Acceptable Losses

Prologue

There are some things a guy doesn’t need to know. There are some things a guy doesn’t want to know and then there are those things so horrific a guy should know about them, even if he has no idea what to do with the information. Now the worst case scenario occurs when the guy in question learns about these bad things while he’s standing in the middle of Large Mart with a can of bug killer in one hand, a roll of duct tape in the other and a head full of images that make him want to scream.

This is precisely what happened to Chuck Bartowski on the afternoon of February 9th 2008.

What did he do? you’re wondering. Well, I’ll tell you. Dropping the roach spray and the tape and not stopping to watch them roll away across the concrete floor, he ran as fast as he could out of the store, even before the automatic doors had opened enough to allow him through. Then, with arms smarting from the impact of squeezing through the too-small gap, he flailed helplessly, his mouth gaping and his legs trying to bolt off in two completely different directions.

The thing you have to remember is that Chuck Bartowski’s not good at making decisions, especially when he’s busy emoting hard. He’s the kind of guy who can function very efficiently as long as there are no tearful girls, homeless puppies or cruel, lifelike visions occurring involving people he knows.

So, to get back to where we’d left off, there was Chuck standing outside the Large Mart, peering in through glass doors at the pale elegant man who’d instigated this meltdown. The guy wasn’t alone, he was surrounded by a group of men who were nowhere near as well dressed as him, but Chuck didn’t need to focus on them. They weren’t the ones who’d put the pictures in his head. They weren’t the ones who were making silent tears roll uncontrollably down his face.

Not for the first time in his life Chuck was at a loss, but this time he had no idea where to turn. Weinerlicious was close, the Buy More was closer, but both of them may as well have been a million miles away. He wanted Ellie, he wanted his mom, he wanted Morgan--anyone who would hold him and tell him that everything was going to be alright.

Except that this wasn’t about him, was it?

Moscow 1995

“Vanya, look at this?” Ganelin pushed a leather bound dossier across the cherry wood table. “Tell me she isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

Ivan heaved in a breath before responding with a curt “Yes, Dmitriy Osipovich.” He’d been on assignment here for so long he was starting to think in Russian – his American skills falling by the wayside. Eighteen months was way too long for deep cover and he could hardly remember who he was anymore.

“Open it. Look. And I’ve told you before that there’s no need for such formality when we’re alone.”

Gritting his teeth, Ivan braced himself and glanced through the folder. Ganelin’s personal tastes didn’t run to women, but part of the less-than-legal side of his business empire dealt in pornography involving very young girls and was nauseating. The man was a multi-billionaire, these kids had nothing, and yet he was happy to exploit their desperation. The sex trade wasn’t the reason Ivan was here working undercover as a bodyguard for the piece of shit, but he would be happy to see the man go down for all his many crimes.

With an inaudible sigh of relief Ivan scanned through the photographs. There were no pussy shots of pubescent girls with forced smiles on their faces. Instead the folder contained pictures and specifications of a boat, a beautiful two hundred footer that must have cost upwards of twenty million dollars and was so luxurious that it made Ivan’s stomach heave.

“What do you think of her, Vanya? She is a dream, yes? We’ll fly out to Cannes tonight and then we get to find out how perfect she really is.”

For once Ivan was stuck for words. So far he’d been able to report back to his I.S.A. contact regularly with information on Ganelin’s transfers, but how would this be possible from on board ship? He was so close to nailing the cunt and if he was unable to make contact and the team moved in quickly to retrieve him then everything could be lost.

“Well?” demanded the Russian insistently.

“She’s impressive,” said Ivan, covering his hesitancy with some quick thinking. “But, Dima, I get sea sick.”

“It’ll be fine.” Ganelin stood up and approached Ivan, slipping an arm around his broad shoulders. “I’ll look after you. You know that.”

The limb felt like a snake coiling around his body and Ivan repressed a shiver. He’d known from the start of this mission that Ganelin would be attracted to him--it was why he’d been hand picked for the job--but so far, apart from a few closed mouth kisses, he’d managed to stay away from the man’s clutches.

“We’ll have fun, I promise. All work and no play makes my Vanya a dull boy. On board the yacht there’ll be no need for you to protect me. You can relax and let me take care of you.”

Ivan Grigorevich Kerensky was closer to panic than he’d ever been during his ten years of military service.

Los Angeles 2008

Chuck Bartowski spent a good ten minutes floundering outside the Large Mart before making his mind up what to do. Finally, he sprinted to the car pool, collected his Nerd mobile and high-tailed it home, in desperate need of a friendly face.

As well as being tall and stunningly beautiful with a smile that made every man want to fuck her, protect her and be mothered by her in equal proportion, Ellie Bartowski was also the permanent shoulder for her brother to cry on.

Jumping up on the kitchen counter Chuck chose an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it, chewing thoughtfully and swallowing before voicing the question that had been on his mind for the last hour. “Sis, if you knew something about a person and… it was bad, what would you do?”

Ellie looked up from where she was preparing pasta for dinner. “This person, is he called Chuck?”

“No! No… it’s not me.” Chuck felt himself beginning to choke up again as those pictures flooded into his brain.

“Hey, Chuck, Ellie. How are we doing, guys?” said a voice from behind them and Chuck was grateful for the distraction.

Pulling himself together he raised an eyebrow in the direction of his bedroom window. “I know I locked the Morgan door this morning.”

“Blame loose fixings and my nose, buddy,” said the small, scruffy man as he sniffed the cooking smells that were coming from the stove. “It can tell when there’s the Ellie Bartowski pasta special on the menu. The only food that’s better than sizzling shrimp.”

Opening the refrigerator Morgan hunted around inside. “There’s no beer. Oh and Big Mike’s going to kill you or fire you. He says he hasn’t made up his mind yet.”

“Oh… OH!” Chuck suddenly remembered the really important meeting scheduled for five p.m. -- about the time he’d been flailing helplessly outside Large Mart.

“Chuck. Is this the ‘something bad’ you wanted to talk to me about?” asked Ellie, dipping a spoon into the sauce then tasting it and adding some more chopped sage and capers.

“No, the something bad is… bad-er.” Chuck thought hard about the likelihood of coincidences. “I have to talk to Sarah,” he said, grabbing his jacket and running for the door. “Save me food.”

Hooking on his Bluetooth earpiece, Chuck dialled Sarah Walker’s cell.

“I need to see you,” he said as he squeezed himself into the tiny Nerd Herd car and started the engine.

“I’m at the Weinerlicious,” she replied, hanging up immediately.

That call totally summed Chuck’s life up right now -- all speed with no time to think. His fake girlfriend was the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen and he was certain he would love her truly-madly-deeply if it wasn’t for the fact that she kept insisting there was no future for them as a couple.

Slamming his car into a parking space, Chuck raced into the diner and waited impatiently for the troop of teenage boys to take their hot dogs and their stiff wieners outside. Then, looking again to make sure that all was quiet, he approached the counter.

“Guten tag,” Sarah Walker said with a smile, flinging her pigtails around.

“I flashed on some guy in the Large Mart.”

Sarah pulled out an iBook from under the counter. “Name?” she asked in a business-like fashion as if she was taking food orders for a party of twenty weiner lovers.

“Dmitriy Osipovich Ganelin.” Chuck refused to watch the computer screen just in case any of those images he’d seen were preserved there on record.

“And he was in Large Mart?”

“Yep.” Chuck caught a glimpse of the man’s face and prayed it wouldn’t initiate another flash. He breathed with relief once the image turned to text.

“On his own?” asked Sarah, scrolling through reams of C.I.A. data.

“No. He was with a group of guys.” Chuck listed some names for her.

Sarah frowned. “A lot of this information is classified military.” She picked up her phone. “I’ll get Casey to organise a debriefing with Beckman.”

“No!” yelped Chuck, grabbing the cell out of her hand. “Sarah. How much do you know about John Casey?”

Moscow 1995

The most impressive thing about being a billionaire was that everything you wanted could be achieved at the drop of a hat. In less than an hour Ganelin had made travel arrangements, informed his valet about exactly which items needed to be packed and called his chauffeur to bring the car around to the front of his gated mansion in the suburbs.

Hurrying wasn’t good, thought Ivan as he threw clothes into a suitcase then secreted the small data transmitter inside the lining material. Once on board the Eugenie he’d have no way of making contact with his team other than tapping into the yacht’s own communication systems--which would be a case of final desperate measures--but at least the G.P.S. signal ensured that The Activity would know where he was located at all times.

Once packed, they took the Bentley to Tretyakovsky Proezd where, despite Ivan’s six foot four muscled bulk, he was treated more like a male courtesan than a bodyguard -- Ganelin making it apparent with looks and touches that Ivan was his personal plaything.

Wandering from store to store they collected a small fortune’s worth of designer wear, having it altered there and then when necessary, before heading back to the car. Sliding into the backseat, dressed in a beautifully cut Zegna suit and kingfisher blue shirt, Ivan had to admit that he felt like a million dollars, but the carriers full of clothes didn’t make this job any more enjoyable. At the moment he still had the security of a Glock in his shoulder holster, however he had a feeling that once they’d boarded the yacht the pistol would no longer be part of his required dress.

“Vanya, you look gorgeous.” The Russian man leaned in, pawing Ivan’s chest in pretence of admiring the fine fabric. “That blue brings out the colour of your eyes.”

Drawing in a lustful breath he planted his mouth against Ivan’s, engaging him in a lingering kiss. A manicured hand slipped downwards, caressing first belly then crotch and, suppressing a whimper, Ivan kissed Ganelin back. “Thank you for everything, Dima,” he murmured, hoping that his words sounded a lot more sincere than they felt.

They headed straight to Sheremetyevo airport where the private jet was ready for them with a full complement of crew and a large group of Ganelin’s business partners and staff waiting on the tarmac. Ivan looked around at the sea of faces--a wanted list of suspected international arms traders--and realised that something big was going down. It was vital that he infiltrate this as soon as possible.

As soon as they boarded the jet Ivan knew that things had changed. He’d never been allowed entry to Ganelin’s private suite of rooms during a trip before, his job always being to guard the outside of the door. It had taken months to gain the man’s trust and, despite the panic, Ivan could feel a quiver of satisfaction deep down in his guts. A year and a half’s work was finally coming to fruition.

Sinking into a deep leather armchair, close enough to Dmitriy and his friends to hear the conversation, Ivan took a glass of Cristal from a tray that was being passed around, drank it down in one swig and then closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

There were no specifics discussed during the flight, but the muttered mentions of code names for Russian developed missiles left him in no doubt at all that Dmitriy Ganelin was in the process of supplying a large number of weapons to one of the major terrorist factions and, if the items were as lethal as he suspected, then Ivan had to do everything necessary to become closer to Ganelin and put a halt to this.

“Wake up, Vanya.”

Ivan opened his eyes and looked around him, trying to ignore Dmitriy’s leering face that was ruddy from an excess of champagne. Apart from the two of them, the private suite was now worryingly empty.

“Come, sit here with me.” Dmitriy walked over to a couch, threw himself down and patted the seat next to him. “I dismissed everyone. We do not have much time before we land, but I need a few minutes alone with you.”

Ivan curled obediently next to the Russian, resting his hand lightly on the older man’s thigh.

“I am so happy you’re working for me, Vanya. There is a connection between us. Do you feel it also?”

“Of course, Dimochka.”

Ganelin trembled with desire at the pet name and, sliding his hand inside Ivan’s shirt, his craving became more obvious as he began rubbing frantically at the pelt of hair that covered Ivan’s abdomen. “So beautiful. I can’t wait until I have you all to myself on the yacht.”

The man was rigid inside his suit pants and Ivan was certain he’d be forced to give Ganelin a hand job or suck him off, but luckily for him the Russian seemed to enjoy the thrill of a slow seduction.

“I can’t wait,” Ganelin breathed again, leaning over, his tongue working its way between Ivan’s lips.

He had to endure ten minutes of lecherous kisses before it was announced that they would soon be landing at Cannes airport. Buckling himself into the seat, Ivan thought long and hard over whether he could go ahead with this. But with such a massive security threat opening up, what choice did he have?

Los Angeles 2008

Back at the Weinerlicious, Chuck knew that Sarah Walker was on the point of snatching her phone back and hitting him over the head with it.

“What do you mean?” she demanded. “Casey’s my partner, more or less.”

“But what do you know about him?” he said once more, trying this time to make sure that this time his voice didn’t come complete with that weird-as-frick tremolo effect.

“Is he involved in something he shouldn’t be?” Sarah looked at him intently and Chuck tried desperately to reel through everything in his head whilst skipping over the bad parts.

“Yes, I mean no. I mean, I flashed on him, Sarah. Him and this Ganelin oligarch guy.”

“So? Casey has dealings with criminals, Chuck. It’s what we do. What are you trying to tell me?”

“I don’t know,” said Chuck miserably. He wanted to confide in Sarah, but he couldn’t find a way to explain what he’d seen. The words weren’t there. “Can you tell me everything you do know about Casey. Please.”

Sarah sighed and then shoved the iBook under the counter as a group of customers came in demanding service followed by a very irate N.S.A. agent who waited for the place to empty and then glared at Sarah and Chuck in turn.

“If I’m the little fat kid again I’m gonna be mad,” he growled. “And, Bartowski, I promise you’ve never seen me lose my temper before. You may think you have, but you haven’t.”

“You haven’t,” agreed Sarah with a nod.

“No… fat kids or anything else… suspicious…” Chuck’s words petered out as he gazed helplessly at the counter, unable to look Casey directly in the face. “Sarah’s supposed to be my girlfriend, remember. This is quality relationship time.”

“Hmmm.” Casey’s glare grew even more vicious as he stepped back and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his khakis. “No talking shop behind my back though.”

“Sure thing, big guy.” Chuck smiled as brightly as he could whilst still managing not to make eye contact and was relieved when, with a final grunt, Casey stomped towards the door.

But then, with fingers clutching at the handle, the big man turned back, an evil leer on his face. “Big Mike’s mad at you for missing that meeting. He’s still deciding-”

“Whether to kill me or fire me. Yeah, I know already.”

This put Casey in an even worse mood and he yanked the door so hard it almost came off its hinges before striding out of the shop.

“Casey-baiting can be dangerous,” said Sarah and Chuck’s mind immediately returned to that sequence of images in his brain.

“You still want me to hunt out his records?” asked the C.I.A. agent as she retrieved her laptop from a tray full of hot dog buns. “I can tell you a lot without the computer. I’ve worked with him on and off for years.”

Chuck focused on the images of a much younger Casey. “I need to know about further back than that,” he said slowly. “He told me he was in the Marines.”

Sarah scanned the data. “He was in a M.A.G. squadron until 1988 and then…” The girl stopped in mid-sentence.

“And then?” prompted Chuck.

“I don’t know.” Sarah frowned, tapping in some additional information. “Nothing’s coming up under any of his familiar aliases. I shouldn’t be doing this, Chuck.” She clicked to a new site and entered a long string of numbers and letters. “These are N.S.A. encrypted records. Sometimes Casey and I need access to each others’ data.” She put a finger to her lips as she scanned the information. “He wasn’t recruited by the N. S. A. until September 1996 after an extended series of psychological evaluations.”

Chuck tried to hazard a guess at how old the big man was in that flash. Late twenties, early thirties he reckoned, but it was hard to tell under those circumstances. “So you’re telling me from 1988 until 1996 John Casey didn’t exist, even as far as the government is concerned?”

“Seems that way.” Sarah was still hunting through data.

“And what does that mean?”

She looked up at him. “It means you and the Intersect know a lot more about Ganelin and Casey than I do and I don’t like that, Chuck.”

Sarah Walker had the ability to look more menacing than anyone else in the world when she wanted to--John Casey included--and right now if Chuck Bartowski had been wearing boots rather than sneakers he would’ve been shaking in them.

Cannes 1995

It was a few minutes past midnight, Central European Time, when the private jet landed at Cannes airport and, despite the darkness, the French Riviera still managed to look stunning. On paper, compared to some of his other covert missions, playing a rich man’s toy should’ve been a walk in the park, but this certainly wasn’t the case and Ivan shivered as he disembarked from the plane and entered a waiting limousine.

Beneath the swanky suits and slick exterior Dmitriy Ganelin was a sick motherfucker who’d do anything to increase his fortune. His legitimate income from the power industry was earned at the expense of the Chechen people--Ganelin thought nothing of using their country as a toxic waste dump--and his arms deals had led to the deaths of many thousands of people – U.S. military personnel amongst them.

The Activity had been after the man for years and this was the closest they’d ever come to closing him and his operations down for good. Ivan knew that he had to hold his nerve, but, Christ, he longed for the day when he’d be back to crawling through the Colombian jungle on his belly.

“Vanya, look.” Ganelin slipped on arm around his shoulders and then pointed at the beautiful sight of the marina, twinkling lights reflected off the water. “There, see at the far end. The biggest yacht is mine.”

It was always the case; the motherfucker couldn’t stand being second best at anything.

“Drive faster. I want to see my new toy,” Ganelin said to the chauffeur, his voice thick with longing and Ivan prayed hard that it was the Eugenie that was at the root of all that lust.

The limousine raced past the medieval walls and along winding streets to the marina where it pulled in to the harbour-side, closely followed by a cavalcade of other vehicles that were full of Ganelin’s entourage.

Lapping up the murmurs of approval from his friends, the Russian businessman took Ivan’s arm and led him aboard the boat. The status quo had definitely altered--theirs was no longer just a working relationship--and Ivan wondered whether his new found standing was due to Dmitriy Ganelin’s sudden burst of holiday spirits or the potential pleasure that came from making a bank vault full of shady money.

He was loathed to admit it, but Ivan couldn’t help but be impressed by the Eugenie. She was an awesome yacht, furnished to the highest specification with every kind of luxury item imaginable – a large Jacuzzi, a deck full of jet skis, a movie theatre. Anything you could possibly dream of was available.

Walking past the smartly lined up crew, Ivan spotted the bulge of weapons marring the lines of their white uniforms and knew that this was no ordinary vacation. Without a doubt these men were mercenaries, hand picked by Ganelin, and as loyal as money could buy.

The skipper, Captain Kuznetsov opened the door to the state room with a flourish and Ganelin entered, looking around him with satisfaction. “It’s even more beautiful that it appeared in the brochures,” he said with a prolonged sigh of happiness.

Ivan stared at the focal point of the room, a huge four poster bed covered with an expanse of chocolate brown silk, and prayed that the vacation wasn’t doubling up as a honeymoon. Slow seductions he could cope with, but to have to launch into a full scale love affair with the cunt was something he was not certain he could stomach.

Ganelin opened a connecting door to a smaller and less elaborately finished suite, just the other side of his dressing area. “Your rooms, Vanya” he said. “I need my bodyguard close by me at all times.” A slimy look passed between him and the skipper and Ivan knew then that their potential affair had been discussed and possibly planned out in detail.

Stewards rolled trolley after trolley of luggage into the master suite and were dismissed with a cursory word as soon as they began to unpack. The men left obediently and Ivan wondered where Ganelin had learned the ability to control people so well. K.G.B. maybe? His past was clouded in secrecy and even the I.S.A. hadn’t managed to fathom out a history.

“Pour me a whisky.”

Ganelin indicated the full bar at the far corner of the room with a sweep of his fingers and Ivan did as requested, chinking ice cubes into a glass then filling it with a couple of fingers of Laphroaig. He carried the drink over to Ganelin who was lounging on a formal couch and looking out of the window at the night view of Cannes.

“I’m tired,” he said. “Run me a bath. It’ll relax me enough to sleep.”

Ivan’s mind went into over-drive. “I’ll not be able to sleep until I know you’re safe,” he said. “While you’re bathing will you allow me to check the boat for security issues?”

Ganelin looked up with a smile on his face. “No need, Vanya. I trust everyone. I’m safer here than anywhere else in the world.”

Ivan sat next to the Russian man, pressing up close to him possessively. “Indulge me, Dimochka,” he said in a wheedling way that made his bile rise. “If I don’t do my job properly then how can I hope to gain respect from your friends?”

A hand clasped Ivan’s thigh and moved upwards. “Whatever makes you happy, sladkiy moy,” said Ganelin, pulling Ivan towards him, mouth closing in and tongue slithering between Ivan’s lips.

The Russian was far from ugly and Ivan certainly wasn’t averse to sleeping with men, but he could almost smell all that death on his breath. The kiss may have only lasted a few seconds, but it was too long for Ivan’s comfort and he was relieved when Ganelin pulled away and looked at him admiringly.

“You take your job seriously. I like that very much.”

Ivan managed a smile.

“Now go fix my bath then run off and do your work,” the Russian said patronizingly, stretching his arm out and picking up his drink. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Of course, Dima.” Ivan made sure his voice was controlled, but inside he was buzzing with excitement. Not only did he get a stay of execution from bedroom duties, but he also had permission to check out every square inch of the Eugenie for anything suspicious.

The master bathroom was as over the top as the rest of the yacht, a sea of white marble and gold fittings, and as Ivan leaned over to turn on the faucet he wondered how a person could be so selfish. It was unthinkable in Ivan’s world to accrue this amount of wealth at the expense of so many people. There was no word for it but depraved.

Switching on the T.V. he tuned in to a satellite news channel, so used to speaking in a foreign language all the time that he found himself translating the English words back to Russian in his head. A report on the trial of that fucker who’d masterminded the car bomb on the Twin Towers doubled his determination to get this job done, whatever the personal cost might be.

“Find me some porn,” called the Russian from the bedroom. “You know what I like. I need to unwind after all the travelling.”

Pouring a splash of oil into the running flow, Ivan watched the bath turn milky white and then turned off the faucet. Flicking through the channels on the satellite receiver he found something suitable and then made the swiftest exit possible into his own suite of rooms before Ganelin decided on other ways to aid relaxation.

Slipping out of his dress clothes and pulling on a pair of cargoes and a tee-shirt, Ivan strapped his shoulder holster and Glock into place then covered the weapon with a lightweight jacket. He left his cabin by the main door, trying to block out the sound of rhythmic splashing coming from the bathroom. He’d have to do more than listen to it soon, that was inevitable.

The public rooms were empty--all of Ganelin’s personal staff and guests had retreated to their cabins for the night--and having checked out the upper decks, Ivan then headed down towards the crew areas.

“Is there a problem, Ivan Grigorevich?”

The captain was the last person Ivan wanted to bump into, seeming very much on the Ganelin payroll, but still this hardly mattered when his investigations had been green-lit by the boss.

“You’re aware that I’m in charge of security?”

“Amongst other things.”

That sly smirk filled Ivan with an urge to remove it from Kuznetsov’s face with his fist, but he remained cool. “I will not allow safety to be compromised,” he explained to the rail thin man. “You can ask Dmitriy Osipovich if you wish, but I can assure you that I was given permission to check out every part of this yacht.”

The captain gave a curt nod then headed off in the direction of his private quarters, and Ivan smiled, pleased at how easily this was progressing. The crew deck was a different world compared to the rest of the boat. Clean and basic, it was a million miles away from the ostentation of the guest areas and Ivan found himself loosening up -- a complete contrast to how he should have felt when investigating the storage compartments of an international gun smuggler’s yacht.

A relatively poor background meant that he didn’t deal well with excess. He’d scraped his way through college before joining the Marines and since then had become used to the asceticism of a service life. It suited him; he’d happily choose Bosnia or the Sudan in preference to this.

Switching on the bulkhead lights, Ivan entered the chill dankness of the hold. Boats were always the same; even in the height of summer the lower levels were damp and unprepossessing. If pushed he’d admit to the fact that he hadn’t been lying to Ganelin yesterday. He didn’t like ships, nor did he own a great pair of sea legs. It was a shame that he hadn’t discovered this before joining the military.

Using his Maglite to check out the darker parts of the storage lockers, he wriggled into crawlspaces and used every one of his wiles to hunt out possible hiding places, but after an hour of fruitless searching he was left with the blank realisation that unless Ganelin was stacking crates full of ballistic missiles in full view of the French coast guard then the Eugenie contained nothing that she shouldn’t.

Los Angeles 2008

Chuck couldn’t work out why the car journey back to Sarah Walker’s apartment was so much more uncomfortable than usual. Yeah, she drove like a demon, but he knew they were never in danger of crashing. In the end he figured it was the silence that was scaring him. The couple of times he risked an occasional glance at the girl he could tell she was running over events in her mind and trying to figure out what was going on.

Chuck wished he knew himself. If only he hadn’t chosen that moment to go and buy bug spray. It wasn’t as if he was even certain that what they’d seen was a cockroach. It could have been an ant – one that had been zapped by radiation and was mutating rapidly into a monster that would eat the whole of West Hollywood for breakfast. Insects aside, why was there a major Russian arms dealer shopping in the Large Mart?

Sarah’s apartment was so totally stylish it made Chuck wonder whether the C.I.A. gave all potential agents compulsory classes in interior design.

“Sit down,” she demanded and Chuck complied instantly, knees jammed tightly together and eyes open wide.

Seating herself elegantly next to him, Sarah opened her iBook and began hunting for information about the Russian businessman.

“I can tell you what’s in our records,” she said. “Dmitriy Ganelin was arrested in 1995 and bought to trial, charged with illegally exporting weapons belonging to the former Soviet Union. Other charges were dropped and he was sentenced to fifteen years imprisonment. In 2001 he was extradited back to Russia where his sentence was revoked.”

“Other charges?” Some large person was walking over Chuck’s grave.

“It doesn’t say,” answered Sarah and then she looked at him. “Chuck. Ganelin was arrested just before Casey resurfaced and was recruited by the N.S.A.. Maybe he was the agent responsible for bringing him in.”

“So Ganelin shopping in the Large Mart could have everything to do with Casey and nothing to do with the Intersect,” said Chuck quietly. Trying to spin this into one of those freak coincidental events was impossible.

“We have to tell John.” Sarah was about to close down her laptop when a photograph of one of Ganelin’s business partners sparked off another brutal flash, strong enough this time to make Chuck run to the bathroom and vomit.

“Are you okay?” asked Sarah, watching from the doorway as he flushed away the sick and then washed his face and hands.

“I… I can’t talk to him about this,” he said desperately, thinking about that big man with his gruff exterior and reserved nature.

“Why, Chuck?” Sarah was almost whining with exasperation. “What if we’re right and Ganelin is after Casey rather than the Intersect? You want to be responsible for them getting to him?”

Cannes 1995

After taking a couple of Dramina to ward off any bouts of seasickness Ivan drifted off into a restless sleep, only to be woken a couple of hours later by a disturbance coming from the stern of the ship.

Bleary-eyed, he slipped on a robe and made his way out to the upper decks where Ganelin, Kuznetsov and Ganelin’s business partner, Sergei Alenichev were having a heated argument with two gendarmes who were keeping a tight hold of a member of the crew -- the chef if Ivan remembered correctly.

“Vanya, explain to these bastards that Lev Mikhailovich is a necessary part of my team. How can I entertain guests without someone to cook for them?”

A short conversation in French was all that was necessary for Ivan to make sense of the situation.

“When port authorities checked passports, they discovered that he’s wanted in connection with the murder of a police officer here in Cannes,” he explained, turning to face his irate boss. “There’s nothing that can be done.”

“There’s always something that can be done,” snarled Ganelin. “Offer them some fucking money.” But by this time the gendarmes were already dragging Lev Mikhailovitch off the yacht towards their car which was parked on the quayside.

“I’ll find a replacement, Dima,” said Alenichev, always first in line to be bootlicker.

Small and rather sharp featured, the man reminded Ivan of a weasel; a very jealous weasel who appeared to want nothing more than for Ganelin to show him the kind of attention he offered Ivan.

“Go do it then, Sergei Leonidovich, but make sure our sailing time is not delayed.” The businessman was in a filthy mood and as he strode away from the others, his footsteps stamped out a sharp Pasodoble on the deck boards.

Tying his robe around him, Ivan followed Ganelin down to the main deck and, without any more thought about the kitchen arrangements, managed to fall back to sleep almost instantly.

~~~

Ivan awoke to the sight of the sun pouring into his cabin window and the definite knowledge that they were no longer moored in the marina. The slight roll of the ship tied his stomach into knots and, reaching over to the nightstand, he dry swallowed two more tablets to suppress the seasickness before getting up and jumping into the shower.

Emerging from the bathroom, he discovered Ganelin standing by the bed waiting for him and instinctively wrapped the small towel tighter around his waist.

“Only you can improve my mood today, Vanyusha,” said Ganelin, staring appreciatively at Ivan’s body. “You are so tempting.”

Pushing him down on the bed, he ran his hands over Ivan’s chest, caressing his belly and licking slow circles around each nipple in turn. Ivan could feel how hard Ganelin was against his naked thigh and tried to relax. At some point he would have to sleep with the man and he was thinking that it may as well be now when a sudden knock at the door of the master suite startled the Russian, making him leap up from Ivan’s bed.

“That will be breakfast,” he said, heading for the connecting door. “Come join me.”

Ivan was almost disappointed. Not that he wanted to fuck Ganelin, but he needed this waiting to be over -- the anticipation was beginning to drive him crazy.

Pulling on a pair of pyjama pants he walked barefoot through the dressing room and into the salon where breakfast was being laid out on a small walnut table in the window.

“What is this?” asked Ganelin in a cold voice as he eyed the platters of food.

“Breakfast, Dmitriy Osipovich?” The steward continued to place silverware and china on the table with increasingly shaky hands.

“I expect scrambled eggs with smoked salmon or omelet with truffle and I get this?” Ganelin stabbed his fork into an overdone sausage and waved it menacingly at the man. “What is this slum food?” Discarding the fork he picked up a blini, which appeared to be as solid as rubber, and threw it across the room. “A pig could cook better than this.”

“The new chef is-”

“Bring him to me,” interrupted Ganelin, adopting an even icier tone.

“Yes, Dmitriy Osipovich.”

As the steward backed away and made a break for the exit, Ivan picked up a blini, spread it with sour cream and jelly and took a bite. It tasted better than it looked, although admittedly smoked salmon or caviar would have been a better choice of topping. “It’s not so bad,” he said, pouring out two cups of coffee from the pot which turned out to be strong tea.

Ganelin smiled and took a seat at the table. “Only you could make me eat this slop.” He forked rye bread and sausage onto his plate. “Only you, Vanya.”

The tentative knock came at a relatively good time. “Come in,” said Ganelin in a much calmer tone.

The door opened and in walked Alenichev followed by a scared looking young man, owner of a mess of dark wavy hair and a pair of sad eyes.

“Good morning, Dmitriy Osipovich.” Alenichev smiled smugly, obviously uninformed that the boss was none too pleased with his choice of kitchen staff. “This is our new chef Aleksei Ilyich Matulik.”

“Well then, Aleksei Ilyich, where did you learn your cookery skills?” Ganelin looked up, a cruel smirk twisting his features. “A soup kitchen, I think.”

“I was working at the Caviar House...” The kid stumbled over which words to choose for the best and Ivan felt sorry for him. Plastering more cream and jelly onto a pancake he ate it hungrily, more for show than anything else.

“It was the only Russian restaurant in Cannes,” explained Alenichev.

“And you never once considered that we could eat French food, Sergei Leonidovich?” Ganelin shook his head with wry amusement at the situation. “Go. Just make sure your chef serves up something more palatable for dinner.”

Ganelin watched both men leave the room over the top of his newspaper then, dropping it listlessly onto the table, he gazed out of the picture windows.

“The weather looks beautiful. We must make the most of it, Vanya. Wear the Speedos I bought you.”

Ivan chewed on his lip trying to restrain that childish habit he had of pouting. Those swimming trunks were the most revolting piece of clothing he’d ever seen. A pale silver-grey, they clung tightly to his crotch, emphasizing the lie of his cock with perfect shading and he hated the skimpy garment passionately. “I’m not sure they’ll fit,” he said, hunting for a way out, pretty much convinced that when wet the material would lose the small amount of opacity it possessed and become ten times as obscene.

“Wear them,” ordered Ganelin.

“Yes, Dmitriy Osipovich,” replied Ivan sullenly. He’d been in more life or death situations than he could count. He’d killed with his bare hands and endured long interrogation sessions and now he was reduced to this.

“Vanyusha, meely. Like you said yesterday… indulge me, please.” Ganelin leaned in and kissed Ivan on the cheek in a gesture that was so very patronising that he struggled to keep his cool.

“I’ll go and get dressed,” said Ivan, finishing his tea and getting up from the breakfast table.

“Good boy.” Ganelin didn’t even look at him, just picked up the newspaper and folded it back on itself then began reading an article from the business section.

Hurrying to the safety of his cabin, Ivan locked the door and paced up and down the small room a few times. Then, slipping out of his pyjamas, he opened up a drawer and stared in at the hated Speedos, hoping that they’d spontaneously combust and take him with them. Pulling them on, he examined himself in the full length mirror and decided that he may as well be naked, the tiny swim trunks doing very little to hide his bulked up anatomy. Sighing, he covered himself in a pair of khaki shorts and a white polo shirt then kicked on some deck shoes and glanced again at his reflection -- the perfect designer vision of a rich man on vacation. Disgusted at how owned he felt, he shoved a pistol into the back of his pants then returned to Ganelin’s suite, ready to play the part of a well-behaved catamite.

“You look delightful,” said the Russian as he finished slicking back his hair. “A picture, in fact.” Putting down the comb he strode over to Ivan and removed the Glock. “But you won’t be wanting this today,” he added, putting the weapon down onto his dressing table. Hooking a finger into the waistband of the khaki shorts, he pulled the material outwards and peered inside.

“Good boy,” he said once again, sliding his hand inside the pants and emphasizing ownership by cupping Ivan’s lycra-covered crotch possessively. “This vacation is exactly what I need. You are exactly what I need.”

After another lengthy kiss Ganelin pulled reluctantly away, then opening the door of the state room, he placed a hand on the small of Ivan’s back and escorted him towards the main staircase of the Eugenie.

Despite the size of the boat and the relatively small number of passengers--no more than twelve guests at most--there still seemed to be a hell of a lot of people everywhere. As Ivan followed Ganelin up to the sundeck he suddenly realised that there wasn’t one female on board ship – a definite indication that this trip was about work rather than play. Other than boating equipment and movie projectors it seemed he was the only toy to be found on board the Eugenie.

The Jacuzzi and sun loungers were overlooked by the captain’s quarters and Ivan hoped that Kuznetsov would not be watching him strip down to his swimming trunks… although many others would be. Most of the men Ganelin surrounded himself with gave off slightly creepy vibes and Ivan wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much. Still, all being well, just a few more weeks at most and this would be over.

“Buck’s Fizz,” demanded Ganelin, shucking off his robe to reveal a slightly more decent pair of swim shorts than the ones Ivan was wearing. “I need something to wash away the taste of that god-awful breakfast.”

As the chief steward scurried off Alenichev moved swiftly to take possession of the sun-bed next to Ganelin, but was dismissed with the usual sweep of a hand.

“Vanya, come sit here. I want you near me.”

Suffering a look of black hatred from Alenichev, Ivan did as he was told and sprawled across the cushioned steamer chair.

“You can’t sunbathe with your clothes on. Take them off, Vanyusha.” Ganelin gazed at him, half-lidded and lecherous.

Slowly Ivan stripped away his clothing and piled the items carefully on the deck next to his lounger. He could almost feel the heat emanating from Ganelin’s clear grey eyes as the man watched him undress. A pair of sunglasses helped disguise his unease and he lay back on the chair, listening intently to conversations going on around him.

The warmth of the late summer Mediterranean sun was almost lulling Ivan to the point of sleep when he was jolted back to full alertness by the sensation of a pair of slippery wet hands gliding over his chest.

“Relax,” murmured Ganelin. “I said I would take care of you and I meant it. I can’t have you getting sunburned.”

Despite everything, the application of sun cream felt better than good and Ivan found himself reacting to the gentle massage. Ganelin’s breathing became more frequent and when he spoke his voice was creaky with desire.

“Let me do your back, meely.”

Obeying without question, Ivan turned over and, pretending he was in another world, gave in to the sensation as Ganelin rubbed lotion over his skin. The man’s hands drifted down his spine then inside his trunks, cupping Ivan’s buttocks and kneading the muscle until the feeling was so good that he was soon pressing an urgent erection into the mattress that covered the wooden lounger.

“Bed,” whispered Ganelin, his mouth up close to Ivan’s ear and, aroused to extreme, Ivan found himself nodding eagerly and following the Russian back down the stairs like an obedient pet. At least this way they would have sex on his terms, when he needed it. After all sex was just sex.

Even though every person on that deck was fully aware of what they were planning on doing, there were no catcalls or sniggers. Ganelin commanded such absolute fear that none of his associates would dare risk that kind of outburst and Ivan was relieved. He didn’t want to be put off--he wanted to want this--and, lying face down on that expanse of brown silk, he found to his delight that he did.

As Ganelin peeled away the tight silver Speedos and stripped off his own trunks, Ivan gave in to his urges and murmured, “Dima… Dimochka, now, please.” But, despite those words, the last thing he was expecting was the painful sensation of immediate penetration.

Ganelin’s condommed cock was thoroughly lubed up and the sex wasn’t an agonizing experience, but there was no pleasure in it for Ivan. No reach around; no stimulation of his prostate; just a quick, uncomfortable fuck. In minutes it was over and Ganelin climbed off leaving Ivan bewildered and unsatisfied. He’d imagined hours and hours of being groped and pawed at by a demanding lover, but the reality was something completely different.

“You belong to me now,” said Ganelin, kissing Ivan on the back of the neck. “Now go bathe and be ready for dinner in an hour.”

It felt as if Ganelin had just marked him.

Picking up the Speedos and his pistol that had been left on the dressing table earlier that morning, Ivan left the master suite and once again headed for the safety of his own cabin. A bath was a good idea and while it was running he contemplated what had just happened. He couldn’t have felt more of a submissive if Ganelin had strapped a collar and leash on his neck and paraded him around on all fours.

Checking to make sure that the transmitter was still working, Ivan examined his small stash of weapons, caressing each one as if it was a friend. They were his only allies on board this ship. No one else could be trusted.

Bath now ready, Ivan slipped into the tub and let the hot water soothe away his worries. His cock sprang back to life and, allowing random images and fantasies to spill into his head, he planted his feet, raised his hips and began jerking off with a soaped up fist.

The orgasm when it came was a release, if nothing else, and Ivan reiterated silently to himself that this mission would soon be over as long as he kept his wits about him and his eye on the prize.

Drying off quickly, he slipped into some clean clothes and did a quick investigation of the boat just to see if he could pick up any tidbits of information from various conversations going on in the library and the lounge. Having gleaned nothing useful, he made his way to the exterior dining area which was protected from the sun by a large canvas awning.

“There you are, Vanya. Sit next to me.” Ganelin was seated at the head of the table, a Cuban cigar between his fingers and a decanter of whisky placed next to his glass. He was talking animatedly to his friends about which of the Moscow casinos gave the most consistent payouts.

As soon as everyone was seated and the wine was poured, an army of stewards began dishing out bowls of soup. The three course meal was adequate, if not great, and Ivan ate everything, particularly enjoying the apple and honey pastries that were served for dessert.

After dinner was over, Ganelin poured himself a measure of cognac from the fresh decanter which had been placed next to him then, with a feral smile on his face, looked around the table at his guests before fixing his gaze on Alenichev. “Well, Sergei Leonidovich, you have the distinction of employing the worst chef known to man,” he said as he swirled amber spirit around the balloon glass. “Go bring him here. I want to congratulate the boy.”

His face the colour of beetroot, Alenichev scampered off in rodent-like manner and Ivan would have thoroughly enjoyed seeing the little man so discomfited if it wasn’t for the reason behind his awkwardness. Returning a few minutes later, Alenichev brought with him the young chef, his face as white as a sheet.

“Aleksei Ilyich, do you know what ingredients are stored in the freezers?” Smoke puffed free from Ganelin’s nostrils and with that twisted smirk fixed in place the man appeared to have come straight from the Inferno. “I provide you with the best of everything and you make a meal out of cabbage water with shoe leather steaks to follow.”

The laughter around the table was uproarious and for the first time in his life, Ivan found himself empathising with someone -- probably because Aleksei Ilyich was the only other person on this goddamned yacht who wasn’t a fucking monster.

“I… I…” stammered the chef, tugging his hair free from its ponytail and allowing the dark sweaty strands to hide his embarrassment.

“I don’t want excuses,” snapped Ganelin. “I pay you an excellent wage and therefore I expect to eat excellent food. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Dmitriy Osipovich.”

“Serve us more meals like that and you’ll be shark bait.”

“Yes, Dmitriy Osipovich,” repeated the kid and Ivan could see how nervous he was.

“GO!” screamed Ganelin, cackling with delight as the young man leapt a foot into the air and then scuttled away down the steps.

Ivan was not impressed with this kind of harassment, but it was nothing unexpected. The big question in his head was why the fuck had the kid been stupid enough to sign on to the crew of the Eugenie if he hadn’t any idea how to cook?

After more coffee, more liqueurs and an excess of pointless conversation, the guests wandered away to entertain themselves and Ivan found his thoughts drifting towards Aleksei Ilyich. Following his instincts, he took the stairs down a couple of levels and headed for the large industrial galley where the newest member of the crew was doing menial kitchen tasks with a miserable expression on his face.

“The food wasn’t that bad,” Ivan said, smiling when the boy turned to glare at him.

That feistiness was a good sign and a closer inspection revealed that Matulik wasn’t as young as he seemed--in his mid-twenties at least--and this small detail made Ivan worry less. At twenty five he was flying F-18’s, not crying over the dishwater on a rich man’s yacht.

“Of course it wasn’t that good either,” he added, his smile turning to a grin when Aleksei Ilyich burst into sudden laughter.

“I’m not a chef,” the kid said, wiping away the tears of amusement with the sleeve of his whites. “I worked at the Caviar House. I sold Beluga and made pastries.”

“Then why in the hell-?”

“Why am I here? I used to rent a room above the café. One night some guy banged on the door and offered me a huge amount of money to work on this yacht. How was I to know he meant as a fucking chef?”

Aleksei Ilyich was open and engaging, a pleasure to talk to, and Ivan found himself drawn to the young man. They were two kindred spirits on a boat full of motherfuckers. Still, he figured it was only fair to dole out some honest advice.

“You should get away from here next time we make port,” he said. He could maybe use the kid to pass on some information.

“No way!” Aleksei Ilyich snorted. “Do you know how much money I’m making?” he said. “I’ll learn to make soup if it’s the last thing I do.”

Los Angeles 2008

“Casey?” Sarah knocked repeatedly at the door of Casey’s duplex and her dogged persistence made Chuck feel more nervous than ever.

The door opened a crack and then there was a familiar growl. “What do you want? Little fat kid’s not feeling like playing.”

Now normally Chuck would dismiss this as average Casey bad attitude, but today things felt kind of different… like he had a new found responsibility towards the man.

“Is everything okay?” he asked tentatively, trying to peek through the two inch gap between door and jamb.

“Apart from the fact that I’m not wearing anything but a robe, yes, Bartowski, everything is fine. What’s with all this misplaced concern?”

“Casey, let us in,” said Sarah. “Chuck flashed on something and it may be important.”

“You could’ve just said so.” There was a grunt followed by one of those oh-so-friendly sneers then the security chain was unhooked and the door opened fully to allow them inside. “But if it’s okay by you I’d like to get my pants on before talking to the general.”

Chuck watched the man race up the stairs and couldn’t help staring at the sliver of butt that was showing beneath the very short robe. Then he noticed Sarah frowning at him and he figured it was because she’d caught him ogling Casey until she began a muted rant.

“This would’ve been so much easier if you’d just tell me why you’re so screwed up over it,” she muttered. “What the hell was in that flash?”

Not the time. Not the time. Not the time. No way was Chuck gonna think about those images right now, not with the big man upstairs all naked and vulnerable.

Casey came down dressed in his customary black jeans and tee-shirt. “So what’s going on?” he said grouchily. “Another Team Chuck crisis to avert? Has your Sandworm costume gotten torn, Bartowski?”

Was Casey’s sarcasm on overdrive tonight or was Chuck just being oversensitive?

“This is serious,” said Sarah glancing at Chuck in that ‘are you gonna tell him or am I?’ way.

“Spill it, C.I.A.,” said the big man, staring at her stonily and then looking at his watch.

Was there a good show Casey was missing on TV? wondered Chuck. Something with a lot of killing and some mean slick cars. To take his mind off why they were there, he studied the apartment in closer detail than ever before. Usually he was too scared and just wanted out as quickly as possible. The duplex was very Casey-ish. There wasn’t one thing here to make it homey. Kind of like Sarah’s place but without the flair.

“Chuck flashed on a guy while he was in the Large Mart,” explained Sarah.

Oh God. Chuck didn’t want to be here for this. He wasn’t sure which he’d prefer to see -- emotional meltdown spy or screaming for vengeance spy.

“His name is Dmitriy Ganelin,” said Sarah. “Chuck thinks you know him.”

Sarah had to bring him into it. Couldn’t have just said the man’s name without applying a ‘Chuck thinks’ to the sentence. China syndrome was approaching.

“That fucker should still be in jail, not shopping for screws,” said John Casey, as sneeringly cool as ever.

Where was the nuclear holocaust? wondered Chuck. Maybe he’d got it wrong and Casey didn’t know anything about this guy. Except that he did, didn’t he? And if he knew the guy, then who’s to say that…

Daring to look at the big man, Chuck thought at first that everything was okay, but then he saw it, hidden away deep and masked by that granite exterior, but it was there alright. Fear. Cold ugly fear. The biggest amount of fear that Chuck Bartowski had ever seen in a person and he was seeing it right there in John Casey’s eyes. It was then that he knew everything that he’d seen in that broken flash of images was real.

“What the fuck do you know?” snarled Casey and quicker than lightning he had his fingers around Chuck’s neck and was lifting him and pushing him up against the wall. His legs dangling, Chuck realised that it was almost like that time when Ilsa Trinchina had shown up -- except that today he was convinced he was going to die.

“Stop it,” hissed Sarah and Casey dropped him like an obedient Rottweiler.

“You have no right,” the big man rasped as if he was the one who’d just been throttled, then, picking his keys up off the table, he was out of the door. Gone.

Chuck watched him leave from where he was lying crumpled on the floor.

“What the hell?” Sarah was already setting up the satellite link for video conferencing.

“We… have to go after him, Sarah. We have to go now.” In a second Chuck would be pawing at the door asking to be let out like a Rottweiler puppy wanting to go find its daddy.

“Not until I get some answers from Beckman,” said Sarah as she initiated the feed sequence. “If you won’t tell me then someone’s going to.”

“Agent Walker. Chuck. Is there a problem?” That gravelly voice rang out loud and intimidating over the sound system.

“There could be, General. Chuck identified a man near the Buy More store. His name is Dmitriy Osipovich Ganelin. We believe there’s a connection with Major Casey.”

“I’ll contact Casey directly,” said Beckman after a long pause. “Is he aware of the situation?”

“Yes, General.” There was a matching long pause from Sarah. “He may not be contactable. He didn’t take the news well, but I have no idea why. I’m in the dark here.”

Beckman turned to her desktop computer and began to tap in some information. I’ll upload the relevant files for you to access, Agent Walker. Contact me immediately when you find him.”

The connection dropped out to black and it felt as if Beckman had literally pulled the plug on them.

“We should…?” Chuck began to say then noticed that Sarah was studying her iBook intently.

“Oh shit,” she muttered, “oh shit,” and she sounded as wounded as Casey had looked. Then she glared at Chuck so hard he thought he was going to cry… or maybe even die. “You stupid irresponsible jerk,” she said. “Why the hell didn’t you say something to me earlier?”

“Because…” he couldn’t. He didn’t know how. Plus if he said it aloud then that made it true and he didn’t want it to be true.

“You wanted to know about John Casey, well go ahead and read this.” Sarah pushed the laptop at him and stood up to pour herself a drink.

Skimming through the reports on events surrounding the arrest of Dmitriy Ganelin didn’t make them any easier to swallow so Chuck forced himself to read every single ugly word. He didn’t look at the photo evidence though. Didn’t need to. He saw that in his head every time he closed his eyes.

The Mediterranean 1995

Aleksei Ilyich’s cooking did improve little by little, but he still had to endure the constant put downs from Ganelin. Torturing the chef was the favourite new blood sport aboard the Eugenie, all of the guests joining in with relish, and Aleksei impressed Ivan very much by taking it on the chin.

As time passed slowly by, Ivan found himself seeking out the kid more and more. He was light-hearted and funny and always succeeded in making Ivan laugh, something that he hadn’t done a lot of during the past ten years.

Knowing that Aleksei Ilyich--Lyosha as he’d started thinking of him---would be making the most of his free time soaking up the afternoon sun, Ivan wandered down to the small external area of the crew deck.

He had things on his mind and hanging out with the kid would hopefully relax him enough to straighten out his thinking. He’d finally overheard part of an intriguing conversation between Ganelin and one of his business associates, Stepan Romanovich, during which a rendezvous with another yacht was discussed. Ivan suspected that this must be when the weapons would be transferred aboard the Eugenie and he felt an icy shard of anticipation slice at his guts.

“Slumming it with the peasants again, Vanya?” said Lyosha in that good-natured drawl of his and Ivan already felt the tension easing as he watched the younger man sit up and splash Stoli into shot glasses.

“Even peasants are less boring than Dmitriy Osipovich when he’s talking business,” he said with a smile, although right now any mention of Ganelin was enough to make him feel nauseous.

Since they’d embarked on a full sexual relationship the man wanted him often and always in the same way -- on his belly being drilled into the mattress like a mated animal. In public it was different; Ganelin pawed and preened him, kissing him, stroking him, fondling him constantly as if he was a treasured possession, but once they were in private there was no emotion involved at all. Ganelin used him to gain release and that was it.

Aleksei Ilyich passed Ivan a vodka. “To the only person on this yacht who has a worse job than me,” he said with a rueful smile. Tossing down the drink he poured himself another then asked, “Is money so important to us?”

“You should have got away from here when I told you to,” said Ivan, swallowing the ice cold Stoli.

Lyosha shrugged. “And I’d think about doing exactly that… if we ever stopped anywhere.” Shielding his eyes from the sun with the flat of a hand, he looked in the direction of the faint strip of land in the distance. “I’m not that good a swimmer,” then he grinned at Ivan. “Besides how could I leave you here to suffer alone?”

The rippling undercurrent of desire that Ivan felt for Lyosha pushed its way to the surface and he bit back a flirtatious comment. He was not going to be responsible for putting the young man’s life in danger. Life on board the Eugenie was risky enough without adding to it.

“Lyosha,” he said, keeping his voice low in volume as he picked up the bottle of Stoli from where it was resting in a bucket of ice. “If you see anything weird happening make sure you tell me immediately, okay?”

The young man looked curiously at him. “I wonder about you, my friend,” he said.

Ivan tried not to drown in those big brown eyes and distracted himself by refilling the glasses and replacing the bottle in its nest of ice. He’d not been this hung up over a guy for a long time. “Don’t wonder anything,” he said seriously, “just do what I say.”

They lay side by side on the loungers in companionable silence until, with a sigh, Ivan looked at his Blancpain diver’s watch--a recent present from Ganelin--secretly hating the fact that he loved it so much. “I’d better go,” he said, getting up off the chair and smoothing down his clothes. “If I’m not careful the boss’ll be missing me.”

Lyosha stood and placed his hands on Ivan’s shoulders. “Always be careful, Vanyusha,” he said and as the affectionate name slipped out, Ivan found himself being kissed gently on the lips.

It was all he could do not to open his mouth and turn the moment into something much deeper, but instead, showing a huge amount of restraint, he pulled free, leaving Lyosha standing there, his broken heart displayed on his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” Ivan said sincerely, wishing so much that things were different. Then with a sad parting glance, he raced away up the steps.

~~~

With his head full of that kiss, Ivan spent the next few days fluctuating between feelings of utter dejection and absolute elation. Lyosha wanted him and that alone was enough to get Ivan through those rock-bottom moments when he was forced to be with Dmitriy Osipovich.

All the guests had spent the morning jet skiing and diving and now that dinner was over and Ivan had had the customary glimpse of Lyosha, he found he couldn’t stop thinking about him. Sprawled languidly next to Ganelin in the Jacuzzi he tried to clear his mind, but that was proving difficult.

Eyeing the swell of cock that was filling out the front of Ivan’s swim trunks, Ganelin checked first to see that there was no one else around then pushed Ivan against the tiled surround of the tub. With speedy fingers he prepped himself with condom and lube then pulled down Ivan’s Speedos and thrust inside.

“Too tempting,” he groaned as if he were the one in pain.

The position was slightly different to usual and as Ganelin’s erratic humping battered cock against prostate, Ivan hardened up to full erection. With his head full of Lyosha Ivan wrapped a palm around his prick and began jerking hard, taking less than a minute to bring himself off onto the blue mosaic.

Ganelin reached climax, emitting a huff of pleasure then pulled out instantly and dropped the usual swift kiss onto the back of Ivan’s neck. “My Vanyusha,” he said. “Always such a whore.” Then adjusting his trunks and climbing out of the Jacuzzi, he walked away without another word.

Ivan had long since come to the conclusion that despite accepting his own sexuality, Ganelin despised himself more each time he gave in to those homosexual urges. He was a dangerous, unpredictable man.

~~~

That night Ivan was woken by a pair of hands shaking him gently. Certain that it was Ganelin wanting more sex, he was about to roll over onto his belly when he heard Lyosha’s voice whispering in his ear.

“Vanya, you said I should tell you if I noticed anything weird? Well, there’s a bunch of crewmen taking down the ceiling planks on the lower deck and that seems pretty fucking strange to me.”

Throwing back the sheet, Ivan clicked on the light and reached for a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt, pulling them on over his naked body. Then, opening a drawer in the nightstand, he took out his Glock and shoved it into the waistband of his pants, studiously ignoring the look of surprise on Lyosha’s face.

“Show me,” he said quietly, opening the door and sneaking out into the passageway, praying that he wouldn’t disturb Ganelin.

A storm was brewing and as he crept through the yacht with Lyosha in tow, Ivan tried to ignore the queasy feeling that was building along with the pitch and roll of the Eugenie as waves began to batter her hull. Thank god for Dramina tablets! Without them he’d be puking all over the place.

“This way,” whispered Lyosha, taking a door outside to a gantry where they could watch safely without being noticed.

The driving rain and storm force winds made Ivan feel spectacularly ill-at-ease, but he clung on to the railings and peered through a small port hole at the events which were unfolding on the lower deck.

Just as Lyosha had said, the ceiling planks had been removed and long low crates were being carefully pulled free from the narrow space they had been secreted in. Ivan could have kicked himself for being such a moron. He’d never once thought to check whether the deckhead was false. This was a total fuck-up. He’d assumed that the weapons were going to be delivered during a meeting with Ganelin’s partners, but now it seemed that the rendezvous would be for making the actual transaction.

The two boats were due to meet up within the next seventy two hours and Ivan was now left with little time to figure out what to do. He had no choice but to try and use the Eugenie’s own communications and upload info to the I.S.A.command via the military satellite. But how was he supposed to get to the comm system undetected when the wheelhouse was permanently manned?

He watched the men gingerly stacking crates into the lower deck storage chambers and tried to shift his brain up a gear.

“Lyosha,” he said, his mouth close up against the young man’s ear so he could be heard through the storm. “I need you to help me.”

Los Angeles 2008

Chuck could tell from one quick glance that Sarah Walker was furious with him and, deciding not to look at her again, he concentrated instead on counting the lines on the rubber edges of his Converse while she paced the room with her phone to her ear.

“Casey’s not answering.” Disconnecting, she shoved the phone back in her pocket.

“So… what do we do?” asked Chuck in a small voice.

“We find him before Ganelin does,” she said. “And this time you don’t just come along for the ride.”

“Okay.” But that was what he was best at.

“And, Chuck?”

“Yeah,” he answered.

“Don’t do anything else stupid though. If you find him then call me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Nothing else. Just call me.”

“I get it.” Chuck felt brainless and sick and angry and terrified and… now he was also feeling selfish because this wasn’t about him, was it? “Where do I start looking?” he asked.

Sarah chewed thoughtfully on her lip. “Check out the bars north of the Santa Monica freeway. I’ll cover the south.”

They parted company; the C.I.A. agent racing off in her sports car with Chuck back to looking suitably moronic in the Nerd Herd car. What the hell was he supposed to say if he did find Casey? Oh yeah, he was supposed to stay away and call Sarah. Simple.

Chuck wasn’t used to bar hopping and after the fourth or fifth place he was buzzed from the beer and also totally freaked when inspiration hit him hard. The moment he caught sight of the name it screamed Casey and he knew for certain the big guy would be there. The shiny back car parked along the side of the street convinced him that he was right.

This was the point where he was supposed to call Sarah. But… maybe… Wouldn’t it be better for Casey to have a guy to talk to?

The Arsenal was dark and a little creepy with all kinds of weapons hung up on the walls like trophies. It was definitely a John Casey type of place.

Chuck found the man sitting at the bar, contemplating the counter and drinking shots like they were going out of fashion.

“Hey, big guy.” Chuck said brightly.

“What you doin’ here, Bartowski?”

Casey’s voice wasn’t slurred, but there was something off about it and Chuck’s head began to ache. Maybe he should’ve called Sarah like he was supposed to.

“Just hanging out,” he said impotently, waving the bartender over and asking for a beer. Casey jumped in and added to the order, requesting a full bottle of bourbon, then when it arrived he snatched it up and stalked away, heading for a dark corner near the pool tables.

After handing over a scary amount of money, Chuck slurped down some of his beer and tentatively approached Casey.

“I don’t want you around,” said the big man, staring into space. “Leave before I make you.”

“I… think… you shouldn’t be out in public if that guy Ganelin is here in L.A. looking for you.” Chuck was proud of himself for showing some of that Sarah Walker persistence.

“Why not?”

“Because he could find you?” Chuck was confused by the conversation.

“I want him to find me. Then I’m going to kill him.”

Apart from the obvious issue of murder there was another flaw to this plan and it was to be found at the bottom of that bottle of Jack Daniels which Casey was getting close to reaching.

“C’mon, big guy,” Chuck reached out and clapped a friendly hand on Casey’s shoulder and the slight flinch made Chuck want to take matters into his own hands and kill Ganelin himself. “It’s time to go home.”

There was a long drawn out silence which was filled out with more bourbon shots and then Casey blinked twice. “You look like someone I once knew,” he said and all of a sudden his voice was a fraction away from defeat.

The Mediterranean 1995

“Aleksandr Antonovich, I need your help,” said Lyosha, entering the wheelhouse and slipping a hand around the man’s shoulders while Ivan watched from the shadows.

Beloi was one of the slowest and most amiable members of crew and Ivan and Lyosha had waited for him to take his turn at the helm, knowing that this was the best chance they had of making their plan succeed.

“I need someone to taste one of my recipes. Will you do it?” continued Lyosha.

Beloi’s moustached mouth opened up into a gap-toothed grin. “Don’t you think you’ve tortured us enough already today, boy, and can’t you see I’m on duty?”

“There’s plenty of vodka in it for you,” coaxed Lyosha. “Put Eugenie on autopilot and come and try out some fresh pastries.”

Beloi was a man who was fond of his food and drink and it didn’t take much to convince him. Stabbing data into the autopilot with big thick fingers, he followed Lyosha down to the crew canteen.

As soon as they were gone Ivan emerged from the darkness and quickly set about realigning the transmitter to uplink to the military satellite. Plugging in his data pack, he initiated encryption and entered the information concerning approximate times and coordinates of the rendezvous. This was hit and miss to say the least, but what else could he do? He couldn’t risk making voice contact and anyway he had no other details to pass on. Either this would work or it wouldn’t. There was no contingency plan.

Resetting the comms systems, Ivan left the wheelhouse and made his way back to his cabin, hiding the small data unit in his luggage. Then, careful to stay clear of the storage areas which were permanently guarded at present, he took the external gantry down to the canteen. Hanging precariously on the rungs of a ladder he peered in at the window to see Lyosha throwing back glasses of Stoli with Beloi.

Finally noticing Ivan at the window, Lyosha stood up unsteadily and took the bottle back to the refrigerator, then he and the pilot exited the room, heading off in separate directions, Beloi back to the wheelhouse and Lyosha to the galley where Ivan had arranged to meet up with him.

“Are you going to tell me who you really are?” Lyosha asked as soon as Ivan entered the kitchen and the kid’s dark eyes glistened brightly with vodka and excitement.

“Just a security man,” answered Ivan coolly, but he couldn’t help getting worked up by Lyosha’s obvious fascination. Adrenaline was lethal, always leaving him in a state of jittery overexcitement.

The young man pushed against him and reached around to fondle the bulge of his pistol. “Liar,” he breathed. “You’re far more interesting than that,” and then he leaned in until his mouth was just a fraction of an inch away from Ivan’s lips.

Suddenly Ivan understood why Ganelin was obsessed by temptation. More than anything he wanted Lyosha to stay out of danger and keep away from him, but overriding that was this desperate need to...

Fuck!

Leaning down he pressed his lips against Lyosha’s. Just one kiss and then maybe he’d be able to stop thinking about him all the time, but that one kiss quickly turned into something so intense that Ivan couldn’t remember how to lock away those underused emotions of his. A few more kisses and he was shaking, dragging Lyosha against him and sliding his hand under the kid’s shirt to stroke a palm over the warm smooth skin.

“Vanyusha, please,”

Lyosha writhed against him, his cock, hot and hard, urging them both on until Ivan was moaning into Lyosha’s mouth -- could hear himself making these breathless whines of pleasure. He’d never been as turned on as this and with nervy fingers he scrabbled with the zipper of Lyosha’s jeans and fought to unfasten the belt buckle and button. All the time he was trying to get the kid undressed Lyosha was thrusting against him, kissing him and making these low throaty sounds that made stopping impossible.

Oh fuck! Ivan needed this so much and now that he was actually touching bare flesh--that erection burning hot and throbbing in his palm--he surged with excitement. Shoving Lyosha against the wall, he let the kid undress him and, with mouths permanently locked together, they worked each other off, cocks and fingers wet with pre-come and spit, gliding and rubbing and coming and coming and coming so hard that Ivan felt his legs buckle. He would’ve been empty if he hadn’t had his arms full of Lyosha.

Los Angeles 2008

After another half an hour of navel contemplation during which time Casey stared fixedly at a beer ring on the wooden surface, Chuck decided to step up to the plate, be the man, do every clichéd thing he could think of as long as it would get John Casey out of this bar.

His phone started rattling across the table and, after looking at the face on the screen, Chuck powered it off because speaking to Sarah Walker wasn’t going to help right now. Then Casey looked up and Chuck thought he saw a grateful look in the man’s eyes. Women were too talky, too emotional--even C.I.A. women--and Chuck could totally get Casey’s reluctance to deal with her. In a train wreck of a way it was almost a bonding moment between them.

“I’m taking you home now,” he said. “Really I am. So you can either go along with it, or…”

Casey smiled but it was sad and empty. “Or?”

“Or … you can not go along with it and drink bourbon ‘til you pass out.”

“That was the plan.” Casey sighed then he looked up, his eyes slightly crossed from the effects of too much alcohol. “You’re not going away, are you?”

“I… No, I’m not,” said Chuck, realising that he wasn’t going to leave John Casey here in this bar because the man may be mean and insensitive, but there were those moments when they laughed and then there were those other moments when Casey was a real live hurting person… and, well, this was one of those.

Supporting Casey with an arm around his waist Chuck helped him out of his seat, trying not to think about that full body shiver that happened whenever the man was touched.

It wasn’t easy getting him out to the sidewalk or squeezing him into the Nerd mobile and under happier circumstances it may even have been funny, but not today.

“Tell me if you need to puke,” he said, looking over at Casey who was leaning back against the head rest.

“I don’t puke,” said the man and then he drifted off somewhere inside his head.

Chuck didn’t want to know what he was thinking about and concentrated instead on getting back home. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel he wondered why, even in the middle of the night, Los Angeles was never quiet. Sometimes he longed for stillness and silence and this was one of those moments.

The journey went okay. It was when they were back at the apartments and Chuck was helping a zombiefied Casey out of the car that things started to go wrong.

“Let go of Vanya.” said an accented voice and Chuck froze, his fingers still clutching at Casey’s hands. “I’ll take care of him from now.”

If there wasn’t the icy cold sensation of metal being pressed against the back of his neck then Chuck may have thought about trying out some of the moves Sarah had been teaching him, but the gun put him off. He wasn’t the Chuck Norris kind of a Chuck.

Turning slowly he looked into a pair of the clearest, palest eyes he’d ever seen. Dmitriy Ganelin. The man who had…

“Who’s Vanya?” Chuck asked, adopting a confused expression. “This is John Casey. We work together at the Buy More.”

“Very good, but I know who he is. Now get in the car and do as you’re told, little pup.”

Out of the blue Casey erupted into a drunken bellow of rage and launched himself at Ganelin, both fists making fierce contact with that smarmy face, but then he slumped forward, a syringe sticking out of his hip and right then Chuck was more freaking scared than he’d even been in his whole life.

“Do as you’re told or I’ll kill Vanya here,” said Ganelin coldly as two men hauled Casey’s unconscious body into the rear of a minivan and Chuck had no choice but to follow.

The Mediterranean 1995

What was going on?

The world was swimming and indecipherable and Ivan couldn’t understand what was happening. He was in bed, naked, but instead of being alone there was a panorama of faces looking down at him.

“I gave you so much, Ivan Grigorevich, and yet you repay me like this.”

Ivan couldn’t see properly. He couldn’t make out who was who and the only thing he was certain of was that it was Ganelin who was speaking. Something was badly wrong. They must have discovered that he’d been sending information back to The Activity. He was a dead man.

“Did you think no one could see how besotted you were with him? Did you think no one would tell me?”

Oh god! Lyosha. They knew about Lyosha.

A face leaned in, spinning like a carousel, then suddenly those cruel eyes came into focus. “I despise you.” The slap around his cheek stung like a bitch and Ivan tried to fight back, but his body refused to co-operate.

“What’ve you done to me?” he mumbled.

“Nothing, Vanya. You must have taken my Sevredol instead of your Dramina. Foolish boy.”

The face oozed away into a smudged background and Ivan felt sick. He’d taken the usual amount of seasickness tablets, not noticing anything was different--a capsule was a capsule--and if he’d been taking morphine instead of his own medication then he was fucked.

“Move him to the library,” snapped Ganelin.

Naked, he was paraded through the ship with Sergei Leonidovich on one side and Kuznetsov on the other. Stumbling constantly he struggled to keep up, his head full of only one thing. Where was Lyosha? What had they done to Lyosha?

The library was decorated in British country house style. Shelves stacked with leather bound books covered the walls and the dark room was illuminated by reading lamps. Ivan hated it; it was pretentious and out of place on a yacht like this, but right now the last thing he cared about was the décor of the room. He was a dead man and he could cope with that--it had to happen sometime--but what about Aleksei Ilyich?

Lurching to one side he attempted to get free, managing to swing a fist wildly and make contact with Alenichev’s sly face, but this achieved very little other than making the man angry.

Pushed down onto all fours, his hands were cuffed and his ankles were locked into some heavy restraints then his forehead was pushed down onto the patterned Indian rug.

“I don’t want you anymore, Ivan Kerensky, so I’m giving you to my friends.”

Ivan raised his head and looked up at Dmitriy Ganelin who was sitting in a Lloyd Loom chair with his legs crossed elegantly, examining some photographic equipment.

“I’ll enjoy this,” said the Russian, a hawkish gleam of excitement lighting up his outwardly calm face.

The world began to clear a little; Ivan could see a wolf pack of men closing in on him and wished hard that there was more opium in his system.

However, morphine may have helped him cope with the pain, but it didn’t do anything for the humiliation.

“Beg, Vanya,” said Ganelin a while later. “Make it more interesting. This movie is tedious.”

His mind still clouded over from the drugs, Ivan thought it couldn’t get any worse than this, but then someone gripped him by the hair and pulled his head up and he was forced to watch as they dragged Aleksei Ilyich into the room.

Lyosha’s cheeks turned the same colour as his chef’s whites when he saw what was happening.

Don’t say anything, Ivan prayed silently. Please, Lyosha. Think, Lyosha.

The young man remained quiet, but the tears pouring down his face were just as much of an incitement to the fucking monsters in this room as any words would have been.

“Oh look,” said Ganelin, holding up the camcorder and zooming in on Aleksei Ilyich’s horrified face. “The pup’s upset.”

Ganelin put the camera down and squatted next to Ivan. “Personally I don’t get the appeal, but I’d fuck him just to find out what you see in him… if only your disgusting displays of affection hadn’t put me off sex for life. Instead I’ll let my men try him out.”

“No!” snarled Ivan, glaring defiantly at Ganelin whose eyes seemed to come alive with delight.

“Are you willing to do anything to save him?”

“Don’t, Vanyusha. Please don’t.” Lyosha’s teeth were chattering so hard he could barely speak.

“I think the pup loves you, Vanya.” Ganelin was grinning and maybe it was the overdose of drugs in Ivan’s system, but that cunning face seemed as if it was twisting into something totally inhuman. Standing up, the Russian walked over to Lyosha and grabbed a handful of curly dark hair. “He’s nothing but a sad little clown.”

Taking a cigar from the ashtray he pressed the glowing tip against the soft skin at the base of Lyosha’s neck and Ivan could hear the sizzle of flesh. It was the stoic silence that finally convinced him.

“Let him go and I’ll do whatever you want,” he said bleakly.

Kneeling up as best he could manage with wrists and ankles still restrained, Ivan mouthed at the crotch of Ganelin’s suit pants. He couldn’t look at Lyosha. If he saw more blind panic and tears then he’d go crazy. If this was what he had to do to save them both then he would. No question. Sex was just sex, he told himself again, even if it was painful and humiliating.

The crunching blow around the head was almost enough to stun him into unconsciousness, but he wouldn’t let himself sink. If he passed out then there was no one to keep Lyosha safe.

“Take your filthy mouth off me,” said Ganelin icily, adjusting the lie of his cock and picking up a swordstick from where it was resting against the turned arm of his chair. “Cane or blade?” he asked contemplatively and there was a terrifying amount of arousal contained in that voice.

To Ivan there was nothing left in the world but wet, crawling agony and the broken face of Aleksei Ilyich Matulik, but the pain was worth it because he was alive, they were both alive, and he would do all that it took to make sure they stayed that way.

“Did you get that?” Ganelin asked Alenichev who was holding the video camera and the man nodded, his face a slack-jawed picture of pleasure as he watched a replay of the action.

There was a newly set up display on the biggest of the library desks and Ganelin walked over and examined everything in detail, wielding each pistol and hefting the truncheons and knives before choosing a particularly lethal cudgel.

If Ivan fought against this then the injuries, both external and internal, would most likely kill him, so instead he switched off. He’d been trained to withstand water-boarding and bagging, psychotropic drugs and every kind of psychological interrogation method going, but never this. If he survived then maybe he should suggest it to command. Hysteria rose and he laughed and laughed, infuriating Ganelin into pounding even more viciously with the mahogany baton.

“You think this is funny, Vanya? You really are a sick boy.”

When it was over and he was curled on the floor on his side, Ivan tried to count the hours that had passed since he’d made contact with his I.S.A team, but with the large amounts of morphine in his system it was virtually impossible to calculate. The pain inside him was unbearable and he could feel the wetness of blood seeping down his legs. Hoping that Lyosha could not see the extent of his injuries, he curled up tighter and waited for an opportunity. Everything would be okay if he could just keep them both alive until the rendezvous.

When Ganelin and his guests left the room Ivan allowed himself a quick glance at Lyosha who was pressed back against the wall, naked and scared, his hands and feet tied with rope. Then he looked around at the amount of weapons that were available to him if only he could reach them. The crewmen would have to sleep at some point and Ivan would be ready. He would look forward to killing each and every one of them. He would take pleasure in it.

Los Angeles 2008

Casey had been out for so long that Chuck was starting to think the big guy was dead. Panic began to build and he struggled against his ropes, but then he felt a slight wriggle of movement from beside him and knew that the N.S.A. man was starting to come around.

“Casey,” he muttered urgently. “Wake up, buddy.”

Lifting his head, John Casey looked blearily at him.

“Don’t freak out, but we’re pretty screwed right now so if you can think of a way to get us-”

The door opened suddenly and in walked Ganelin with his customary escort of two men.

“He can’t help you, pup.” Ganelin walked over to Casey and rubbed a thumb across his cheek and it was such an intimate gesture that Chuck felt nauseous. “He’s no good at helping people, are you Vanya?”

Casey’s eyes were full of that fear and it was when he started shivering violently that Chuck knew that everything was not going to be okay.

“No, no, no, no, no, Casey. Don’t fall apart on me now,” he mumbled. “Stay with me, buddy.”

“Hah!” Ganelin laughed, sounding so damn pleased with himself that Chuck tried to lash out with his foot, causing the chair to rock violently.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed. “I know what you did to him.”

“Then you must also know all about Aleksei Ilyich,” said Ganelin, his accent getting thicker with excitement. “You look just like him, you know. I could tell you what I did to him, but it would be far more entertaining to show you.”

Casey remained slumped, shaking uncontrollably. Broken.

The Mediterranean 1995

Ganelin kept Ivan so dosed up on opiates that he had no clue what amount of time had passed in between sessions.

“Vanya, meely, are you ready to play again?” Ganelin’s voice was tainted from too much alcohol and Ivan knew the cunt well enough by now to know that they were in big trouble this time.

“Yes, Dmitriy Osipovitch,” he said.

“You bore me. I’d rather play with your pup.”

Being helpless didn’t sit well with Ivan, but he was in no position right now to be anything else other than submissive. “Dimochka, you promised,” he begged.

“I break promises every day. It’s how I do business. I think you know that.” Ganelin circled him, the tip of the cane mesmerizing Ivan with its dull tap-tap-tapping on the rug.

“Still, if you suck all my friends off then maybe I’ll rethink.” With a sweep of the swordstick he indicated the circle of leering faces, finally letting the tip of the cane come to a rest on Lyosha’s shivering shoulders.

With no other choices available to him, Ivan crawled to each man in turn unfastening them with cuffed hands and bringing them off efficiently with his mouth and tongue.

“He’s a good whore,” said Alenichev with a shudder of satisfaction as Ivan licked him clean. “I can see why you enjoyed him.”

“You wanted a gift for our new business partners?” Stepan Romanovich laid a hand on Ivan’s forehead, pushing his head back so he was forced to look up. “He’ll do very well I think.”

It may not have sounded like a blessing, but it was what Ivan had been waiting for. It meant there was hope. Lyosha had his head bowed in misery and Ivan willed him to look up, but the kid remained cowed. Be strong, Lyosha. Be brave. We can get through this.

“You’re right. Who wouldn’t appreciate a good whore -- especially one as broken in as this?” Ganelin squatted next to Ivan and cupped his chin. “You look so beautiful I could almost bring myself to fuck you again. But instead I shall gift wrap you.

Slipping a blanket around his shivering shoulders, Ganelin pressed Ivan back against the wall and then stood up. “But only you, Vanyusha. Your pup isn’t worth a thing to anyone… except you.”

Signaling his men to bring Lyosha forward, Ganelin forced the naked young man to all fours and then, sliding a condom onto his erection, he raped him while pressing the blade of a hunting knife to that slim white throat.

Howling, Ivan was on his feet in a second and lunging towards Ganelin. Restrained by Alenichev and Kuznetsov, he bit and kicked and fought violently to get free.

Los Angeles 2008

Ganelin’s henchmen unfastened the ropes then pulled Chuck out of the chair, holding him in place a foot away from the Russian man.

“You are so like Aleksei Ilyich,” he said in awe, twisting a finger into Chuck’s hair and turning it into a ringlet. “He loved Vanya, you know. Helped him with his dirty work. I didn’t hate him for that though because Vanya has this way about him, making everybody do as he wants. He’s a magician.”

Chuck didn’t want to listen to this bastard talk about a version of John Casey so alien to him that he was unrecognisable. He didn’t want to think about the broken man behind him with a head full of terror and eyes that weren’t even alive any more. He didn’t want to fall to pieces like Casey, but he was close.

“Do your spells, Vanya,” cackled Ganelin. “That way maybe you can save your boy.” He looked at Chuck with a deranged expression. “What’s your name, pup?”

“Chuck. What’s yours?” Maybe keeping the conversation going would give Sarah Walker a chance to jump in and rescue them -- although he was heart-breakingly certain that John Casey was long past saving.

“Chuck’s a good puppy name.” Ganelin nodded in approval. “Would you like me to demonstrate what happened to Vanya’s little Lyosha?”

“Not so much.” Chuck really didn’t want to know.

“Sadly, I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,” said Ganelin. “Hold him for me, boys.”

Pushed to his knees, with both arms locked behind his back, Chuck experienced the horrifying sensation of hands reaching around him to undo his pants.

The Mediterranean 1995

Ivan Kerensky--John Casey, he reminded himself--had done many things in the past that he wasn’t proud of. He’d removed fingers, kneecapped men, threatened wives and children; basically he’d used any form of humiliation and torture necessary to extract information from a suspect. But this was all for a reason; for the greater good. Sometimes you had to sacrifice a part of yourself to save the many. It was a basic hard fact about a military life – especially when you worked for a group like The Activity. You understood the meaning of acceptable losses.

Being one of the good guys wasn’t an easy pass to heaven. It could harden you up to all kinds of cruelty and Casey prided himself on being a tough bastard, never letting anyone inside where they could hurt him. This time though he’d done exactly that and now he had to sit by and watch Dmitriy Ganelin fuck the life out of a young man he cared so much about -- maybe even loved.

Lyosha, please don’t give in. I’ll get us out of this. He’s playing with you and it’ll hurt, but be strong for me, lyubimy. He likes to keep his toys alive.

As another shot of morphine was injected into his arm, Casey felt the world spin away from him and however hard he tried to fight to free himself from the men who were holding him he had no chance.

“Watch this, Vanyusha,” said Ganelin and when Casey didn’t respond the Russian snapped, “Make him look. Cut off his eyelids if you have to.”

As the men held his head up Casey saw the rosy flush of pre-orgasm flood Ganelin’s cheeks and prayed it would be over soon. It was then that he learned to be careful what he asked for because sometimes prayers can be answered.

The Russian gasped in a shudder of delight and dragged the knife across the young man’s throat and there was so much blood, so much. Lyosha, please. Too much blood. “Lyosha!” Blood pooled onto the floor in an endless stream of red, spreading outwards and still Ganelin just kept on cutting and cutting and cutting. “No!” Lyosha.

The worst thing was that Casey knew exactly what it felt like to kill a man this way. He knew how much pressure was needed to make that ear to ear slice and yet he’d never once bothered to wait around and really look at the result.

Three things happened simultaneously. Aleksei Ilyich Matulik slumped dead to the floor, Dmitriy Ganelin finished off inside him with a harsh cry of triumph and John Casey broke into pieces.

What use was he to anyone if he couldn’t even keep this kid alive?

Los Angeles 2008

There weren’t enough words for scared in the English language. Immobilised by the two men, Chuck tried to fight back, but he wasn’t strong enough and he was waiting for the inevitable to happen--to know what it felt like to be John Casey--when there was a sudden fountain of blood spattering everywhere. Blood. Everywhere.

Strands of scarlet coloured rope coiled to the ground in front of him followed by a thud and a soft moan as one of Ganelin’s men dropped like a stone a foot away from his face.

Ganelin spoke in that low controlled way of his that turned Chuck’s insides watery. “You don’t want to do that, Vanya. Not unless you want me to rip this one’s throat out too. Remember what happened to poor little Lyosha.”

Chuck discovered that the cold edge of metal pressed to his throat was equally as terrifying as a gun barrel, but there was no way he was going to kneel here and take this. Jerking backwards, he caught Ganelin by surprise and gripping the man’s right wrist he twisted it viciously, managing to disarm him and throw him to the ground.

“Good work, kid,” said a familiar rumbling voice and Chuck looked around in time to see the second of Ganelin’s men collapse after receiving a solid blow to the temple from the butt of his own pistol.

Casey’s wrist was pouring blood and his hands shook as he pointed the Glock at Ganelin’s crotch. “I’ve been looking forward to this,” he said conversationally and then he pulled the trigger six, seven, eight times then once more for luck.

The Mediterranean 1995

They threw Casey into the meat storage locker where he landed on top of Lyosha’s corpse -- maybe Ganelin wanted to keep them both fresh to be served up to his business associates. Crawling away and huddling into a corner, he watched the young man’s body begin its slow process of decay, knowing all the time that it was his fault. He would be full of regret except that he’d learned the hard way that there was no room in this world for crap like that.

Certain now that his message had failed to get through to command, Casey felt real fear when the door to the refrigeration unit opened. He couldn’t go through this again. Every part of him was broken, inside and out, and he needed to be left in peace to become a dead man. Lyosha was the lucky one.

“Shit, Sarge! It’s Casey.”

He couldn’t understand the words they were saying to him and with cuffed hands raised in front of him he lashed out, shoving the warm body away from him.

“Hang in there, Sir. Stay with us,” said an incomprehensible voice which then increased in volume. “Medics needed here now.”

Ganelin’s voice could be heard screeching in the background and Casey kept up the fight as they removed the restraints from his wrists and ankles, strapping him onto a stretcher. What were they doing? What the fuck were they doing to him now?

Later, John Casey was told that they had medevaced him off the Eugenie to a U.S. military base in Italy and when the doctors asked him what had happened they discovered that he couldn’t remember how to speak English. It took months of psychotherapy to get him back and, even then, he never let anyone close enough to establish anything other than he had suffered multiple rape and physical abuse. There was enough evidence found on the Eugenie to convict Ganelin for life. That never happened.

Casey was awarded the Bronze Star Medal for his bravery and initially he declined the honour, but finally his doctor convinced him that what he had achieved in bringing Ganelin and the Islamist Group to justice, deserved recognition.

“Did you enjoy the ceremony?” asked Colonel Lydia Baker, his current shrink. He’d been through a few -- many of them unable to deal with his brusque nature.

“Not particularly,” he answered.

She laughed. “Pretty much what I expected you’d say, Major Casey. Now I have an important question for you.”

“Ask away,” he said coolly.

“Do you think you’re ready to resume active service?” The colonel looked at him over the top of her glasses.

There was something about most of these female psychiatrists that really wound Casey up. He understood that top brass assumed it would be less threatening for him to talk to a female, but truthfully he didn’t give a shit who was prying as long as they didn’t expect any touchy-feely crap from him. Baker was different though; she didn’t baby him or nose around too much and he had a grudging admiration for her abilities at fixing people.

“Not working for the I.S.A., Ma’am,” he responded curtly. There was no point in lying.

She nodded. “I agree with you, but I also think you’re too good an intelligence officer to lose, so if you concur then I’m recommending you for the N.S.A.”

Casey couldn’t manage to repress the small smile of happiness that danced around the corners of his mouth. He’d assumed that pensioning out was inevitable and the thought of being a pen-pushing translator or a security guard for the rest of his life was not a happy proposition.

“I take it you’re pleased with my suggestion?”

Casey nodded. “Yes, Ma’am. Thank you.”

“I still need to see you regularly though, John. It’s not possible to heal quickly. Not after what you’ve been through.”

She laid a hand on his arm and he realised she was right when he found himself counting possible emergency exits from the small office. “I know, Colonel,” he answered quietly.

~~~

Working for the N.S.A. was by no means a career step backwards. He had his work cut out keeping up with younger, fitter agents and he also had to keep his bad moods in check when dealing with some of the other services--C.I.A. agents tended to be a bunch of smart-mouthed show offs--but all in all things were good except for a few hasty decisions and a misunderstanding with a woman called Ilsa Trinchina.

In fact Casey was beginning to believe that his past was well and truly behind him until one day in September 2007 when he was given orders to look after a young man -- owner of a mess of dark wavy hair and a pair of sad eyes.

Los Angeles 2008

Each one of those bullets finished a fraction of an inch away from Ganelin’s supine body and after he’d finished discharging his weapon Casey rested his foot on the man’s chest and cocked his head to one side.

“I could cripple you. I could castrate you. I could make sure you need a colostomy bag for the rest of your life or I could just end you. Which do you choose?”

“Please, Vanya?” The man’s eyes were watery and full of fear.

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.” Blood still poured from the wound in Casey’s arm and Chuck found himself mouthing helplessly as he watched Ganelin’s shirt turn from polka dots into scarlet.

Casey leant down and retrieved Chuck’s phone from Ganelin’s pocket then threw it back to its owner. “Call Sarah,” he said wearily.

“Casey… god… you’re bleeding.”

The man opened his palm to reveal a small razor blade. “Had to get free somehow. Missed the rope trying to do it. Call Walker.”

“Oh! I thought…” Chuck didn’t dare verbalise the many stupid things that had gone through his mind at the sight of all that blood. Casey hadn’t been broken at all. Had he?

“Call Walker now.”

Chuck looked at the whiteness of the big guy’s face and, wondering how many of Ganelin’s men were left in the building, he scrolled through the numbers on his cell.

“Sarah, we’re… Casey, I don’t know where we are.”

“She’ll know,” said the big man, muttering something about triangulation and signals.

“Chuck, I’m almost with you,” said Sarah and then hung up.

Once again it was one of those speedy conversations, but this time Chuck was more than relieved considering he was in a room with two unconscious mobsters, a Russian oligarch and a soon to be passed out N.S.A. man who was glaring fixedly at Ganelin. Picking up the other gun, he waved it tentatively between the two unconscious men.

Casey chewed at a thumb nail. “I’ve thought about this, Dimochka, and I know what I’m going to do to you.”

“Don’t hurt me, Vanya. Please,” whimpered Ganelin.

The door crashed open and in came Sarah Walker, accompanied by the sounds of a thorough clean up going on in the corridor behind her.

Casey shrugged slightly. “Lucky for you, I don’t reckon you’re worth the bullet.”

“Oh I don’t know.” The echo of a gunshot ricocheted around the walls of the tiny room.

Sarah shrugged. “The Intersect was under threat,” she said looking first at Casey then at Chuck.

All three of them stared down at the exploded head of Dmitriy Ganelin and there was no sign of regret from anywhere in the room.

~~~

There are some days when life is so depressing that the only remedy can be found at the bottle. Then there are those other moments when the best thing in the world is to sit at a table in a quiet bar sharing a pitcher of beer with friends.

In case you’re interested, today was one of the latter kind for Chuck Bartowski and right now he was sitting back in his seat, wondering why they always had to hang out at the freaking Arsenal bar.

“To make sure Grimes doesn’t show up,” said Casey and Chuck’s jaw went slack.

“No, I’m not psychic.” Casey smirked. “You asked yesterday and you always have the same look on your face when you’re thinking it,” said the big man, fiddling with the bandages that still covered his arm.

Sarah Walker grinned and nodded then poured them all fresh beers.

Chuck Bartowski didn’t have many friends to share a pitcher with, but he suspected he had more than Sarah Walker and John Casey. Although after recent events maybe they all had someone extra to rely on.

“I have to go and fabricate a report about why Ganelin was a threat to the asset,” said Sarah finishing her drink and getting up off the couch. “Graham’s been on my back about it.”

Casey looked at her. “Thanks,” he said softly and Chuck was certain that was the first time he’d heard the big man say that particular word.

“Anytime,” said Sarah and then she laughed, “but, you know, not too often.”

“Why do we do this?” muttered Casey and the girl looked down at him, her expression turning serious.

“Because someone has to,” she answered, then she walked out, all long legs and deadly grace, and Chuck watched her go wondering when he’d stopped wanting her.

All of a sudden there were too many people in this bar, too many people in Los Angeles, too much smog and noise, too many drugs addicts and pushers and Chuck Bartowski decided to be brave.

“Want to go somewhere?” he asked, resting his hand over the bandages that covered Casey’s forearm to stop the big man from worrying at them. It was difficult to ignore the flinch and the way those blue eyes darted about hunting for escape, but he managed it, keeping his gaze fixed on the lighter patch of paint on the wall that was the shape of a western rifle. He wondered randomly who had stolen the gun.

“Where?” asked Casey, reaching for his beer.

“Anywhere, desert, mountains. I don’t care. Somewhere quiet.”

“Okay?”

There was so much of a question in that one word and Chuck understood how open Casey was leaving himself and his heart lurched.

“C’mon then, buddy,” he said, his fingers making slight contact with Casey’s as they left the bar.

It was a surprise when Casey handed over the keys to the N.S.A. pool car and Chuck looked askance at him, receiving a single quick nod as confirmation. Sliding in behind the steering wheel, he adjusted the seat position and watching Casey buckle up he turned the key in the ignition. The engine made this leonine roar and Chuck wriggled happily, pulling out and driving through city streets before heading along the Pacific Coast Highway. Once that haze of city light began to diminish Chuck relaxed and felt as if he could breathe again, pulling over onto the dirt at the side of the road. It was night and all the trails were officially closed, but fences were there to be climbed and how often did you get the chance to see a big mean government man break the rules?

No climbing was needed; there was a break in the fencing just a few feet from the car and both men slipped through the gap and into the blackness beyond. There’s a reason why hiking in the mountains is discouraged as a night time hobby and after Chuck nearly fell off the rocky precipice for the third time, Casey grabbed his arm and pulled him to a halt.

“I’m supposed to keep you safe,” he said. “I’m not sure I’d be able to explain how your broken body ended up at the bottom of this canyon.”

Chuck peered over the cliff at the flicker of moonlight reflected in the river and agreed silently that it did seem a hell of a long way down.

They chose a flat rock to sit on that was shaped like a high backed pew and worn smooth from a million people resting their butts there.

“It’s quiet,” Chuck said with a grin as he listened to the sound of the waterfall that blocked out the low hum of traffic.

“Kinda.” Casey shouted exaggeratedly to make himself heard over the tumble of water.

“Dumbass,” said Chuck with an affectionate nudge at Casey’s ribs.

“Nerdboy.” Casey’s arm rested comfortable against his and for once there was no sign of tension oozing from the man.

“You said I looked like someone,” said Chuck, his heart racing in his chest. “Were you talking about Lyosha?”

Casey was so silent for so long that Chuck figured it was highly likely that he was going to end up at the bottom of the canyon, but then the big man glanced sideways at him and there was a quiet “Yeah,” that was so barely there and yet so full of pain that Chuck physically hurt.

“Tell me about him.”

“I don’t...” Casey swallowed hard.

“I know you don’t talk about him, Casey. I’m just saying that you can if you want to.”

After another of those long drawn out silences the big man said, “You don’t just look like him.”

Epilogue

Sometimes things happen to you that are so horrific that you do what’s necessary to block them out. You do this so successfully that in the end there’s nothing left of you except for an emotionless husk that no one wants to know. You talk to your shrink because it’s expected of you--it’s actually written into your contract as a requirement--but she never gets to the core of your problems.

You tell her about women you’ve lost and a family who were never interested in what you were doing. You make up stories about friends who are there for you and work that fulfills everything you need and she looks at you through her bifocal lenses and you know she can see there’s something hidden deeper, but however hard she tries she can’t find it.

She doesn’t know that most of the time you think in the second person because that way you’re not the one who’s hurting. She doesn’t know that rape wasn’t the thing that broke you. She doesn’t know that you had to watch the man you loved get slaughtered like a pig in front of your eyes. She doesn’t know that when you go to bed every night you touch the scars on your back and you cry yourself to sleep.

You never thought there’d be an end to this misery, especially when that man you loved was reincarnated in front of you and the hurt came back to haunt you all over again. Then that new man looked into your eyes and even when he discovered what was locked away inside he didn’t run from all those demons.

“Hey, are you in there? Casey?”

You thought that the easy solution was to walk a path through life pretending that nothing affected you, but you were wrong. It turns out that sometimes it’s simpler just to tell the truth.

Chuck Bartowski thinks he’s a coward, he’s said so way too many times, but that’s not true. He’s kind and he’s cute--you can never resist dark curly hair and big sad eyes--but most of all he’s brave.

One day he was brave enough to kiss you.

And you shocked yourself by being brave enough to kiss him back.

A kiss should never be the catalyst for something big; something so huge that your world instantly explodes in a shower of lightning and fireworks. The first time it happened to you it changed your life for the better and then rapidly for the worse, so, yes, when it happened again you were scared. But you weren’t scared enough or stupid enough to throw it away.

“Casey! Are you in there?”

He strokes your back and you pretend to be asleep, letting him smooth his fingers over scars that no one else but him has ever seen and you wriggle to get comfortable because your cock is curled over on itself and it’s filling with blood.

“You so are awake, you big faker.”

Pushing you onto your back, he kisses your lips and your chin and your neck until you’re breathing hard and aching with need, but despite this you relax, reaching for him and running your hands over his perfect body. He has no flaws, unlike you.

At first you were ashamed of your scars and when Chuck saw them his eyes filled up with tears, but only that one time. Now he treats every inch of you the same, like you’re precious, never touching you unless you give him permission with a word or, most of the time, just a simple look. You didn’t think you’d ever feel so comfortable with sex after the hell that you went through, but he’s fixed everything. He’s taught you that sex isn’t just sex. He’s taught you that sex is beautiful and it’s about giving and taking and understanding. Even now, when he knows you’re totally at ease with him, he still checks first before taking the head of your cock into his mouth and looking up at you with those big brown eyes.

Once he asked you if you were thinking about Lyosha and you were happy to be able to say no. The only time that you think of Lyosha now is when you’re talking about him to Chuck. What happened between the two of you was short lived and life changing, but it was a long time ago and it’s over in your head. What’s happening between you and Chuck is… well, it’s everything.

Teasing your balls with a thumb, he sucks you until you’re burning up for him then draws back and looks at you with this huge grin on his face. You make a grab for him and pull him close enough so you can kiss him and kiss him and keep on kissing him forever.

He reaches over to the nightstand and you know exactly what he’s doing from that liquid squishing sound the pump dispenser makes. Your skin begins to smart from too much kissing, but you don’t care and neither does he and while he’s busy with your tongue he wraps a lubed up hand around your cock making you wetter and harder than ever. He’s ready instantly--you’ve had sex once already this evening--and he straddles you, sinking down and taking every inch of you inside him. You don’t understand why it feels like he’s the one filling you up. You don’t understand, but you love the fact that it does.

Sitting up he begins to ride you, firm and achingly slow, and when he leans on your shoulders, pinning you down, you feel safe rather than scared. You take his cock in your hand and you feel its weight and its smoothness and you let it slip dry through your fingers, but then he starts moaning so you slick up your fist and close your fingers around him. When he lets out this long hushed sigh of delight you jerk a little and he opens his eyes wide and stares at you with worry written all over his face.

“I’m fine,” you say because you are. That wasn’t a flinch. That was you trying to stop yourself from coming just from the sigh of pleasure he made. He grins then leans in and as he kisses you again he takes you by surprise, shoving you playfully until you’re lying on your side.

Spooned up together, you fuck him with your cock and your fingers and it doesn’t take long until you’re coming and coming and coming so hard that you should be empty… except that you’ll never be empty with him in your life. Your hand works hard to bring him over the edge and then he’s calling your name and telling you that this is never going to end. You believe every word he says because you know that, despite everything that’s happened to you, you’re a lucky lucky man.

You’ve just fallen in love for the second time in your life.

DONE