did everything but have sex together. I wanted to, but I was afraid to ask; afraid he would look at me as if I was a monster and begin to hate me; afraid that I would lose the happiness I had, even if it wasn't perfect... I hope he wasn't thinking the same thing, wanting me but afraid to say it."

Sergei fell silent. Dorian put his arms around him. "What

happened?"

"There was a battle, our first one. Battle: five hundred men

fighting over a few acres too barren to do anything but graze goats on. I never thought twice about it at the time. Everyone in my country is a soldier. You fight for your kinsmen and your kinsmen's allies. It's what a man does." He paused. "We kissed each other before the fighting started, like Turmis and Bayalim leaving the keep, going out to face the Turks." There was another pause. "I've never told anyone else about this. I don't know why--" He drew a deep breath, then said without expression, "I was there when he died. I knew then that he would be the last man I'd ever kiss like that. A little later I left home, left my country, and began wandering. And that's the whole story."

He started to move away but Dorian held him tightly.

"That's so beautiful," he said, swallowing the lump in his throat, "and I'm so sorry." He blinked away tears. "Are you angry that I made you tell me?"

Sergei relaxed against him. "No," he said eventually, "No,

I'm not." He turned in Dorian's arms and took his face between his

hands as if it were a precious object. Once again the sun shone through the clouds, lighting up the pale features from within.

"Whoever he is, he's a lucky man."

"He doesn't want me."

"He will. How could he resist?"

Dorian smiled, wobbly but cheekily. "That's what I think. But

he does."

"Lord Gloria, you're wonderful. You're like an August morning

after a week of Parisian rain. Come upstairs. There's one more thing I should show you."

He took him to the stairs leading to the third floor, talking

as he went.

"You must have had a classic English education. I suppose you

read Vergil?"

"Endlessly. I preferred Catullus.

"Some people do. What Vergil? Just the Aeneid? Or did you

make it to the Eclogues?"

"Possibly. I forgot it all as soon as I could."

"So you wouldn't remember the second Eclogue? "'Formosum

pastor Corydon ardebat Alexim/ delicias domini, nec quid speraret

habebat."'

"Oh, that one," said Dorian, enlightened. "'Corydon the

shepherd burned with love for his master's favourite/ Handsome

Alexis, but saw little reason for hope.' We used to pass it around

the dormitory at night. Poor old Corydon. I always felt sorry for

him, turned down by a spoiled little tart like that."

"A certain Frenchman agreed with you, back in the eighteenth

century. He rewrote the story in heroic couplets and gave it a happy ending." Sergei was leading him down the length of the corridor, passing half opened doors on the way. Dorian had a glimpse of a deep rose canopied bed with dark wooden posts in one room, and ceiling high bookshelves with tobacco-coloured leather armchairs in another. But the room they turned into, on the right near the end of the hall, was small and nearly unfurnished, containing only a plain mahogany escritoire and chair, several filing cabinets, and a conspicuous wall safe.

"I keep it locked in here for security," Sergei said, and

confused Dorian by walking right past the safe. At his noise of

surprise the Circassian stopped and smiled.

"That?" he asked, nodding at the large metal plate. "Window

dressing. Accounts and tax returns and so on. The really valuable things are here." He stopped at a point halfway along the opposite wall and ran his hands down the narrow rectangular molding. The whole panel came out, revealing the door of a much smaller safe. His long fingers spun the dial, opened the door and took out a canvas packet which he brought over to the desk.

Carefully he unwrapped the layers to reveal a quarto volume

bound in cream calfskin, with the name printed on the spine in faded gold lettering: Les Amours d'Alexys et Corydon.

"No names, either of the author or illustrator," Sergei noted. "Homosexuals were still castrated and burned at the stake in eighteenth century France. That's why it was published in Leiden. But the pictures speak for themselves. You can guess whose work they are." He opened the book at random.

The elongated wavering letters of eighteenth century typeface

covered the right hand page, but Dorian's eye went at once to the left, where a ringletted young shepherd, wearing buskins and nothing else, was depicted in a very friendly pose with a slender dark-haired youth of classical mien. The tender pink flesh, the shining golden hair, the rose red of the dark youth's mantle and the deep green surrounding trees glowed richly in spite of age, causing Dorian's pulse to beat more strongly.

"Watteau," he murmured, almost absently, and turned to another page. Here the two young men were seen at the moment of consummation, a tangle of arms and legs on the greensward: but the faces showed a serene, unhurried happiness as they gazed tranquilly into each other's eyes. Dorian made a little noise, almost of pain.

"Corydon is you to the life," Sergei said. "I saw it at once." It was true, but he barely noticed; for Alexis' face could have been drawn from Klaus'. A young Klaus, one he had never known, no more than eighteen. He turned the pages slowly, poised between delight and agony at the sight of himself and Klaus indulging unstintingly in all those pleasures which the real Klaus would never allow him. He couldn't bear to go on looking and he couldn't bear to stop. At last he put both hands down on the table and closed his eyes, trying to still his trembling.

"Sergei," he said, using words he'd never thought to hear from his mouth, "What do you want for it?"

He knew the answer before the other spoke. "I'm sorry. It's

not for sale."

"Why not?" he asked from the depths of his frustration, but

suddenly he knew that answer too. "The same reason you won't kiss me?"

Sergei nodded. "Not a close resemblance, but enough. It made

my heart stop the first time I saw it." His forefinger briefly stroked the head of the dark figure as if it caressed the hair of a living being. A pang of jealousy went through Dorian, but he tried to calm it. It wasn't Klaus Sergei wanted, only someone long dead who looked a little, just a little, like him. That was understandable. Taking what comfort he could, Dorian put both arms around the other's neck and hugged him hard. Sergei hugged him back. In the next room a clock played a short minuet and struck five.

"Lord Gloria."

"Can't you call me Dorian?"

"I'm a peasant. It pleases me no end to have an aristocrat in

my arms. Dorian-- I have to go to Dijon tonight on business. I return tomorrow evening. Will you still be in Paris?"

"Yes. What time will you get back?"

"Not before eight. Can you come then?"

"Yes."

"If something comes up, where shall I leave a message?"

"I always stay at the Georges V. Can I reach you here?"

"Yes. I'm in the book."

Serge escorted him down the two flights of stairs. In the

store he kissed him on both cheeks. "Until tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow." Dorian waved his fingers, and walked out into the street.

4.

Dizzy with joy and excitement and frustration, he walked unseeingly towards the Boul' Mich. What luck, what a find, how beautiful... He wasn't entirely certain if he meant the Watteau prints or Sergei or some combination of both. Those intimate glowing pictures, mixed with the memories of the preceding love-making, contrived to send him into a fever of desire. He wanted that book, he wanted Klaus, he wanted Sergei; it-- he-- they belonged to him. And by some incomprehensible quirk of a sadistic universe, at the moment he didn't have any one of them. Patience, patience. Patience. He would have them all, soon enough. What he needed now was some distraction to keep him

occupied until his meeting tomorrow with Klaus. Well, of course, first of all he had to take care of Klaus' errand itself. That assassination plot. He was supposed to break into--

It felt like walking into a wall. For a moment his mind floundered in confusion, as if he'd just been startled out of a deep sleep. It took several moments of concentration before he could accept the plain fact, which somehow had simply not occurred to him before. Incredible as it was, the M.Serge whom Klaus suspected of promoting an assassination was the Sergei he'd just spent the afternoon with.

He put a hand to his spinning head, and collapsed into a nearby café chair. How lucky that there were always cafés in Paris. You never knew when you were going to have to sit down in a hurry.

But it was ludicrous. Sergei was no murderer. No-one with his

beautiful sensibilities could be involved in anything of the sort.

Klaus was simply wrong: about him, about the Marquères, about the

whole situation. He'd call him up and tell him- that number was still in his wallet... And how would he convince his dear obstinate Major of what he knew to be the truth? "You're saying he's not a killer because you slept with him?!?" No, obviously that approach wouldn't work.

Well, there was no help for it. On principle he disliked the idea of breaking into an acquaintance's house. It was, if nothing else, bad manners. But his motives were impeccably disinterested: he wanted only to clear Sergei of this ridiculous suspicion. When his safe proved to be empty of anything incriminating, Klaus would have to turn his attention to finding the real plotters; and maybe someday Dorian would tell Sergei how he'd burgled his house to prove that he wasn't an international assassin.

Since the place was empty, there was no need to wait til the

dead of night before making his entry. Accordingly, after returning to his hotel for dinner and a change into black clothes, Dorian was back in the Rue Galande well before eleven. The French bourgeoisie- healthy, wealthy and wise as ever- went to bed at a ridiculous hour, so the neighbouring apartments were mostly dark as he began his ascent up the building and entered by an attic skylight. The low garret space barely gave him room to stand up in and he ran quickly down the two flights to the front hallway. Shutting off the alarm as he had seen Sergei do, he returned to the small room on the third floor.

Ever cautious, he did his reconnoitring by torchlight. Business before pleasure, he thought, and worked at the larger wall safe for a minute or two before hearing the click of the tumblers. As Sergei had said, there were accounts and tax files and records of major orders; a boring mass of paper kept under lock only to preserve it from possible fires. He closed the door with a sense of duty done and turned his attention to the hidden safe. Sergei had been quick as he opened it, but Eroica's practised eye had noted the combination automatically.

Heart beating wildly, he took out the quarto. Just one look, he thought, unwrapping it and opening the stiff covers. Yes, there it was, as beautiful as he remembered: himself and Klaus disporting themselves in Arcadia. Klaus kissing him passionately, Klaus lying on his back with raised legs, Klaus--hmm, what was Klaus doing in this one? Or was it a question of what he was doing to Klaus? Either way, it didn't look anatomically possible, although it might be fun to try. The Major didn't have, as far as he knew, a particularly bad back, and a few pillows might relieve the strain if one were to undertake it in an indoor setting...

With a superhuman effort, Dorian closed the book. If he wanted the real Klaus, he'd better get on with the business at hand. Now for the rest of Sergei's papers.

There were very few. A thin notebook contained a list of

names and phone numbers. Michel, Jean-Luc, Thierry, Menoud... There were no last names: Sergei's 'shepherds', presumably. A bulky manila envelope held a large number of new Deutschmarks, probably for buying trips in Europe; as good an international currency as any. And in the wooden box...

They were handwritten, five or six sheets of thin onionskin

paper, each with numbers at the top that looked like dates. So they must be letters: but he couldn't read a word of the foreign script. Letters from home, no doubt. No doubt in his mind. But when Klaus asked him what was in the safe, and he answered-- a list of names and phone numbers, a large amount of money, and letters in a foreign language; well, it was easy to see how that could all be made to add up to a suspicious total. Dorian considered his dilemma. It was no use thinking of lying: the Major seemed to have a second sense for his prevarications and

dissimulations. But the only alternative was to take the letters, and this occasioned a slight crisis of, not so much conscience as aesthetics.

Eroica had stringent principles when it came to his metier. He took what would make Dorian Red Gloria happy and left the rest. Stealing someone else's letters was-- vulgar: like a private detective tracking a straying husband. Dorian disliked having the integrity of his romanticism compromised by mundane theft, but in a good cause he could stoop to anything.

And this was unarguably a good cause. It was necessary to clear Sergei of suspicion and necessary to satisfy Klaus. And as satisfying Klaus was necessary to Dorian's own emotional well-being, he concluded happily that the present situation in no way violated his high standards of behaviour. The only problem was the slight possibility that Sergei would discover that the letters were missing before he had a chance to put them back. Well, and if he did, Dorian would simply have to tell him the whole story. And being Sergei, he'd probably think it all very funny. Sergei seemed to find him terribly amusing quite a lot of the time.

He slipped the thin packet into his waistband under the black

windcheater. Why hadn't it occurred to him that he might have to take something away with him? He'd have worn a jacket with pockets. Silly of him. So now for Corydon and Alexis. He began another ardent perusal of the pictures but stopped himself suddenly. Klaus- the real Klaus- was expecting his call; it wouldn't do to keep the Major waiting. He stole a last look at the frontispiece, where the two of them embraced smilingly under a tree. Sergei was right: if only one could live in Arcadia. Quickly he rewrapped the book in its canvas covering. He'd take it with

him, of course--

-- only there was no place to put it.

He gaped momentarily, shocked beyond words that his unconscious mind could betray him so basely. Was that why he'd worn an outfit with no pockets? But what on earth for? The book was clearly his. Even Sergei had agreed that Dorian was entitled to whatever Dorian wanted, and he knew Dorian wanted this. He wouldn't mind him taking it. Well, he wouldn't mind much. Well... He was remembering, unwillingly, Sergei's forefinger stroking the pictured youth's hair, gently and tenderly. For Dorian and the love of his life there was a future and the promise of happiness to come. For Sergei and his friend all was over. There was nothing but memories.

Yes, but... But how could he leave the book here? Of course he was sorry for Sergei, but... It would be like handing Klaus over to another man. The idea was unbearable.

He switched off the torch as if darkness would somehow assist his thoughts. There was no problem with the lack of pockets. He'd tuck his windcheater into hi