Eroica is © Yasuko Aoike.

Rated PG for m/m implications.

        It was an ordinary September afternoon, and most of the people in the office were taking a coffee break. Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach sat at his desk facing his Alphabets, but he wasn't watching them. He was answering e-mail when a message popped up on his screen, bearing the NATO security logo: "Turn on all television sets in NATO offices." He scowled, but even as he did so both A and G, who had also been working at their computers while they sipped their coffee, got up and started for the television set.

        G was closer. He rose on his toes to reach the remote which, by Klaus's order, resided on the high shelf beside the set. G's miniskirt rode up when he reached for it, revealing the lace-trimmed hem of pink knickers.

        Klaus drew breath to yell at G to dress decently, but never released it.

        Breath and heart both caught in his throat at the image on the screen: New York City, one of the towers of the World Trade Center belching smoke and flames. The lettering on the screen told him that what he was watching had happened less than ten minutes ago--it was news footage, not some disgusting American disaster movie. G fumbled with the remote, trying to raise the sound.

        Why was a fire in New York, no matter how disastrous, pre-empting programming on German television?

        A moment later, the unbelievable image of a plane--a jumbo passenger jet--crashing into the second tower, told everyone in the office why. This was no accidental fire. It was an attack.

        No one moved as words began to accompany the pictures: "Two planes crashed deliberately into the World Trade Center." "Hijacked passenger planes." "Terrorist attack." And then, incredibly, "A third plane has crashed into the Pentagon."

        The newscast continued as alarms began sounding in their own building--not an attack, but a full security alert. Until he was called into a meeting, Klaus's post was exactly where he was now. He divided his attention between the events occurring on screen and the actions of his Alphabet, as one reaching for their telephones to call the people they loved.

        Klaus had no one to call.

        Turning his attention back to the television screen, he saw stuff fluttering down from the burning towers. Paper?

        Yes, there was paper flying through the air, but--

        Mein Gott!

        Silently, unwilling to speak the horror he saw unfolding, he grasped the perspective of those gigantic buildings, and realized that some of what was falling from the towers was ... people. Arms and legs flailing, they chose certain death over whatever hell was happening inside the building. Jet fuel. Poisonous smoke.

        He wanted to look away, and couldn't.

        That was when he saw ... two people, hand in hand, falling together.

        He couldn't tell anything else about the tiny figures, not their age or their sex, just that they had chosen to meet their fate together.

        In the briefest of moments they passed out of sight, but it was long enough for an unwanted thought: Eroica would think such a death, going hand in hand, romantic.

        Without warning, a shard of ice pierced his gut. The last time he had seen Eroica, less than a week ago, the thief had commented, "If you don't need me for another mission, Major, I think I'll go to New York for a few days. Autumn in New York, you know. So romantic. Wouldn't you like to come along?"

        And the Major had dismissed him in annoyance.

        Now Klaus grabbed up his phone, pressing the button for an outside line. Busy. Every line out of NATO HQ was in use.

        Swearing, he clicked off, back on, and tried again, his eyes returning to the TV screen just as the second tower, apparently hit in a more vulnerable point than the first, crumbled, falling in upon itself. More smoke and debris belched into the air.

        Klaus had seen enough bombings to know what those people were going through. He should be hardened to it.

        Instead, he felt things he had never allowed himself to feel before--feelings he could not, did not want to identify.

        Again the phone system failed to find him an outside line.

        He resisted the impulse to tear the cord out of the wall, and instead got out his cell phone, required to be turned off inside NATO headquarters. Right now he didn't care what security he breached!

        He strode to the window, and punched in the code for Eroica's cell, still programmed in from their last mission. Would it work if the thief were on the other side of the Atlantic?

        It rang twice, and then a familiar voice responded, "Gloria here."

        "Dorian?" he gasped at the ordinary response.

        "Who is--? Major?!"

        "Where are you?" Klaus demanded. There was no discernable delay in the transmission.

        "In London, en route to Gatwick, Darling. In the car. My flight to New York leaves in two hours."

        "Don't bother," said Klaus. "Your flight's been canceled."

        "What?"

        "Just listen," said Klaus. "As soon as I ring off, turn on your car radio. Forget flying. Go to Victoria and take the chunnel train if you can get it, otherwise the boat train to The Hague. Come here the fastest way you can."

        "Klaus--what's happened? Are you all right?"

        "It's war, Dorian. I need-- NATO needs your skills," he amended. "Just do as I say--get here as fast as you can. Don't get caught in airport traffic."

        "All right. If I can make the right connections I should be there by midnight."

        "Gut! I expect to be here all night."

        "I'll see you soon, Major."

        "Oh--set the Stingy Bug to getting a refund for your plane ticket, and bring Bonham with you. We can use his skills, too, and I don't know how long you'll be here."

        "As long as you need me--"

        "Just hurry. I have to make other calls now. Listen to the news. Good-bye."

        He rang off, lightheaded with a relief he didn't understand. But he had no time to think about it--all hell would break loose here at any moment.

        As long as he was breaking the rules--before Security confiscated his cell phone--he rang Schloss Eberbach and told his butler, "Lord Gloria will arrive sometime tonight for an indefinite stay. Put him in the blue suite. He'll have his man Bonham with him. Have you heard the news? Well, turn on the radio or the television and you'll see. I don't know when we'll be home. Make sure there's food in."

        He had hardly turned off his phone and pocketed it before he was called into a top-level meeting. Twenty minutes later he was briefing his Alphabet, who hit their phones and computers, then the streets. Klaus stewed, wanting to be out there with them, but at this stage it was best for him to coordinate from his central location.

        At 2:14a.m., A reported that he, G, and H, had a line on suspects here in Germany who might be tied to the terrorist plot.

        At 3:22a.m. Klaus's phone rang. It was Eroica.

        "Where are you?" Klaus demanded.

        "At your front door, Darling. It seems my NATO security clearance won't work anymore--they've changed all the protocols."

        "Give the phone to the security guard," Klaus instructed. Then, "Eberbach here--on my authority, let Eroica in. He's worked for NATO for--" Mein Gott! "--twenty-five years."

        "Sorry, Sir. Someone will have to come and identify him, and then escort him until he's properly credentialed."

        "I'll be right down," Klaus growled.

        Dorian stood at the top of the steps, barred from entering the building by two armed guards. At the curb, Bonham stood next to a taxi, as if waiting to whisk them both away again. He watched Klaus warily.

        He caught a glimpse of another face, peering out of the taxi. Damn! Dorian had brought the Stingy Bug, too.

        Right now, though, he didn't have the energy to spend on arguing about what was, after all, a fait accompli.

        So, "Thank you for coming," Klaus said to Dorian, watching the blue eyes widen in surprise. "Mr. Bonham!" he called, "go on to Schloss Eberbach. My staff is expecting you. Tell them I still don't know when I'll get there. If we don't come home before then, come here tomorrow morning at 0900. I'll see that you're credentialed by then."

        At that, Bonham looked as if he might faint.

        "James, too?" Eroica asked. "There's no one better at following money."

        Gritting his teeth, Klaus nodded. "James, too. Come back in the morning."

        Bonham looked to Eroica, who nodded, before he got back into the taxi.

#
        Dorian Red Gloria was still in shock from the events of the day. He had bought Walk-Man radios at Victoria, and he and his men had listened to the news in English, French, Dutch, and German as they made their way to Bonn. One shock after another ... and yet nothing today had startled him as much as answering his phone to have Klaus address him by his first name.

        Never--never in a quarter century of their odd relationship, had Klaus called him "Dorian." "Lord Gloria" most of the time, "Eroica" on the job, "Idiot," "Pervert," or "Faggot" when he was angry. Never "Dorian" before.

        As the taxi pulled away, Klaus said "Come on!" took Dorian's arm, and nearly dragged him inside. First they went to an office where a new photo was snapped, a new badge made up for him over the clerk's protests that she had several hundred to make before morning for actual agents.

        Under Klaus's bullying, the new badge was clipped to Dorian's collar twenty minutes later. The Major grasped his arm again and, he was keenly aware, did not let go even as they climbed the stairs, long-legged strides taking them quickly to Klaus's war room.

        Only B and A were there, the former at his computer, the latter on the phone. B looked up as they entered, and reported, "They're trying to locate one of the suspects. It doesn't look as if he's packed, so they're staking out his apartment. Meanwhile, descriptions of the suspects have been posted to all exit points."

        "Gut!" said Klaus, finally letting go of Dorian's arm to ask A, "What have you got?"

        A handed him documents in Arabic. "We'll need a translator," he said.

        "Why isn't Bermecki here?" Klaus asked.

        "He's in the South of France," B answered. "I'm trying to find Halim."

        Dorian took the papers from A. He and his sisters had been raised trilingual, nanny from France, tutor from Germany, and it had given him a facility for languages. He had learned Greek and Latin at Harrow, and added Arabic along with Japanese when he was at university, to read poetry and facilitate travel--not that Klaus would care why.

        The papers were a photocopy of a hand-written document. Dorian began to read it aloud, translating into German on the fly. B stared, goggle-eyed. A had observed Eroica's linguistic skills before.

        It was a strange list of instructions about everything from prayers to perfume.

        "Ritual preparations," said Dorian.

        "For a suicide attack," said Klaus.

        "Actually it doesn't say that," the thief pointed out. "I imagine conspirators were given these instructions quite early in their missions, but only told at the last moment that they would die carrying them out. Also, we don't know what other attacks are planned. They may not all be suicide missions."

        Klaus was staring at him, an odd look on his face. Dorian couldn't quite make out what it meant. It wasn't anger, the only emotion that had ever before kept Klaus's eyes on him for this long.

#
        Dorian was dressed for travel, in tight black jeans, a dark red silk shirt, and a lightweight black leather jacket. There were fine lines around his eyes now, and shadows under them. If fate had not interrupted his plans, he would have been in New York by now. Would he have succumbed to jet lag and gone to bed early, or slept on the plane and arrived ready to jump into Manhattan's night life?

        Despite the casual clothing and the flow of golden curls, there was no hint of frivolity about Dorian tonight. Klaus had never seen him look so serious--or so beautiful.

        Why was he thinking such things in the midst of what might be the most crucial mission of his career?

        Dorian, by contrast, was the consummate professional, sitting down at one of the vacant computers to type out a translation of the document A had brought in.

        He had just finished when Z and G arrived with a suspect, one Ahmed Fatim, in Germany on a student visa with a Saudi passport.

        "Take him to interrogation," Klaus instructed. "Dammit, where is Halim? My Arabic's not good enough to interrogate him."

        "Mine is," said Dorian.

        "He won't talk to you," said Klaus.

        "He won't talk to any of us unless we can trick him or wear him down."

        "That's why we need an Arab."

        "I have an idea," Dorian replied, "if you're willing to risk it."

        Klaus stared at the thief, glanced toward the printer, where the copies of the translation he had made so easily were bring grasped up by his Alphabets, and looked back at Dorian. "Tell me."

        "He's a fundamentalist Moslem, Klaus--worse to reason with than the most puritanical Christian. He won't have anything to do with us infidels, and certainly not with anyone like me. So I'll need a new personality--Morrocan, I think. I still can't promise to get anything out of him. He will see any Arab working for NATO as a traitor."

        Klaus nodded. "What do you need?"

        "The simplest disguise is best. Different clothes, a turban."

        "We may be able to find you some brown contact lenses," Klaus suggested.

        "Not necessary. There are blue-eyed blond Moroccans, and he may mistake my accent for a dialect he's not familiar with. Also, someone from the opposite end of the Arab world will seem more likely to be ignorant of the fundamentalist cause and less--to his way of thinking--a traitor who has had the opportunity and rejected it. I may be able to convince him I'm some unfortunate who has fallen under the influence of the Great Satan. If he thinks he can recruit me, we may learn something."

        Half an hour later, Dorian was outfitted in shapeless fatigues, his hair fastened back and covered, his skin darkened to a deep tan. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, without his hair to distract from the mature lines of his face, he looked his age, which Klaus knew to be mid forties.

        Or perhaps it was the lack of his usual sunny smile that made him appear older.

        "I'll need a tape recorder and several one-hour tapes," Dorian said.

        "There are microphones in the interrogation room," said Klaus. "We'll record every word."

        "I know," said the thief, "but he doesn't. It's a prop."

        It took only moments to locate a cassette recorder. Dorian went into the interrogation room and set it ostentatiously on the table.

        "Ich woll nichts sprechen," the suspect said in bad German.

        "Just a few questions," Dorian replied in Arabic, inserting a cassette in the recorder. "Name, rank, and serial number--that sort of thing. Just for the record." Watching through the one-way glass, Klaus saw the thief immerse himself in his role, asking sadly why any good Moslem would plot to kill so many innocent people.

        Klaus's Arabic was good enough to follow the gist of the conversation, and be amazed at the ease with which Dorian quoted relevant passages from the Koran. He had few hopes of learning anything, but stood transfixed as Dorian played his role to the hilt, moving from sad disbelief through reluctant curiosity to hesitant agreement with some of the outrageous statements the man made.

        Halim, he realized, could not have done what the Eroica was doing--could not have been sent in there without a prepared list of questions, which he would never have departed from. And if he had, Klaus realized, he would have become suspect. Dorian was able to wing it, with no fear that he would be thought to be turning traitor.

        Eventually Dorian took the tape out of the recorder and left the machine standing open while he again asked the suspect why innocent people had to die.

        "They are not innocent. Americans are enemies of Allah, as are all those who support them."

        Dorian could not perform miracles--the man continued to insist he knew nothing of the plot against New York and Washington, had never been to the U.S., never farther from home than university studies in Germany--but in moments A had traced his name to the University at Hamburg, and was on the phone to the authorities there.

        Klaus let Dorian continue the questioning until the thief decided he could learn no more, and emerged to find the Major waiting for him.

        "Thank you," said Klaus. "You got more from him than Halim would have."

        The suspect safely out of the way, Dorian removed his headdress and unpinned the heavy braid of his hair. He didn't unbraid it, though, just let it hang down his back. "Thank you for letting me try. It would be horrible to feel helpless to do anything in the face of … that." He waved his hand toward the now-muted television set where the horror from less than twenty-four hours ago replayed endlessly. "I just wish I could do more."

        "You gave us a good lead!" A assured him. "Authorities in Hamburg are rounding up what appears to be a nest of terrorists posing as university students there. Exposing them may have prevented an attack here in Germany."

        As his war room began to fill up, Klaus realized that it was daylight again.

        G came in with Bonham and James. "I vouched for them, Sir," he reported.

        James gasped when he saw Dorian. "My Lord! What has he done to you? You look terrible!"

        "Thank you, Jamesie," Dorian replied sardonically. "Are you ready to help us trace more of the terrorists before they can strike again?"

        "I'll trace their funding," James replied.

        "That's what you say," Klaus told him. "I'm certainly not going to let you get your hands on a NATO computer!"

        The little man drew himself up, glaring at Klaus from the one eye that showed beneath his mop of black hair. "I want to get these people as badly as you do--maybe more. Don't you realize what they did?"

        "They killed nearly six thousand people, most of them civilians."

        "They destroyed the World Trade Center!" James corrected. "They meant to bring the entire world economy to a halt. Friends of mine worked in those buildings. I'm going to bring the terrorists down as surely as they brought those buildings down!"

        "How?" asked Klaus.

        "By cutting off their money," James replied.

        "He's the best," said Dorian. "No one can follow the money better than Jamesie can."

        "Very well," said Klaus. "Q, work with him. T, I'm sure you can find a use for Mr. Bonham's skills. Dorian, come with me, please--we have to make a report."

        They met with representatives of other NATO teams. As usual when they were all working on the same mission, Klaus's team had achieved the most--but this time much of it was due to Dorian. He watched the others study his thief, who was far from his ebullient self after more than a day with no sleep.

        Klaus played the video of Dorian's interrogation of the suspect. When it was over, all eyes turned to Eroica again.

        "Thank you, Lord Gloria," said the Chief of Operations. "You have given us an enormous lead."

        When the meeting was finally over, it was lunchtime, but Klaus was more tired than hungry. He left instructions to call him if he was needed, and took Dorian home.

        The staff had prepared a light lunch, which both men struggled to eat. Surprising, Klaus thought, that neither of them ended up face down in the soup.

        When they had eaten as much as they could manage, Klaus told his butler, "We're going to get some sleep now. I'll show Lord Gloria to his room. Please wake us both at 1800 hours, and prepare dinner for 1900."

        "Very good, sir," the butler replied calmly.

        Klaus took Dorian upstairs, and down the corridor in the opposite direction from his own rooms. The thief knew where Klaus's apartment was, but not the rest of the house ... or was too polite or tired to say he did.

        At the door, Klaus said, "Thank you for dropping your plans and coming here when I asked you."

        "The terrorists canceled my plans," said Dorian, "but you are very welcome, Major." He paused, hand on the door handle, still looking at Klaus. "What's going on? You never thank me for anything. And we've been working together for hours and you haven't yelled at me once."

        If he could have, Klaus would have put off trying to formulate an answer--but today he felt too keenly the knowledge that opportunities did not always come again.

        "I realized something yesterday," he replied. "When we got the news of the terrorist strikes."

        Dorian watched him, waiting.

        Klaus took a deep breath, never a man to put feelings other than anger into words. Finally he said, "It was my Alphabets. When the news came, every one of them reached for the telephone, to call the person he cares about most."

        Still the silent, expectant look from the thief.

        "I ... " Klaus hesitated, knowing it was the truth, knowing it would open a door in his relationship with Dorian that he had kept bolted, padlocked, and blocked with heavy furniture for the past twenty-five years.

        It took as much courage to speak as to face a gunman unarmed. Which Dorian had once done for him.

        Klaus swallowed, and voiced his thought. "I ... called you."

        Tears shone in Dorian's huge blue eyes, but did not spill over. "I ... am the person you care most about?"

        "Ja." He would not deny the truth. But it had to be the whole truth. Before the thief could leap to the wrong conclusion, he continued. "I do care about you, Dorian. I will not, can not, deny that any longer. However ... that does not mean that I desire you as a ... lover."

        "What does it mean, Major?"

        "I will never again deny that we are friends. I value you and your accomplishments, and am grateful for your help, your skills. Beyond that ...." He trailed off, shaking his head, trying to articulate feelings he had been refusing to acknowledge for years.

        "If I am the person you care about most," Dorian finally asked, "doesn't that mean that you love me?"

        Before yesterday, Klaus would have deflected that question either with sputtering anger or by denying that he knew what love was. Today, though ....

        "Yes," he replied. "It means that I love you. But Dorian, I don't know how I love you."

        "I understand," said Dorian.

        "If you do, then you know more than I do," Klaus admitted.

        "You're tired," said Dorian. "We both are. Sleep on it, Major, and we'll talk later." But he reached out to take Klaus's hand in a firm grasp. "If all you can give me is the love of friendship, I'll take it gladly."

        Klaus gripped his hand in return, feeling years of memories between them. "It goes beyond friendship," he said. "What I do not know is whether it is what you have always said you wanted, or whether I love you ... like a brother."

        A tear slid down Dorian's cheek, but he ignored it. He squeezed Klaus's hand once more, smiling. "It's all right," he said. "I'll be here whenever you're ready to find out."

End

Forward to "The Kiss"