clachnaben

“This is your first time in Spain?” Vowles asked. He did not look up from his notes. From the neck down, he looked like he had never been promoted from the scalphunters, the agents whose job was violence. Upwards, he had the melted look of the British upper classes, his chin in ferocious retreat. “Professionally, I mean,” he added, mildly. 

“Yes, sir,” Carlos said. Even if it had been appropriate, he would not have tried to explain the country of his sisters and their children, of the hot beach in Mallorca or the sound of Madrid late at night. That Spain would have been as foreign to him as the surface of the moon. Moreso, perhaps, when one considered that the Moon shared many key features with England: grey, cold, and fundamentally boring. 

“Very good,” Vowles said. “Merhi is one of your wiretaps?”

A community as insular and paranoid as spies had a tendency to warp, over time, the meaning of any word. Wiretaps were human, used to confirm or source criminal conversation. They could listen in rooms the spy could not. 

“Yes,” Carlos said. Vowles finally looked up from his notes. 

“It can challenge us all,” he said. “Working close to home. There's no shame in it.”

Carlos had done many things that he was ashamed of. This would not be among them. 

“Of course, sir,” Carlos said. JV’s expression changed, impenetrable in a face that made everything look like mild distaste. 

“It’s Europe mainland,” he said. “Try to keep a low profile.”

That meant don’t do anything foolish, and absolutely do not use the gun. Carlos nodded. 

“I always do.”

&&&

Away from the tourists and the parks and the trendy neighbourhoods full of graphic designers, Madrid’s concrete high rises baked in the sun. Smokers tucked themselves into slivers of shade, looking out at the vistas of gravel and battered cars. Carlos had been given a flat on the fifteenth floor of a block where the lift was frequently broken, and a cover identity. Still Carlos, the slightly beleaguered son of a rich Madrileño family. Fallen a bit on hard times, because of his gambling habit, and dabbling in the edges of petty crime. It said nothing about him being gay, although Carlos supposed that was implied. Of course, the Centre knew. He'd had to tell them in his security clearance interview.

He called Teto from the landline, which was definitely bugged. The only question was by how many.

”Roberto, it’s been a long time,” he said, and Teto said the usual things about how it had been and Carlos had been missed and surely he had not seen a pelota vasca match while he was abroad. Carlos mechanically wrote down the location and time of the match, and the minimum bet that was expected, and turned over the rest of his brain to listening to Teto’s voice. He had missed the friendly timbre of it, the rhythm, like a song repeated until he heard it even in his dreams. 

“You are alright, Carlos?” Teto asked. “The family, everything, it is okay?”

”Of course,” Carlos said, without pausing, conscious of the many listeners. “I’m always good.”

“You are always staying in terrible flats,” Teto said. “Come to mine before the match.”

Carlos dutifully crossed out the venue address and wrote down Teto’s address. New. Carlos hadn’t been there before. He took the paper with him, the spycraft drilled into him, and took a taxi. The address was on the border of Malasaña and Chueca, women in alternative haircuts and gay men with too much money. Carlos was buzzed into the building, and then, on the top floor, Teto was lounging in an open doorway. 

“Come in,” Teto said, letting Carlos pass him, putting the flat of his palm between Carlos’ shoulderblades. “Paco, my architect, he is in France.”

The apartment was huge, and beautiful. The big windows caught all the Madrid sunlight, even in the late afternoon, and the sitting room was packed with books and beautiful things. In his linen shirt and suit pants, Teto, extremely tanned, was another beautiful thing to admire. 

“Your architect?” Carlos asked. Teto disappeared behind the kitchen’s gleaming island, and came back with two beers in glass bottles. 

“The family cut me off, again,” Teto said, with a crooked smile. “I have to live somehow. He doesn’t know about my work.”

Teto did not work officially for any government, or organisation. He was always for sale. 

Carlos took the opened beer, and took a sip, watching Teto. He looked older, the fine lines starting to creep in, but still handsome. Teto’s mouth touched the lip of his bottle, and the beer left a faint wet stain on the inside of his lips. Carlos remembered the safe house in Varna, on the Black Sea, at the arse end of the summer, all the holidayers left town. Carlos had been seeing an oligarch's daughter, for her father’s information. He could sleep with women, although he found it difficult. Teto had been fixing for an arms dealer, and it had gone south. They had holed up together, spending the day in bed together, Carlos sneaking out at night to the docks to pass on his information packets. 

“Carlos,” Teto said, into the silence. He leaned back against the kitchen island, his legs coming apart. “Come here.”

Carlos left his beer on the coffee table. He got on his knees. Teto’s hand came into his field of vision, his fingers touched Carlos’ bottom lip. 

“Are you here for work?” he asked. Carlos looked up at him. 

“I can’t tell you that,” he said, his hands working, until Teto’s fly was undone, and their hands worked together to push his briefs down enough to free his cock. It was as lovely as Carlos remembered, even only half-hard. 

Teto held his jaw in a soft grip, holding his neck steady as Carlos took as much into his mouth as he could. The soft skin, the feeling of being somewhere powerful, keeping someone else vulnerable. It was the same feeling of knowing a secret, of knowing how dangerous the real, secret world was. 

Teto exhaled. His cock was getting harder, filling with blood and pushing against the sides of Carlos’ mouth.