1999
"Your glass is empty. I'll go in and get you more champagne."
"Don't be long," British Royal Air Force Flight Lieutenant Collen Trent told the Danish Orlogkaptajn--major--who looked around, and, not believing they were being observed, leaned over and brushed his lips against Trent's before reentering the building. The two had been standing on a balcony of the Palace of Charles of Lorraine in Brussels, where a reception during a NATO intelligence services conference was being held. The two were there in the delegations of their respective national services, but Trent, at thirty, and the Dane, at thirty-seven, both currently assigned to NATO in Belgium, were "an item" and had come to the reception together.
They
had
been observed, however, and as soon as the tall, beefy, but distinguished looking Dane reentered the reception hall, a dark figure emerged from the shadows of the balcony and came up beside the young, handsome, blond former photoreconnaissance plane pilot, Trent, who was standing at the balcony rail, looking down into a courtyard.
"Is the Dane very good?" the man asked, giving Trent a smile, the white teeth prominent against the dark face of the tall, muscular African-American man in his early fifties, but Marine squared away still. He, in fact, was an American Marine general.
"Ah, General Coleridge," Trent said, turning his face to the imposing soldier and returning his smile. "I didn't see you there."
"You know who I am?" Adam Coleridge said, a bit surprised but also flattered. He, of course, knew who Trent was from the stack of files he'd been given to review of those attending the conference, including the backbenchers, Trent being one. The Danish officer wasn't a backbencher, though, and Trent had been mentioned prominently in his file.
"Yes, of course I know who you are, General," Trent said. The general reached out and touched the younger man's forearm. Trent didn't balk. He, in fact, knew far more about the American general than the Americans would want the British intelligence service to know. And it had been fortuitous that they were meeting here, in private, on the balcony. It saved a lot of preliminary work. "And, yes, I have every reason to believe that the major is very good in the service of his country."
"That isn't quite what I meant. We probably don't have much time. I was asking if he's very good in bed. He looks like a virile and vigorous man. You submit to him, I believe. I'm not wrong, am I?"
There was a pause while Trent decided whether to respond to this at all, but he was on a mission too, so he did. "No, your intelligence people seem to be right on top of relationships between conference attendees."
"And, since you seem to know who I am, may I assume that your intelligence service is as thorough in informing you about others at the conference--their background, their tastes, their preferences?"
"Yes."
"You are a very handsome young man," the general said. "I've been watching you during today's proceedings."
"I won't claim that I didn't notice," Trent said, "or that I wasn't flattered."
"Or that you aren't interested? I like to think that I pass muster with young men like you. The looks I've seen you give me indicated that I pass muster with you. I don't know if you have trouble getting enough exercise when attending conferences like this one. I do, and I need regular exercise. I could give you quite a workout."
"You asked how the Dane is in bed. He's choice. Yes, he's virile and vigorous. I've found that Danes are masterful in bed."
"Ah, so, you are quite satisfied and aren't--?"
Trent looked through the glass of the bank of French doors into the reception room, where the conference delegates were swirling around. He saw that the Danish officer hadn't made it even as far as getting their glasses refilled. He'd been waylaid by a group of delegates and they were having an intense conversation. Good, Trent thought.
"Let me tell you something I discovered when I was flying the AWACS out of Akrotiri, Cyprus, over Syria and Iraq, General," he said, taking his turn in placing a hand on the other man's forearm, pulling him deeper into the shadows. Perhaps passing secrets that the American undoubtedly already knew would help put his guard down.
* * * *
1992
Twenty-three-year-old Collen Trent was sitting at a corner table in the dimly lit jazz room in the basement of Oscar's, a club on Karneadou Street, close to the new port area of Limassol, Cyprus. Limassol, on the island's south coast, on the Greek side, was the island's principal seaport. The club was a multipurpose gay men's venue, sailors featured upstairs on the main level and a more discreet and discerning jazz venue on offer downstairs. The separately entered basement was discreet enough to attract men who weren't openly gay but nonetheless on the make. It helped if they appreciated good live music.
The British sovereign airbase, Akrotiri, was on a closed-off peninsula west of Limassol. Trent was an RAF pilot, flying a Boeing Sentry AEW1, both a sound and photo surveillance aircraft the British flew over areas of interest in the Middle East. As an intelligence services officer, Trent kept a low profile, but Oscar's was one of the clubs he frequented. His superiors knew of his sexual preferences and used them for British intelligence purposes, when advantageous, combining the world's two oldest professions: spying and prostitution.
Trent was sitting with Takis, the transvestite manager of the club. He had been invited that evening not only because he enjoyed jazz music, but also because Takis wanted to have one of the regulars ride herd on a visiting feature musician and make him feel comfortable during his week-long gig in Limassol. The next week he'd play at a club in Nicosia, the capital city in the interior of the island, before going on to Athens. Trent hadn't entertained a black musician before, but he was bored because the surveillance business was in a temporary step down during a peace conference being held in Cairo, and he'd never been with a black before. He'd heard they were all hung, and he was interested in testing that rumor. He was curious about taking a black cock, especially one of dark color and large size.
Takis had made quite clear that "entertaining the musician" would include sleeping with him, if that's what the man wanted. Trent had taken a look at the man first and had quickly agreed to babysit him and would keep an open mind on anything else. Yes, he thought, having taken a look at the musician's crotch, chances were good he was hung. The palms of his hands were those of a white man. What color would his cock be?
Mojo Philips was quite a challenge, though. He was on the platform, with his trumpet and a backup local band. The room was crowded, as the black Nigerian, who homebased and played in Tangier, had a reputation as both a musician and a massive top, and Philips filled the room all by himself. He had to be six foot eight and to pack in over 250 pounds of hard muscle. Trent was supposed to take him to dinner in the old harbor area after this set, where, luckily, Cypriots were still going strong on the evening meal after midnight. They would play what might happen after dinner from there. Philips was being accommodated at the Alasia Hotel on Haidariou Street, not far from the old harbor. That hotel was very loose about who could go upstairs without being checked in--and how long they had to stay. Those paying by the hour, slipped the fee below the reception desk without the Cypriot taxman being any the wiser and without the need to show passports.
Trent had no obligation to be in his quarters at the base that night, but he hadn't made any firm commitment to Takis to spend the night anywhere else either. He said he'd play it as it came. He still was undecided as he sat there, listening to the music. The black giant played a smooth jazz trumpet, making love to the horn rather than blasting the music out, and he was arousing as "something new and different." But the size and blackness of the man were intimidating. More to Trent's liking and preference were the young, blond men at a table nearer to the platform. They were all beautiful men--big and muscular, but not quite as big and bulked up as the black musician. Trent assessed them to be Danes from the UN peacekeeping force currently serving on the island, the UN military contingent manning the Green Line separating the Greek side from the Turkish one on the island often being provided by one of the Scandinavian countries. This region was better ground to provide neutral-force peacekeepers than most.
