This story is a sequel to “Den of Thieves,” which appeared in No Holds Barred #9. That fanzine is available at Agent With Style.

So much time has passed since the story was begun (based on the first few English translations) that it now resides in a sort of alternate time-line to the Eroica series – but then all slash stories do that anyway. This story takes place before the end of the Cold War. It contains a M/M relationship. If you are underage in your locale, or are offended by same-sex relationships, please do not read further. If you do, you have only yourself to blame if you become offended, for you have been warned. Characters and basic series situation are the property of Yasuko Aoike.

Part One

        Major Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach sat at his desk at NATO headquarters in Bonn, determinedly writing out personnel reports. It was a job he hated, but he refused to allow personal antipathy to deter him from his duty.
        
        Nevertheless, he looked up in relief when the Chief was buzzed in. It was unusual for his superior to come to him, rather than sending for him. A mission?

        Eberbach's short, balding superior carried a large book, bound in the heavy paper stock favored by academic journals. He did not, however, offer to show it to the Major. Instead, he remarked casually, “You have a great deal of accumulated leave time, Eberbach.”

        “Yes, Sir,” the Major replied calmly, lighting a cigarette.

        “You don't rest enough — always working. Don't you have any hobbies?”

        Where was this leading? “I have little time for them. But surely you didn't come to my office to discuss hobbies.” Eberbach did not like his boss, who was pot-bellied and had too much of an eye for handsome young men. The kind of men his staff was filled with.

        “Well, actually,” the Chief said, finally opening the book he held, “my own hobby has turned up something I thought might interest you.”

        He set the open volume on Eberbach's desk, on top of the report he was writing. The Major stared. His first thought was, What is Eroica doing in an academic journal? Then he realized that it was not Eroica himself, but some artistic portrait of him, apparently created from mosaic.

        But what a mosaic! The eyes appeared to be sapphires, the lips rubies, and the smooth skin and trademark hair stylized curves of gold.

        Eberbach gave a snort. “It won't be hard to guess Eroica's next mission, will it? Someone's sure to show him this, if he doesn't know about it already. What artist decided to immortalize that fop? Perhaps we should do the owner the favor of warning him to expect a robbery.”

        “That's just it,” said the Chief. “It's not a piece of modern art, Major. Read the text.”

        Eberbach's eyes moved to the facing page, where he noted for the first time the title of the journal: Modern Archaeology. Archaeology?

        Inca Sun God read the description of the mosaic. A remarkable find in the Andes mountains of Peru.

        The Major looked up, frowning. “What's this got to do with NATO?”

        “Actually ... nothing,” replied the Chief. “It may have something to do with some very strange bedfellows, though.”

        Eberbach got up, clenching his fists. “Don't talk to me about perversion!”

        “I was speaking metaphorically,” his boss replied. “Leftist guerillas in South America and neo-Nazis from Germany have joined forces to run drugs into Europe.”

        “Isn't that a mission for Interpol?”

        “Haven't done much to stop it, have they? Eberbach, it was you and your friend Eroica —”

        “Don't call him my friend!”

        Ignoring the familiar interruption, the Chief continued smoothly, “ — who prevented the neo-Nazis from disrupting the peace conference in England. They have a grudge against both of you.”

        “You think if Eroica goes to Peru to try to steal this ... archaeological find ... the neo-Nazis will try to kill him?”

        “I think they released this photograph specifically to lure him there. Look at who authored the article!”

        Professor Erik von Matterheim. Eberbach frowned. “Wasn't he the Wittgenstein University professor arrested for neo-Nazi activities? Yes — I remember. He .... ” It was so disgusting Eberbach couldn't even say it.

        The Chief nodded. “He invited a number of his best students to what was supposed to be a dig — got them out in the country to excavate a medieval church. They were attacked by skinheads. It was only after the students were badly beaten — and the professor left unharmed — that they realized that of the eight students Matterheim chose for the dig, four were Jewish, one black, one Turkish, and two homosexual. The police caught the skinheads, who gave Matterheim up. He went to prison for a time, lost his job, and when he got out he left the country.”

        “For South America,” said Eberbach, “where of course he kept all his Nazi connections. So after Eroica made a spectacle of himself on international television, removing the bomb from the peace conference, the neo-Nazis saw him as a target.”

        “And Matterheim's discovery is the perfect bait, wouldn't you agree? How could Eroica resist it?”

        Eberbach looked up at his Chief. “Well? What do you want me to do? Help him steal it?”

        “That might be interesting,” his boss agreed with a twinkle in his eye. Then, more seriously, “South America is outside NATO jurisdiction. I just thought you might want to warn Eroica. It's unlikely that he knows there is neo-Nazi activity in Peru.”

        “Why should I warn him? If they kill him it's his own damn fault, and I'll be rid of him.”

        The Chief nodded. “I'll take that as your official word on the subject. You know where my office is.”

        Hardly had his boss left the room, though, before Eberbach picked up his telephone and dialed a number from memory. He shuddered when he recognized the voice that answered. “Put me through to the Earl,” he growled.

        “No — you want to arrest him!” was the immediate response, “Or else kill him — or make him your rent-boy!” followed by, “Who's paying for this call?”

        “I am, Scrooge! And if you care at all about Lord Gloria, you'll call him to the phone at once!”

        “Lord Gloria isn't here.”

        “Where is he?”

        “On vacation. He's not stealing anything for himself, and he's not available to steal anything for you!”

        “Where has he gone on vacation?” Eberbach persisted.

        “Skiing.”

        Gut. The Earl hadn't stumbled upon the picture of the Inca Sun God yet. “Switzerland?” Eberbach asked.

        “No.”

        “Where, then? Scandinavia? American Rockies?”

        “Nah — he's been to all those places before. Besides, with all the time he spends working for you, he doesn't have the money for expensive vacations. He's gone to one of the cheapest countries in the world.”

        Eberbach's heart sank. “Peru,” he said, and heard the gasp at the other end of the line.

        “How did you know? Is he in trouble? Is he hurt? He didn't leave a way to contact him! What have you done to him? If he's hurt — “

        Eberbach hung up on the Stingy Bug's panicked tirade. He turned to the unfinished form on his desk, completed it in firm strokes of black ink, and dropped it in the “aus” basket. Half an hour later, the last such form joined its brothers. Crushing out his latest cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, the Major rose to his feet.

        As promised, the Chief was in his office and available to Eberbach. He hoped his boss swept his office for bugs every morning as faithfully as the Major did ... not that he intended their conversation to tell a spy anything. “Sir, I request a leave.”

        “Of course, Major. You certainly deserve one. When would you like it to start?”

        “Immediately.”

        “Have you any unfinished work?”

        “No, Sir.”

        “Then I see no reason not to grant your request.” The form was ready, filled out in the Chief's sprawly hand. He added the date, signed the form, and shoved it across to Eberbach. “Just sign here, Major.”

        Eberbach noted the unfilled blank for the length of the leave. He added his signature, saying, “Thank you, Sir. I wonder ... do you have any interesting reading material? For on the plane?”

        “Why yes — I do believe you might find this journal of interest.” He got up, took the archaeology journal from the top of the bookcase, and came around the desk to put it into Eberbach's hands. “Cuzco is nearer than Lima to where Matterheim made his find,” he said softly. Then, “I do understand, you know.”

        Eberbach looked up with a frown. “Understand what?”

        “Why you have to go halfway around the world to protect your lover.”

        The Major jumped to his feet. “He's not my lover!” he said furiously. “If you were not my superior officer .... “

        “Ah, but I am,” the Chief responded complacently. “It's all right, Klaus. I don't expect you to put it on the record, and you know I won't tell anyone. Especially,” his eyes twinkled, “as this time you can't take G along!”

        Eberbach left his boss's office seething, on one hand because he had been led into speaking indiscreetly, and on the other because the man was actually pleased to think the Major was a pervert, just like himself! It was that Ero-bugger's fault, blurting out at every public opportunity that he loved Eberbach.

        It galled him no end, the way that foppish queer had destroyed in three words the reputation Eberbach had taken years to build. NATO, Interpol, the FBI, the CIA, the KGB — by now they probably all had a notation in their files that Eberbach was homosexual, and that Eroica was his catamite! Dammit, the thief deserved to die!

        But ... Eberbach owed Eroica, owed him big. He wasn't sure how often the thief had saved his life, but they were pretty evenly matched in that department. The last time they met, however, the Earl had literally saved Eberbach's ass ... had kept him from being raped, enabled him to complete his mission, and prevented the speculations in all those international files from being backed with photographic proof. As long as there was no proof, Eberbach's position was as safe as his Chief's. But the threat of such embarrassment to a NATO officer ... no, it could not be tolerated. Thanks to Lord Gloria's skill as a pickpocket, it didn't have to be.

        The Major stayed at NATO headquarters only long enough to sort through his passports, choosing one that identified him as Klaus Heinz of Düsseldorf. There were a driver's license and a credit card in that name also. He pocketed them, realizing that he would have to write up some sort of flim-flam report when he got back to explain why he had used a NATO-supplied credit card for a personal vacation. But the Chief would okay it as long as he paid the bill.

        Oh, what a tangled web we weave, he thought as he informed his subordinates that he was going on leave because of a family emergency, and wasn't sure when he would return. They would probably run amok, but he had no time to think of that.

        By evening he had plane reservations, traveler's checks, and a small packed suitcase. During his rigorous exercise routine before bed, he found his hair falling into his eyes when it grew wet with perspiration. Damn! He should have found time for a haircut. Oh, well, it would do for the few days this journey would take.

        He knew his colleagues and subordinates wondered why such a conservative officer wore shoulder-length hair, but he had years ago stopped giving the explanation. Even though it was true, no one believed that his hair simply grew so fast that if he cut it short he had to go to the barber every few days to avoid looking shaggy. This way, a trim every two weeks kept it out of his eyes and safe from the foppish look Eroica sported. Not that he would ever have such curls; his hair curved only where it was cut short above his eyes and where it fell on his shoulders.

        Finishing his routine with forty pushups, he took a quick cold shower and went to bed, carefully not allowing himself to start wondering what the hell he thought he was doing.

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