Special Forces: Soldiers Vashtan/Aleksandr Voinov and Marquesate

leather. He was one hundred percent sure he was bugged, probably twice. But he’d 

be damned if he could find the devices. 

Now, the main task was vanish in the crowd as soon as possible. He locked 

in the suitcase, everything important on his body, a light day pack that he had 

bought where he’d bought the map, and headed into the underground, changing 

trains at random, then heading out after about two hours of being politely ignored, 

which seemed to be a very British thing – they didn’t even step out of his way 

when he was moving, as if completely spatially unaware. A blindness that would 

kill in any war zone. 

Vadim heaved a sigh of relief when he came back to the surface. Suddenly, 

everybody seemed very young; no suits, no grey skirts, no clutched handbags. 

Instead, young people with spiky hair, torn jeans, greasy and creased – in an 

attempt to be as ugly and unkempt as possible. He stood there, watching the youths 

 350 

stream past, it seemed loud and chaotic, but then he defroze, and followed the 

crowd. 

It was getting dusky, and he assumed he’d have maybe four hours to find a 

place to crash – and kit himself out. The airports, customs, and travel had settled 

heavily on his bones, and the time difference had an impact. He wasn’t quite sure 

whether he should be hungry or tired, or both, only knew that, compared to a patrol, 

this was all a walk in the park. 

Gaudy stalls. Now he knew where the youths bought their clothes. An eye-

searing collection of neon colours, even collars with silvery metal spikes made 

from cheap leather, and, that amused Vadim somehow, belts made to look like 

ammo. He followed, senses besieged by impressions the further he walked that 

road, almost elbow to shoulder with the crowd, he smelled weed every now and 

then, saw the usual implements for it, sold freely as if they were decorations. 

He was offered to buy drugs, but smiled and shook his head, saying “I don’t 

understand” in Tajik, assuming, of all the different languages he’d heard, that this 

one might be new. He was let off the hook, playing ignorant, and thought, if he’d 

fancy a career as a drug dealer, he’d just track, follow and kill those kids and take 

their stash. They didn’t seem particularly vicious, and there was money on the 

street in this city. 

But how ironic, after burning the poppy fields in the valleys, to see it sold 

freely in the streets. Purity, of course, was another issue. 

Vadim saw a shop that seemed promising – rows upon rows of second-hand 

clothes, and headed in. Behind a counter that displayed all manners of silver rings 

and arcaner things that Vadim couldn’t quite place, was a dark-clad youth, hair so 

black it had to be dyed, and done up in a big cloud of hair, a silent, rock-solid 

explosion of hair, and the youth was busy and unaware kissing and stroking 

something that looked like her twin sister. Tight black PVC shirts and long skirts 

that were slit up to bony hips, displaying black fishnet stockings and high boots—

so pointy it made Vadim’s toes ache in sympathy. And lace gloves. The other had a 

black hat settled on that nest of hair, at an angle that made Soviet parade uniforms 

appear practical and logical. 

Vadim raised an eyebrow at the muffled sounds, but decided as long as he 

ignored them, he would be ignored in turn. 

 351 

Going through the shirts, he found a few that looked like they could fit, 

he’d have to change to know, but he figured he’d fit in better if he went with jeans 

and nondescript T-shirts. He ran his fingers over leather trousers  right next to the 

second-hand stuff, and smirked. By far too expensive, even though he liked the feel. 

He headed towards the counter, where the two pale dark-haired creatures 

were still kissing. He waited, as patient as in any Soviet shop, and eventually, they 

pulled apart. Both wore the same amount of make up, red and black lipstick, eye 

shadow in red and black as well, eyebrows made to look like bats’ wings. 

The one with the skirt might have longer fingernails. They could have been 

Martians, and yet, they both looked fragile and vulnerable, and Vadim didn’t find 

them ridiculous. 

“Is there way to try them?” asked Vadim. 

“Put them on?” suggested the one who didn’t wear a skirt. Male? Or just a 

husky voice. 

Vadim paused, went over his sentence again. “I mean, do you have place 

where I can try these on?” 

A hand laden with silver rings and long fingernails waved towards a curtain. 

Nothing more, just a curtain that would hardly cover him. Vadim decided he didn’t 

mind much, even if normal people would, and the two creatures would most likely 

be too busy reapplying their lipstick. 

“Thank you,” he muttered and headed behind the curtain—about one step 

behind the corner. He found a cluttered stool and put the pile of clothes there, 

placed the day pack between his feet, constant contact, and stripped out of the 

jacket and shirt, aware of the lack of dog tags on his chest. Then tried the T-shirts, 

cloth soft from being washed too often, which he liked, despite the somewhat 

musky smell—being stored with too many clothes in one place, and mothballs to 

protect them. 

Not too bad. It would air out. He had no luck with the shirts—too tight in 

the shoulder, or downright baggy, but the T-shirts fit nicely enough. He’d just have 

to wear a jacket or coat at this time of year. 

The jeans were alright, gave like second hand clothes did, and Vadim 

stuffed his old clothes into a bag. He emerged back from behind the curtain, seeing 

both youth slack-jawed. 

 352 

Oh, the scars. Vadim gave a smile. “I’ll take these.” The mirror near the 

door showed he’d fit in if he did something with his hair and shoes. That shouldn’t 

be too much of a problem. He reached for his wallet, too aware of the hole that the 

clothes ripped into his budget, but it was absolutely mandatory to blend in, even in 

a place as diverse and strange as this. It was bad enough that his accent gave him 

away, but with a little luck, it would be harder to place now. 

The one with the skirt leaned the elbows on the counter and regarded him 

with all the blasé attitude of a maybe twenty-year old who’d seen everything. 

Definitely in terms of fashion. “You a tourist?” And the voice was female. For a 

strange moment, he’d thought they were both girls, then boys, but apparently, their 

gender followed the normal tradition. 

Vadim smiled. “More like visitor. Nice city, though.” 

“‘s alright,” said the one behind the counter, shoving his clothes over, long, 

bony, silver ringed fingers splayed on them, not yet letting go. 

Was he being checked out by two kids each half his weight and bulk? 

Vadim glanced out onto the darkening street. If anything, it was getting more 

crowded. He wondered what Dan thought of this, and whether Dan had ever been 

in one of these shops, and what he thought of boys that wore eye shadow. And 

were old enough to have served in the army and been killed. 

“You probably know your way around,” said Vadim, “I can find shoes 

further down?” 

“Try Camden Lock market,” said the boy. 

“And something to eat?” 

They nodded and assured him there was plenty of food in that area, too. Not 

that they seemed to eat much the way they looked. “Thanks.” They were nice 

enough, he thought. He could just as well risk the rest, especially as there was one 

further need he wanted to attend to. What was the word Dan had used? “Are there 

gay establishments?” 

Neither batted an eyelash. “Soho. Full of that.” They gave him directions as 

well and told him there was something for every taste. Gyms, saunas, and 

nightclubs. The first two sounded just great. This freedom thing made some things 

easier, clearly. He’d be gone soon, he risked nothing, nobody would see or 

remember him. Just fine. No risk to the mission. He gave them another smile. 

“Thanks.” 

 353 

Further down the road he found shops hawking military kit, and that was 

where he found some proper shoes, second hand as well. He wanted nothing to 

stand out, definitely not bulled boots; and then spied a bookshop that had a special 

display with the year’s date. Vadim wondered what was so special about it, entered, 

and browsed some of the books. In pounds, this was still too expensive, by far, but 

it made him smirk that all the Russians were there. 

Tolstoy, Gogol, Pushkin. Might be interesting to read them in English and 

see how they changed. But he needed to travel light. 

He plucked one of the books from near the window and read the beginning. 

‘It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. 

Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, 

slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly 

enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. The hallway 

smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too 

large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an 

enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with 

a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the 

stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, 

and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of 

the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and 

Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went 

slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, 

the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures 

which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG 

BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.’ 

“It’s really against totalitarianism,” said the man behind the counter. 

Forbidden. One of the banned books. Vadim felt it burn his fingers, opened 

it again further into the book, knew the moment he spoke the man would be able to 

tell what and who he was. 

‘The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in 

the good of others; we are interested solely in power.’ 

He glanced up, didn’t understand, and understood too well. Part of his mind 

coiling back. He shouldn’t be doing this, and he should feel guilt, or more of a 

pause, but he had entered a place where the usual laws did not apply, the usual 

 354 

chains didn’t bind. And if anything, having an anti-Soviet book in his pocket 

would clear him of being a KGB assassin. Just part of the disguise. Nothing more. 

He would probably not have the time to read it, anyway.  

He paid for the book, then walked back to the underground station, where 

he took a train, and changed to get to Oxford Circus. 

It was dark by now, tourists, party-goers, loud, crowded, he walked, dodged 

people running straight at him, Little Compton Road, there, he was there, saw a 

nondescript door painted with a rainbow flag. That was the place. He saw men 

kissing while walking down the road—like a parallel world, where this was neither 

a crime, nor something to be ashamed of. 

How odd, how intoxicating. No force, no danger. He began to see the point 

about freedom. 

“You want to go in there?” asked somebody. 

Vadim turned, suddenly faced with a man wearing leather. Lots of it, in fact. 

Shining, gleaming, smooth black leather. He looked like he had just stepped off a 

motorcycle, but nothing like that anywhere near. Excellent body, meaty, broad 

shoulders, powerful. “Yes,” he said, was strangely breathless. Man in leather. Okay. 

That was…clearly something to remember. 

“You sure?” The man stepped closer, bastard trick, Vadim smelled the 

leather, heard it creak. Chest nearly as broad as his. The man was in prime shape, 

late thirties, crows’ feet around the eyes, but he couldn’t guess their colour behind 

the shades. Shades in darkness. How strange. 

“Why not?” 

The man shrugged. “Just loose arseholes in there. Old sluts hoping to score 

tonight.” 

Vadim gave a quick smile, and the other smiled back, and he knew he liked 

the man on some level. Humour despite the appearance. “It’s sauna, yes?”  

“Really just a place to check out the flesh that’s on offer,” said the other. 

“You should find a fan club within ten seconds flat. I’d say you look too classy for 

that.” 

Vadim took half a step away from the door. “Why is that?” 

“Are you fishing for compliments?” The man pulled the sunglasses off, and 

his eyes were dark brown, a shade lighter than Dan’s. Vadim could feel his blood 

heat up. He didn’t want a sauna, didn’t want to see what that place was like. 

 355 

Instead, the other man became a distinct possibility. Their eyes met, and the 

other’s lips curved into a smile. “I guess you are.” He stepped closer, again, now 

within distance of a punch, and his voice turned into a low murmur. “You could go 

in there and have them fawn over you. Or you could come with me.” 

“What are you offering?” 

The other grinned. “Pretty sure I have what you need.” That sentence did it. 

As straightforward, teasing, and knowledgeable as could be. Unashamedly erotic. 

A man that didn’t hide, that needed no convincing, and knew what he was doing. 

Vadim stepped away from the door, and the other nodded, as if 

congratulating him on a good choice, but he didn’t say it. “What were you looking 

for in there?” 

The other gave a smirk. “Somebody like you. A new face. Happens every 

now and then.” 

“Fresh meat?” 

The other paused. “You wouldn’t be the first tourist to put himself on the 

market here. It’s a holiday of sorts.” 

You can say that again, thought Vadim, and found himself walking beside 

the guy. He said his name was Darren, and made in real estate, which sounded for 

a moment like innuendo, but then Vadim understood he bought and sold houses, or 

properties, as he called them, and that it was really all quite boring. Only that it 

was also pretty profitable, judging from the flat. Vadim had expected a hotel room, 

but Darren said something along the lines of a surprise, and Vadim was intrigued. 

It would beat having to spend money on a hotel room, that was, of course, if the 

other allowed him to stay until the next morning. He had no idea how these things 

went – definitely not as casual as it was right now. Even with Sasha, things had 

been more complicated – lies wrapped in subterfuge, covered with pretences. 

Following a stranger into his  flat for sex made him feel oddly self-conscious. As if 

that Darren now called the shots. 

First, he was offered a drink, and took it, amber liquid in a tumbler, without 

ice. The other was close, but not jumping his bones, or expecting him to jump his, 

still casual and relaxed. Without the sunglasses, and in the light, Darren had a good 

face, strong hands, excellent, chiselled shoulders. He lost the jacket somewhere, 

showing off his pecs, clearly a man who worked out hard and maintained even 

more painstakingly. 

 356 

Vadim returned the favour, and put his jacket over one of the chairs in the 

kitchen. 

Darren gave him a grin and placed both hands on Vadim’s chest, warmth 

spreading, a calming touch, establishing contact. “Anything you absolutely don’t 

do?” 

That seemed ominous, like there was some kind of procedural manual for 

reference, and the only one without a copy was Vadim. What he absolutely didn’t 

do. Genocide, rape, torture. He shook his head. What could this man do that 

Afghanistan hadn’t? 

Darren peered into his eyes, hands slowing moving outward, as if 

measuring Vadim’s chest, then down, fingers tracing the lines of the pecs there, 

meeting just over his sternum. “You have no idea what I’m talking about,” Darren 

said. “You’re just playing by instinct.” 

Vadim gave a short laugh. “Just assume it’s different where I come from.” 

“I gather that,” murmured Darren, and Vadim could see that the man 

considered whether he was worth the trouble or whether he should put him out the 

door and thank him for his time. “Where are you from?” 

“Soviet Union.” 

“Holy shit. I thought you looked Scandinavian.” 

It was probably the wrong moment to tell him that the Rus were descended 

from Vikings. Vadim emptied the glass, the heat spread in his stomach and made 

him worry less. Hadn’t managed to eat, and was running low, fourteen hours with 

nothing but the sandwich on the plane. “No. Russian.” He gave an ironic smirk. 

“Sorry.” 

Darren shook his head, discarding that notion. At least the Cold War stayed 

outside, that man was just interested in his body, which was fine. “You want to 

shower first?” 

First. Sex was on, then. Vadim nodded. 

“Through that door. Towels to the right. Take your time. I’m upstairs in the 

bedroom.” 

Vadim nodded his thanks, and made his way to the shower. Gleaming, 

clean tiles, chrome, a continuous, strong rain of hot water. For the first time in two 

days, Vadim felt comfortable, odd, given the situation. Found a razor and shaved, 

relished being clean and smooth, and thought of the other’s body. Had no idea 

 357 

what to expect, would be nice to fuck an ass again, after all the times he’d been 

fucked, but couldn’t allow that, and wouldn’t. Quickly towelled himself down, 

took another towel and tied it around his waist, felt warm and relaxed and looking 

forward to getting off. 

The corridor light was dimmed, one door almost closed, but there was light 

on the other side, and he heard faint groaning. 

Vadim glanced into the room, and the scene inside didn’t make sense at 

first. A man was there, on the bed, wearing some kind of leather trousers that were 

cut in a way as to bare his ass and groin, which would have looked ridiculous if the 

black, gleaming leather hadn’t been tight in the other places, if he hadn’t been 

shaved smooth, if his hands hadn’t been bound to his ankles, legs kept wide apart 

by metal bars, and if he hadn’t been blindfolded and gagged. The body, displayed 

like that, was to die for. Much like Darren, who stood near the other’s head, 

stroking it with all the pride of an owner. 

“Come on in,” said Darren, and the bound man jerked in the restraints. 

Maybe shame, maybe surprise. 

Vadim frowned, giving a questioning glance, but despite the setup, he 

assumed if the other was really in pain, he’d know. As he walked around him, he 

saw the bound man was hard, some kind of metal rings and leather keeping his 

cock and balls confined. Smooth, powerful ass. Lubed. It looked like it had been 

breached before, and Vadim saw what looked like a plastic cock near the man’s 

knee. 

“Let me introduce you to Mark.” 

The other shuddered, and made strange noises, maybe begging. Darren 

opened his fly and pulled out his cock, then removed the gag only to push the 

other’s head onto it, who begun to suck so eagerly and hungrily that Vadim’s 

breath caught. Darren moved almost lazily, despite the other’s need, and motioned 

Vadim over. 

Darren’s finger hooked into the towel and pulled it open, and it fell to the 

floor, while Vadim watched the other’s cock vanish between the lips, the blindfold 

somehow making this better, lips wet and inviting, and moaning noises, flaring 

nostrils, helpless and needing, and reluctant when Darren pulled free, fully hard 

and grinning. 

 358 

Vadim took the cue this time, took the other’s head and guided him to his 

own cock. Shit. Just as eager, and he groaned. It was safe to make a noise now, 

have a complete stranger suck him, while the man’s lover watched, stroking 

himself. 

“From Russia, with love,” said Darren, and Vadim felt Darren’s hands on 

his back, that wet cock brushing his flank, and felt trapped, lured, especially as 

Darren began kissing his neck and shoulders, and it felt good, all of this, the feeling 

of being a stranger bled away, and he was a body among bodies, no strange accent 

that made him stand out, just blending in with men that were exactly like him. 

Darren’s hands moved to his pecs, and twisted his nipples, sending white 

hot jolts of arousal through Vadim. Shit. Rolled between strong fingers. His hips 

moved on their own, and Darren whispered in his ear, something about him being 

so goddamned sexy in his innocence, one hand moving down over his back, to his 

ass, which made Vadim tense, but shit, this was good, and getting better. The hand 

moved between his cheeks, circled his ass, rough fingertips just touching him there, 

while the other’s lips and mouth kept him rooted to the spot. Teeth dug into his 

neck, and again breathing close to his ear. “Do you want to fuck him?” 

Vadim nodded, pulled away almost powerless with need, kept on the brink 

now for too long, with the sneaking suspicion this Mark was tasked to do exactly 

that, keep him there, but fuck, he didn’t actually care, cared more about the ass – 

moved between the other’s legs, could see Darren make Mark suck his fingers, 

murmuring something about wanting him to tell them just how much he 

appreciated a big Russian cock, and that he would remain ungagged for his 

performance so far. The easy arrogance and callousness was incredibly sexy, 

Darren fully in control of the other, seemed to know even what the other thought. 

“Wait a minute,” said Darren as Vadim was about to enter. “Tell me what 

you want, bitch.” 

“Cock, sir.” The ‘sir’ sent stabs of lust straight through Vadim’s body. Oh 

fuck. What was going on? 

Darren motioned for him to remain still, a wicked grin on his lips. “That 

doesn’t convince me.” 

“I want cock, sir, please, let me have cock.” 

“Any cock?” Oh, that grin could become more evil yet. 

 359 

“… yes, sir.” Voice small, strangled, the man’s mind reeling with 

humiliation. 

“There...he’s yours.” And that wasn’t just a metaphor, Darren meant in, 

there was a layer to it that Vadim found hard to grasp, and didn’t actually care 

about, instead entered the other’s ass with all the pent-up need and aggression that 

he had stored in his body, which made the other very nearly cry out, a choked 

sound deep from the throat, clenching, but he was nicely slicked up and ripe. 

Vadim pounded that ass, unleashing his strength, encouraged by the sounds 

the other made, and Darren right behind him, toying with his nipples, cock 

remaining hard against him, but he had the strange feeling Darren didn’t feel any 

rush, just seemed to enjoy the show. 

Vadim was sweating, pulled his lips back from his teeth and tried to get 

himself over the edge and reached for Mark’s cock when Darren’s hand suddenly 

closed around his wrist. 

“He’s not allowed to cum.” 

Vadim nodded, not really understanding, but somehow did, the fact that one 

man could control another like that nearly mind-blowing. Oh fuck. Innocent? He 

was a bloody beginner, nothing else. 

That powerful hand moved to his front, circled his cock and balls right at 

the root and the pressure made Vadim groan. “Slow down. Fast out, slow in. Make 

the bitch feel what you’ve got to give.” 

Vadim obeyed, Darren’s hand taking control now as well, fuck, fuck, but he 

wouldn’t ‘sir’ him. 

“Slow,” murmured Darren, and Vadim slowly regained his control, actually 

felt the other man shift, meet his thrusts, now, needy, not caring, muttering, 

begging for cock, to be allowed to cum, please sir. 

A profound lesson. Slow gave control, control gave power. 

Darren pulled back, breathed into Vadim’s ear again. “Now, make him 

hurt.” 

The order was irresistible. Vadim went back to full force, more force, 

because all that had been dammed up, and came with a curse, tunnel vision when 

he came, vision turning dark for a long moment. 

Mark was whimpering when Vadim staggered off the bed, leaning against 

the wall. Darren hadn’t just fucked his mind. Had he? 

 360 

The other moved into his position, and began to fuck Mark leisurely, 

expertly, a sight truly to behold, Mark too far gone to say anything, just moaning 

and please please all over, and Vadim watched with flushed face; they fit so 

perfectly together, polished muscles, clearly a deep understanding that gave the 

violence and humiliation a thick extra layer – Darren fucked Mark slow and 

unforgiving, then, when Vadim could hardly bear watching anymore, pulled free 

from that well-used ass, and made the other suck his cock, a sight that was 

appalling and still good. 

Vadim hadn’t thought a man could have that much control, watching Mark 

swallow everything, unable to breathe. 

Only then did Darren touch Mark’s straining cock, and it took hardly a 

thought until Mark came, crying out as he did; and Darren removed the metal 

things that had kept his lover in that position, and Mark curled up, gasping, on the 

verge of tears. 

Now Darren was different. He held the other, stroking the broad back, 

while Vadim watched, something like...no, not envy, he felt the peace between the 

two, knew this was as sane to them as the rushed handjobs pressed against a wall in 

a nameless place in Kabul had been between him and Dan. 

Better get dressed and leave them, he thought, he felt suddenly like an 

intruder. A guest, yes, but that was over now. Vadim bent down to gather the towel. 

Darren glanced up when he moved. “You should look at him, Mark.” The 

other turned and looked up as well, too tired and shaken to do more than give a 

strange kind of smile. 

 “There. He was running around London, with no place to go to.” 

You nailed it on the head, thought Vadim. Damn. Was he really that 

obvious? 

“Name’s Vadim,” he offered, deciding to stick to the truth. Go with the 

‘endearing athlete’. Lay on the accent a touch thicker. 

“Hi Vadim,” said Mark, relaxing against Darren’s chest, and studying his 

shoulders, everything, with sleepy appreciation. “Can’t have you...run around 

London with no place to go. Can we?” 

Darren grinned. “I’ll make sure he’s comfortable.” He stood, while Mark 

just lay on the bed, not enough strength left to do anything, and Darren gave a grin. 

 361 

“It’s a bit small for three.” They headed downstairs, where Darren 

converted a couch into a passable bed in a few minutes. Clearly done this before. 

“We’ll sort you out a good proper English breakfast tomorrow. If you need 

anything else, ask, unless it’s in the fridge.” Darren gave him a wink that said 

exactly what that ‘asking’ could be for. 

“Yes. Thanks. I mean...thanks.” 

Darren nodded. “That was a bit hardcore for you, wasn’t it?” 

“Mostly...unexpected.” 

Darren grinned. “Don’t be nervous. I’m a bastard in bed, but outside, I’m a 

fairly relaxed guy. Kitchen’s over there, you know the bathroom, and where the 

towels are.” 

“Doesn’t...he hate you for that?” 

Darren stood in the doorway, and studied him with a quizzical look. “Why 

should he?” 

“All that...power.” 

Darren grinned. “Whose power?” 

“Yours.” 

“Mine?” Darren turned and came back. “Who, do you think, was in control, 

between us? Why, do you think, did I not fuck you?” 

“You wanted me to...fuck...Mark.” 

“And? That wouldn’t have kept me from it.” 

Vadim shook his head. “No idea.” 

 “Because you didn’t want that. You wouldn’t have resisted, I guess, but 

you weren’t ready. You didn’t trust me. Would have given you nothing.” 

Giving? How could that be about giving? “I don’t understand.” 

“You were in control. Mark was. Simple.” Darren grinned. “I’ll show you. 

Unless you run away and decide this freaks you out.” 

Vadim sat down on the couch. “Few things do.” Wrong thing to say. “Well. 

I have an open mind.” 

Darren grinned. “Good night.” And left, the stairs creaking softly as he 

padded up to the bedroom. 

Vadim lay back on the couch, glanced around, and waited till he heard the 

door upstairs close. 

 362 

How could Mark be in control, tied up, blindfolded and gagged? Made no 

sense. Restless, he went to the kitchen, checked the fridge, found cheese and milk 

and bread, had two apples with that, and thought about it, then headed back to his 

pack, located his position and planned for the next day. 

 

* * * 

 

Seeing Mark in a suit somehow diminished him. Killer body, clearly, good 

looking on all counts. The man gave a wave as he rushed out the door. Darren was 

still in the shower. 

Vadim sat in the kitchen, marvelled at the chrome and glass and wood 

surfaces, gleaming and technological. Clean. Expensive. He felt outclassed, and the 

thought surprised him. He had got deeply into a different mind, had done the acting 

bit right under the shower just half an hour ago. He was the endearing athlete out 

for blowing off some steam. These people were rich, and decadent, capitalist pigs. 

And generous, and welcoming, and strangely the same as him. In a twisted, 

unbelievable way, he was more fundamentally like them than...much that was 

going on in the Soviet Union. This was the life he wanted, and the thought made 

him tense his jaw muscles, as if trying to bite through iron bars. No chance, no 

chance, ever, to have anything like this. He could as well have come from a 

different galaxy or from below the sea. 

These men were not concerned about living together – while he kept up that 

life and liberty saving guise of a woman and children. 

All he had, all he would ever have. Unless he turned traitor. 

He started to see the dangers of this world – if for completely different 

reasons than any of his handlers had anticipated. It was the freedom to fuck a man 

without having to hide it. A wide, spacious place and not having to beg for scraps 

from the Party. Self-denial, shame, and the hope that it might get better, one day, if 

he only sacrificed enough. 

‘The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in 

the good of others; we are interested solely in power.’ 

Yeah, no shit. 

“Your face is darker than the prospects of the miners,” said Darren, padding 

into the kitchen in a dark black robe, hair wet and glistening. Vadim stared at a 

 363 

drop of water running from somewhere behind Darren’s ear over the taut muscle to 

the throat. 

“Sorry?” 

“Miner strike. Don’t you read the papers?” 

“Press is...different in Moscow.” 

Darren paused. “Shit. I keep forgetting. Sorry.” 

Vadim turned away slightly, wondered if that was condescending, and 

knew he’d break the man if it was. A hand on his neck. Powerful. Soothing. Darren 

had no idea how close that call was. 

“You’re incredibly tense.” 

“I have couple good reasons.” 

“I’d love to fuck you, but I told you, I won’t do it unless you want me to. 

Seems that’s one of the things you don’t do.” 

Vadim inhaled sharply. How to explain he felt like a hungry dog staring at 

a butcher’s window? A butcher that actually had something to sell, not a Soviet 

place. 

“Strange. I can’t figure out whether you’re a top or a bottom. Seems to 

change.” 

“Top or bottom?” 

“Mark’s a bottom. I’m a top. In bed.” 

“I like being in control.” 

“I’m not sure you actually do,” said Darren. “I get the feeling you’re trying 

to lose yourself. Prime slave material.” 

Vadim turned to stare at him. They said there were books being printed – 

and read, and reviewed – that stated that Russians had, what they called a ‘slave 

mentality’. Just a different kind of saying they were inferior by nature. Those 

writers thought they belonged to a Master race of a different kind. “No. I’m not.” 

Darren’s hand moved to a place under his throat. That scar. The burn scar. 

Oh fuck. “You look like a man who’s been in a place where things turned bad.” 

Dan. Vadim tried to pull away, felt strangely reluctant to just break the 

man’s jaw for what he said, but Darren’s hands remained on his body, intense, and 

good, and comforting. 

“This. And the scars on your back.” 

 364 

Darren stood close in his back now, Vadim could smell the shower gel. 

He’d used the same stuff last night. Darren smelled clean, of water and heat. 

Something about water... 

Vadim shook his head. “Yes, hard to explain those...” 

“Well, looks like torture to me.” As blunt as a sledgehammer. Vadim felt 

his breath catch; one thing to have the political officer or the medical officer say 

this – and acknowledge it, and a completely different matter from a man who tied 

up his partner so a complete stranger could fuck him. “You must have been tied up 

– nobody could get the lines so clearly if you had been in any position to struggle 

much.” 

Vadim remembered to breathe, then stopped again when Darren began 

kissing his neck. Could feel Darren getting aroused, felt it through the robe, 

pressing into him. He didn’t know what to feel, apart from being frozen in place 

and unable to breathe. “That...turns you on?” 

“Yes.” Darren’s hand moved down to his cock and squeezed it, hard, just 

right, and Vadim gasped. Oh fuck. The other was going for it, in the brightly lit 

kitchen, not in the bedroom. 

“How...does it work? How can...Mark be in control?” 

“He sets the limits. I know what’s going on inside him; we’ve been doing 

this for a while.” Darren’s squeeze skirted pain, but never quite made it there, just 

an intense feeling, close to lust, but not quite, close to pain, but not quite. “And you 

are in control. All it takes is a ‘no’.” 

“Am I?” 

“Yeah. Only that you don’t want to be in control. Whatever somebody did 

to you here...” Scraping teeth over the first letter of that word. The letter p. “That’s 

fine, too. I can give you control.” 

“What...the fuck are you talking...ah...about.” Darren’s hands were on his 

ass, kneading it, powerful, strong grip, unashamed of groping, and there was a 

weird rhythm to it that went to Vadim’s groin. Had the strange feeling he was 

being tested, probed for a reaction, and not just of the body. 

Darren pushed him forward, against one of the polished wood work 

surfaces, and Vadim only just managed to steady himself, hands on the wood. Bent 

over like this and fucked? He was in no way like Mark. Not a slave. And the rest 

didn’t make any sense. Top, bottom, middle, vertical, whatever. 

 365 

A shrill ring made Darren curse softly, and then chuckle. “Phone. Typical.” 

He pulled back and headed into the living room, leaving Vadim confused and 

relieved and irritated – irritated that he’d allowed Darren to go that far.  

He inhaled and exhaled a few times, deeply, gathered the A to Z and the 

map he’d used for planning and took it to the living room where his day pack was. 

Darren sat there, cross legged, talking about some property and how they 

should talk to the seller, and yes, he’d do that right away. Vadim took the pack and 

his jacket, but leaned in the door frame, waiting, as Darren lifted an eyebrow, 

mouthing something silently. 

Vadim listened, studied the man, was ready to go, but didn’t. Waited until 

Darren ended the conversation. He remained sitting there when the receiver was 

down. “You’re leaving?” 

“I have to meet somebody.” 

Darren nodded, pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You’re welcome to come 

back after that.” 

“I might.” Vadim forced a smirk. “If you stop asking questions. I don’t 

want you to know more about me than you already do. You’re cutting too close to 

bone. That’s not way to build trust. I am not very trusting man.” 

“Fair enough. If you return around seven, Mark will be here, too.” 

Which might be better. They could have some fun with Mark, which would 

definitely be less awkward than Darren trying to get into his pants. And the talk of 

slaves and control. 

Vadim nodded and headed out. He had people to kill. 

 

* * * 

 

The house in the north of London did look in no way different from the 

others in the same road. Vadim checked the distance to the next fire station. He 

wouldn’t even have to block the road. It was a cul-de-sac, and the street was long 

and narrow, with lots of cars parked in the street. He doubted the fire engine could 

get to the house quickly. 

Vadim staked it out, patiently, sat down with a Styrofoam cup of tea and a 

sandwich, not too far away, and studied the house. Two floors. Big windows, 

single glazing. Cables – electricity, telephone, gas...on the outside of the house and 

 366 

easily severed with a moderately sharp knife. As vulnerable as a T-64, with its fuel 

lines on the outside. Fucking death trap. 

He’d have preferred poison. That was KGB style. A killing by poison sent a 

message, a message of cunning, of acting like the cobra, quick and decisive and 

cold-blooded. But he had no poison. He didn’t even have a knife or gun. 

Didn’t matter. That door did not look very serious. Wood. It would splinter 

if properly kicked near the lock. Vadim had done that dozens of times. In training, 

in exercises, in real combat. Drilled to storm houses and assume control. 

Control. 

He smirked and finished the tea. Would a bottom – or a slave – be able to 

take control? To force his will on an enemy? To compete? Storm a house on his 

own and take out a family? Answer: No. His job didn’t allow that. He couldn’t be 

able to do this if he was anything like what Darren had said. Prime slave material. 

Fuck you. 

He watched the neighbourhood for a while. Seemed quiet. Nobody seemed 

to take much notice. 

This, then, was Dan’s country. Nobody here sounded like him, though. Not 

truly. He was from further up north. Mountains, they said. He’d seen a photo of the 

castle in Edinburgh in the travel guide and thought it looked like a fairy tale place. 

And wasn’t it ironic that Dan’s origins were far more proletarian than his own? 

Farmers. 

Dan. 

He was about to kill Dan’s countryman. Worse. He was about to kill a man 

that had a lot in common with himself. 

Ah, whom are you kidding, Vadim? Since when are you a dissident nuclear 

scientist, working on their nuclear arsenal? He wondered why Doctor Wiezcinski 

had left the country. They had told him it was for the money. But from what he 

saw, the man didn’t seem too keen on sticking out, not too keen on palaces...what 

he lived in seemed pretty much standard for this country: A narrow-fronted house 

made from brick. That was not a reason to betray a country. 

Russia did not forget, though. He’d come calling to deliver a blow to a 

programme that the KGB wanted to see stopped. It seemed to be a critical stage. 

People seemed tense. There was fear. 

 367 

Vadim shook his head. Just a year ago, or maybe two, he’d not even have 

thought about it. Killing was something he did. He was well-suited for the mission. 

He had a reason to be in the United Kingdom. Again, he was a smoke screen for 

something less endearing than a second-class athlete stumbling through a 

presentation in accented English. 

How could killing a member of the intelligentsia benefit the Russian people? 

How could destroying a family serve a purpose beyond merely killing? For Russia? 

Was that man involved in a weapons programme? No way to check that. And even 

if. The stockpiles were huge – there were already enough bombs to destroy every 

place on earth that held a settlement. What was it that the doctor worked on? 

Something deadlier than deadly? A colder kind of nuclear winter? A rocket that 

could circle the globe twice instead of once? Where was the point? 

‘The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in 

the good of others; we are interested solely in power.’ 

But then, this country had sent men like Dan – and his dead comrade, the 

turkey, John, to fight the Soviets. And kill people like Vanya and Platon. This 

country was the enemy. And wasn’t. Things were no longer clear cut. This country 

wouldn’t imprison him for the things he did in bed. People were free to read 

dangerous books. People were free. Full stop. 

Maybe that had been what the doctor had been chafing against. 

Treason. Treason became a mental habit. 

‘Please, if you enjoy this country, I’d look forward to meeting you again. 

Just give me a ring. I am sure I can make time for you.’ 

 

* * * 

 

“We can talk here,” said the man who had introduced himself as Richard. 

The place – classy, expensive, and Vadim felt underdressed, again, like a foreigner, 

like a man in cheap clothes with company and surrounding above his station. What 

was it about this country that made him so damned self-conscious? 

Vadim sat down. Faint music in the background. Overstuffed dark leather 

chairs. It was some kind of club, understated, but exclusive. It smelt of Cuban 

cigars and aged whiskey. 

 368 

“How did you find London so far?” asked Richard, when somebody had 

taken his coat and Vadim’s jacket. 

“It’s quite something,” said Vadim. 

Richard gave a very civilized chuckle. “Do you wish anything to drink?” 

Poison. The place was as much the lion’s den as the tea house was Dan’s. 

“No, thank you.” He wanted to get to the heart of the matter, but it felt rude if he 

charged him head first. “You said few interesting things at airport.” 

Richard studied him, and Vadim took the same liberty. There was grey in 

the blond, and his hair started retreating over his skull, but high cheekbones, 

sunken cheeks and a weak, soft chin. Much like an accountant, or a minor 

functionary with almost no reason to exist beyond being a functionary. The wide, 

clever eyes, however, betrayed the intellect. “Which of the things I said caught 

your interest, Major?” 

“The thing about active service. Why should you be interested in the 

service record of an Afghan veteran?” 

“To be blunt, Major, we don’t even know what the Soviets want in that 

forsaken place. The best we can come up with is that you are propping up a puppet 

regime – but that is more the modus operandi than the reason.” 

Vadim smirked. “I can’t help you with answer.” 

“Personally, I assume you are playing chess. Your national sport, if I am 

correctly informed. Do you play chess, Major?” 

“I am not very patient man. I seize opportunities too fast. Sometimes, that 

means I risk trap.” 

“To not tax your patience, I have my suspicions who and what you are. As, 

doubtlessly, you have in turn.” 

“Correct.” 

“And while I’m not at liberty to confirm or deny, there is something we can 

do for each other.” 

Vadim nodded, slowly, his gaze still meeting the other’s. What he liked 

about the man was that he looked him in the eye. “What would that entail?” 

“Information. That’s the currency we are dealing in.” Richard leaned 

slightly forward. “It would mean you’d gather information for us, Major. Crucial 

and not so crucial information. We might have men in place who check that 

information. Sometimes, we might ask you to verify something.” 

 369 

“Afghanistan is not hotbed of intrigue.” 

“We are maybe more patient than you are, Major. You may not be in a 

good location at the moment, but that doesn’t mean you will not be more fortunate 

at a later point in time.” 

Treason. Traitor. They’d be willing to bank on his career. 

“What do you offer?” 

“Considerable amounts of money in a safe place, as much protection as we 

can give you from a distance and without drawing attention, and maybe 

comfortable retirement with your family in ten years. It depends on how things are 

moving ahead.” 

Ten more years in the USSR. Ten years being a spy, a traitor. Of course. 

This kind of offer didn’t come without a price. His life would go on as normal – 

only that he’d have to worry about KGB daggers on top of all the things going on 

in Afghanistan. But he wanted to leave now. Wanted to stay here now. He’d be old 

in ten years. 

Starving dog outside the butcher’s. 

Considerable amounts of money. 

How much is your pride worth, Krasnorada? How much is your integrity 

worth? Weak-spined faggot about to betray his country for cock, simple as that. 

Vadim swallowed and lowered his gaze. Freedom. Freedom to do what he 

wanted. And Dan? What was he thinking? Did he actually think he and Dan could 

live like that, like Darren and Mark? Impossible. Unheard of. Buy this with his 

integrity? His self-worth? 

It had been a bad idea from the start. 

“You look tired, Major.” Richard gave him another smile, compassionate. 

“I wouldn’t make a decision like that lightly. I understand if you need to think 

about it.” 

“It’s...Afghanistan.” Vadim’s jaw muscles tensed. “The Cold War is not 

very cold up there. Burns skin off soul.” He inhaled, and stood. He wouldn’t 

confide further. This was as far as he could go. 

Richard stood as well. “We all want this to stop, Major. Thanks for your 

time.” He offered his hand, and Vadim shook it, finding no words to speak, felt too 

ashamed after his brush with actual treason. 

“You have my number.” 

 370 

Yes, he did. Memorised. A way out. The coward’s way. 

 

* * * 

 

No vodka, nothing to prepare him for it. 

One moment, he was getting ready. The moment after that, he shouldered 

through the back door, at night. The wife and daughter had left sometime in the 

early afternoon, Vadim assumed they might be gone for a while, he had had no 

time to do the legwork, had no idea where the girl was going. Only that, when she 

returned, her father would be dead, as ordered by grey, bloodless men in the 

Kremlin. 

Vadim headed past the laundry in the back patio, through the kitchen, 

thought he smelt something like onion and soup, discarded that thought. It was just 

information, not a family eating together, like his family did, but without him. 

He knew they had no dog. It didn’t matter. He opened the gas of the cooker, 

heard the faint hiss, then moved up the stairs. 

The doctor was likely still sleeping, or fumbling around for his glasses, 

there was nothing in the house, no movement. Yes. One door was open – a dark 

bedroom, one was closed, and another. Vadim knew from the outside that the one 

down the corridor was the bathroom. The window was opaque. The other door then 

was the one to the master bedroom. 

He placed his hand on the wood, tested carefully whether it was only 

leaning or properly closed. Properly closed. He turned the handle, stayed out of the 

door frame, the “vertical coffin,” and pushed the door open. Nothing. The man was 

still sleeping. 

Vadim was amazed anybody could sleep so deeply, carefree, like nothing 

evil existed in the world. Civilian. He checked the Volkov. Forty seconds. He 

stepped into the room. The yellow streetlight seeped through the blinds, enough to 

see by, see a body in the bed, sleeping, breathing. The air was stale, smelt of 

people. 

Vadim stood near the bed, hands opening and closing, staring at the dark 

shape in the bed, hoped the other would pull a gun, a knife, force him to kill in 

self-defense. No such mercy. There was no justification for it. None. Vadim took 

the other pillow – the one the wife slept on, no doubt, folded it, then pressed it 

 371 

down on the man’s face, grabbing the hands with the other, pressing them against 

the man’s chest, leaned on him to block the wild movements, kept him down with 

strength and his pure weight, hoped he’d die fast, pressed in harder, his own face 

twisted, with disgust and other feelings, none of which made any sense. 

He waited for a long, long while, checked his watch. Ten minutes. He 

checked the pulse and breath, then, when nothing moved, relaxed. Highly unlikely 

the man would survive the fire if there was still life in him. He opened the blinds 

for more light, then began to rummage through papers. There was a leather pouch 

with folders. More folders. He couldn’t confirm anything this quickly, so just 

carried off what he could, headed down through the kitchen, quickly, because of 

the gas, and, once safely in the garden, lit the line of fuel he had prepared to run 

into the house from the garden. 

He was several blocks away when the fire burnt so high that it cast 

reflections against the city night sky. 

 

* * * 

 

When Vadim emerged from Oxford Street station, he stepped into the street 

and felt the people on the street wash past him, none touching him, they kept their 

distance, and it made Vadim feel like a leper. Of course, his height, his strength, 

but at the same time the nagging feeling the cattle knew he was a killer, and kept 

safe in the herd, each jostling for the place in the middle. He was not one of them, 

and would never be. He could never get undercover enough to make them – or 

even him – believe. He was tired. Watching the target’s house all day, and then the 

kill had drained him, bleached all emotion from him, and he was tired and couldn’t 

bring himself to feel anything beyond a faint ache for Dan’s company. Pride of 

lions. Dan wouldn’t shy away. And yet, this whole thing was something he would 

never tell, never share. He could admit to anything he had personal responsibility 

for – the rape, and enjoying that – but not this ordered assassination. Dan would 

understand killing, he wouldn’t understand that the KGB took killing home, 

straight into his capital. 

He headed back to Darren’s and Mark’s place; he didn’t want to be alone. 

Or maybe he just wanted the illusion of belonging. He had killed a man today. It 

 372 

had been easy. Being just body, just flesh, was the lure that brought him in. And it 

was a good way to vanish off the radar this night. 

He rang, and somebody opened. Vadim trotted up the stairs, saw it was 

Mark who had opened the door, and the man gave him a smile, and motioned him 

in. In the background, the TV was on. News. Vadim hoped it wasn’t about the fire. 

“Hi, we were getting worried,” said Mark and smiled again. “You still have 

your bag here. There’s some food in the fridge, just leftovers. Interested?” 

“Food would be good.” Always hungry, like a fucking conscript. Always 

take the opportunity to eat, a moment of calm. “Can I have a shower?” He could 

smell the fuel. 

“Sure. I’ll heat the stuff up. Take your time.” Mark headed into the kitchen,  

and began to do something there. Plate, cutlery, a pan, the faint hiss of the gas 

stove. 

Vadim showered, felt the tiredness bleed from him, the numbness stayed. 

For once, he was glad he didn’t feel guilt. The man had committed treason, yes, 

and he’d left the family alive. It could have been much, much worse. When they 

came to terminate him, they would kill everybody they could get their hands on. 

Unless Katya still had clout and contacts. She might be able to free herself. But the 

risk was too high, the gamble impossible. 

Vadim wore the robe of one of the guys when he left the bath, and sat down 

on the couch, where Mark had already put together his bed, and a plate with rice 

and vegetables and sausage bits sat there, steaming. Mark sat opposite, providing 

company. 

“Where’s Darren,” asked Vadim between forks of food. Damn, this was 

nice. Spicy, but not too hot. The vegetable was peppers, several colours, and 

onions, sweet, garlic, also sweet and tender. 

“Still working out. He should be back soon.” Mark watched him, obviously 

pleased he enjoyed the food. Was he the one that cooked? How did that work, 

anyway? The bottom did the cooking and cleaning? What happened when there 

was no woman? 

“Ah. How long...have you lived like this?” 

“Darren and me?” Mark frowned. “Ah, that’s about, what, five years. You 

know, we sometimes have guests to make things more interesting. Unless we go 

out together.” 

 373 

“I see.” Five years. Four for him and Dan. If the mountains were a life, if 

war was that. If their encounters were more than just an unhealthy habit of two 

enemies. Were they? 

“Do you have a partner?” asked Mark. 

“It doesn’t work like that in Russia,” said Vadim. “Like this?” The fork 

indicated the flat. “Impossible. I’d end up in prison.” 

“Oh. Well, we’re lucky.” Mark looked almost guilty. “Do you have to hide, 

then?” 

“I’m married.” Vadim reminded himself that normal people showed photos, 

and it would make him less suspicious. Not that Mark would suspect an axe 

murderer still holding a dripping weapon. He reached into his pack and produced 

the photo, showing it. 

“She’s...beautiful. And the kids?” 

“Hers.” Vadim felt that answered the question. Mark could probably see 

that Nikolai was too dark to be their child. Maybe a throwback to dark 

grandparents. 

“That must be...hard. I mean, pretending. I moved to London so I don’t 

have to hide, you know? The small place where I’m from doesn’t really have that 

many gay bars.” Mark grinned. 

“I’m envious.” He was. Damn, he was. Not even that much about the sex, 

even though that would be great, being able to fuck a man without having to fear 

disgrace or worse. Just perfectly normal stuff that Darren and Mark had and 

probably took for granted by now. Living like this, comfortable, with no fear in a 

big city that has its share of freaks, deviants, and perverts – so many that they 

looked normal. 

“Well, you’re always welcome,” said Mark, not smoothly enough to hide 

the moment of embarrassment. He knew how lucky they were. 

The sound of keys In the door. Mark gave him a quick smile, then stood to 

greet Darren, while Vadim finished the food, and looked up when he heard Darren 

say “Look whom we have here” from the door. He gave a nod and put the fork 

down. 

Darren was flushed, muscles pumped up after the exercise, and Vadim 

could almost see him steam. He’d worked hard, clearly, and was beaming with the 

post-workout high. “And I thought we wouldn’t see the Russkie again. Good I was 

 374 

wrong.” He gave Mark a grin, who grinned back. “I’m in the shower. Anybody 

wants to come along?” Mark volunteered, but Darren told him off, promising 

something “more intense” later, which sounded ominous.  

Russkie. Vadim shook his head. He wasn’t really in the mood for sex, he 

knew too well what was on Darren’s list to do, and he didn’t want to end up getting 

fucked just because he didn’t have the energy left to say no. He wanted and needed 

rest. Getting old, clearly. No much of a hitman left in him.  

“I don’t understand that,” Vadim murmured. 

“What?” 

“The top and bottom thing.” Nevermind the slave thing. That was even 

worse. 

“Uhm. It’s really simple. Fucking or getting fucked… there’s usually one 

you prefer. Unless you don’t, then you’re a switch.” 

Dan. Dan and geometrical terms didn’t mix. And how did handjobs fit into 

it, or blowjobs, or all the other things they did? It just didn’t work. Getting fucked 

like that day on the patrol – as welcome as it had been, he hadn’t strictly agreed to 

it. Those words didn’t fit anywhere. “Strange. I never thought of it that way.” 

“Well, if it works for you, there’s no reason to change anything. Or 

whatever.” Mark grinned. “We’re all different.” 

Darren came back, leaned in the doorframe, and regarded Mark, then 

glanced at Vadim, seizing them both up with a speculative expression. Vadim 

shook his head. “Not up for it,” he murmured. “Sorry.” The last thing he wanted 

was sex. Strange, really, he’d normally jump at the opportunity, and he wondered 

for a moment if he’d declined an offer from Dan. Likely. Just not in the right mind 

for it. 

Darren gave a nod. “No problem. Don’t worry.” He nodded to Mark, that 

nod alone was an order, and Mark got up. “You got everything?” 

“Yes. Thanks.” 

Both of them went upstairs, and Vadim stretched out on the couch. He 

could still feel the dying man struggle under his fingers. Nothing exhilarating about 

it. No real test, no challenge. No fucking enemy. Just the pathetic squirming of a 

pathetic civilian who had never realised what killed him. Just a human being. 

Pathetic. 

 375 

He stared at the wall opposite. He was trapped as securely as if the KGB 

had the wire of a garrotte digging into his flesh. Couldn’t go where he wanted, 

couldn’t stay, all he could do was follow orders, whatever they were, even if they 

were as demeaning as this. There was a difference between murder and killing. Or 

was there? Since when? He’d killed traitors before – but they were Afghans, and 

not in Dan’s country. Not sleeping in their beds. Not like this. 

He closed his eyes, could still see what the house had looked like, inside. 

His mind had a way of keeping these images in case he ever needed them again. 

In his mind, the house was not yet a ruin; all the books, oh the precious free 

books, shelves and shelves of paper that burnt so fast that the whole place became 

even more of a death trap. 

With a groan, Vadim opened his eyes, turned the head to stare at the blind 

eye of the TV screen. Considered exercise, isometrics in the absence of proper 

weights, pushups until he dropped and couldn’t get up anymore. Maybe plunder 

the bar and see what a bottle of vodka – or whisky, or gin, or whatever – did to 

those gloomy thoughts. Few things alcohol couldn’t make better, apart from the 

aim, as one of his instructors used to say, himself firmly married to the bottle. 

Just. The fact he’d rubbed this man’s life out. His house. His books. 

Everything he’d ever thought or written. Vadim sat up, rubbed his face, considered 

another shower. 

No. Company. That what was he was here for. Just that. He stood, paused 

for a moment, but thought that those two men would hardly mind. And if he ended 

up in their bed again – and whatever happened then – would at least keep the ghost 

away. 

He climbed the stairs, and heard panting, deep, visceral groans. Not yet 

finished. Vadim had hoped they would be. Well, their house, their sex life. He 

turned the corner, and again, the door was open. But the sight...Vadim found it 

difficult to make sense of it. Mark was on his back, arms held his knees up, and he 

was spread, and flushed, face twisted in what could only be lust and even more 

pain...or whatever...no, not pain, not quite, ecstasy? 

Caused by Darren, of course, who just rammed his arm… deeper. Into. 

Mark. Vadim frowned, didn’t get that part. Darren’s whole hand and wrist just 

vanished inside his partner, who looked...spaced out. Vadim couldn’t even begin to 

grasp what that had to do to him in terms of pain, but maybe they’d crossed that 

 376 

line. Fuck. He watched Darren go deeper, the way the man’s shoulder tensed, and 

Vadim had a good idea of how much strength was behind that motion. Mark gave a 

strange sound, his eyes opened, and there was clarity in them, as clear and intent as 

the eyes of a madman. “Love you,” he said, voice small and pressed. 

Vadim pulled back. Love you. He stepped back into the dark corridor. Love 

you. 

“And I love you,” said Darren. 

Vadim headed downstairs. As twisted as it was what those men had, he 

really didn’t want to disturb them. Not now. Not...with what they were doing. Fuck. 

Honest love and all that. It made it worse, if anything, but he managed to get tired 

with isometrics. It took an hour, but after that, he was sweaty and tired, all muscles 

burning from the tension. 

He awoke from a touch. His hand went for a weapon, but there wasn’t any, 

and then somebody took his wrist. “Hey. Calm down. It’s me.” 

Vadim’s eyes opened, fixed on a dark shadow that sounded like Darren. 

Darren. London. Oh fuck. “What…do you want?” 

Darren released his wrist, and sat down on the couch/bed. “Came down to 

drink something. You alright?” 

“I was asleep.” 

“Dreaming.” 

Vadim sat up, pulling his legs up. “Was I loud?” 

“No, just tossing and turning.” 

“Ah. Good.” 

“You had a shit day, huh?” Darren raised a hand, and it held a glass of milk.  

There was only light from the TV standby light in the room, but Vadim’s 

eyes grew used to the darkness. He could see more and more. “I’m leaving 

tomorrow.” 

“Yeah, I figured. Hope you had a good time, despite...today.” 

Vadim tensed. “What do you mean?” 

“You were tense this morning. You vanish all day, and come back like that? 

You got enough armour on for a tank, Vadim. Not showing weakness, huh, even 

when it hurts?” 

Vadim shook his head. “No idea what you’re...” But there it was, the exact 

denial that Darren accused him of. “Okay, I had shit day. Happy now?” 

 377 

“It’s none of my business, but no, I’m not happy with that. Not that I can 

change it, I guess. I could be completely wrong, but I think you have a lover in the 

area, maybe some uptight Englishman, and it’s a secret thing, or you wouldn’t 

suffer so bloody much.” 

Suffer? Darren had an astonishing talent to pick up on details, and, thank 

fuck, to draw the wrong conclusions. Or, rather, the right conclusions in the wrong 

order. “It...just doesn’t work. It can’t work, and it won’t work, and…nothing I can 

do can get me out of that.” 

“Ah, now we’re talking.” Darren bent down to put the glass down, then 

shifted on the couch to face him. “You’re seriously in love, you know that? It’s a 

great feeling, unless it hurts like a bitch.” 

Vadim gave a short laugh. “Aye. Yes, it does.” 

Darren grinned wide, and reached for Vadim’s neck, pulling him close and 

against his shoulder, gentle, but powerful, and Vadim allowed it, followed the 

movement, and found himself in a strange hug, with Darren leaning back. Not 

threatening. Darren wasn’t going to try and fuck him. 

“What’s this?” 

“I think you need a hug, Russkie. You just look so bloody miserable even I 

can’t bear that.” 

Russkie again. Vadim inhaled, felt the warmth and the power, the man’s 

secure grip, his breath and calm, and let go of his tension. This felt good. Just 

damned good, being held and...stroked, the broad hand going down over his back, 

avoiding the scars, as if not to remind him of them, not now. The man treated him 

like a son, or whatever. No desire, no greed, just an odd tenderness that Vadim 

found vaguely unsettling, but not in a bad way. 

“So, he’s a Scotsman?” 

“What?” 

“You said “aye”. That’s the kind of thing people pick up from the Scots.” 

Vadim laughed, and found his eyes suddenly watering. Shit, he was 

beginning to cry against that man’s chest. “You MI5 or what?” 

“I sell houses, Vadim, the most expensive thing most people will get in a 

lifetime. If I can’t read people, I’m fucked. And if you need to cry some, that’s 

alright, too. Just get it off your chest, okay? I won’t tell anyone.” 

 378 

Vadim swallowed hard, and nodded, fighting the tears. He was exhausted, 

that was the reason. It wasn’t the fact that Darren had penetrated the ‘tank armour’, 

wasn’t the fact he wished he could just stay and be free without being haunted by 

the death of his family, or that he wasn’t even sure how to find Dan when he came 

back home. A fantasy. A fairy tale. It wouldn’t happen. 

But what surprised him most was that this man didn’t tell him to get his act 

together and suck it up. “I…saw what you did with…Mark.” 

“The fisting?” 

What an oddly adequate name for it. “Yes.” 

“And you wonder about it?” 

“Yes. Why…I mean, that…must hurt.” 

Darren ran his fingers through Vadim’s short hair, rested his head against 

the couch, too. “Not quite. Not just that. It’s probably quite extreme for you, but it 

can sort Mark’s head out. You know, when he’s stressed. Or numb. He gets bad in 

winter, sometimes. Normal sex doesn’t cut it there. So I do it after a shit day at the 

office, when he’s out there and nothing else can reach the bastard.”  

The way Mark had looked at him. Complete clarity. The feeling had to be 

so extreme that it overrode everything. 

“But most importantly, you can only do this if you are not only in control of 

him, but yourself. A man who’s out of control can be restrained, but you need to do 

this without the comfort of the rope. If you can’t, you’re not able to do this. And 

you’ll never understand what it actually means.” 

“But the power...” 

“You think it’s about power? That’s like saying living is about driving a 

car.” Darren shook his head. “To me, that is more intimate, more intense than 

normal sex. It’s about control, not power. Take...your scars as an example. 

Whoever did that, was about power, but they did have control. Restraint. You were 

in their power and control, completely. Is that why you can’t let go? I’d be screwed 

up if somebody had done that to me.” 

Vadim shuddered. The torture. Dan. Dan. Knife. Dan. “I need to…to 

survive.” 

Darren’s hold was still there, stable, strong. “Yet you got out of it alive. 

How? How did you survive that, Vadim?” 

“I…yielded.” 

 379 

 “There you go. Sometimes, there are no other options. Mark fights me—

hell, I want him to—but when he yields, that’s when power changes to control, to 

restraint, and that is what I call love.” 

Restraint. Love. Control. Not killing. Vadim closed his eyes, fought what it 

meant. That was wrong. Right. He’d lost all rules, all points of orientation. Love 

and control. Torture and Dan. Fucking rape. The moment of breaking. Oh damn, he 

knew what Darren was talking about. The moment when Dan had broken, broken 

because of him, because of what he did. That intense rush. Power. Restraint. How 

would it feel without the urge to destroy. Would that be…? What? 

Darren moved as if he wanted to get up, but Vadim didn’t move, so Darren 

shifted more and lay down, Vadim on his shoulder, holding him. “It’s okay, I’ll 

stay here for a bit.” 

He did. And Vadim fell asleep again, held and stroked and oddly safe, for 

once, despite his sins and doubts.

 

 380