Powder burns, p.22
Powder Burns, page 22
Sam glanced at the array of loaves of artisan bread, colorful salads, and delicate desserts behind a glass counter. It all did look good but Sam was not here to enjoy a meal.
“No thanks, another time.” Sam excused.
“Shame.” Manfred pouted. “But for work here, what can you do?”
“Hey! Since when did you interview prospective staff?” Kane cajoled.
With a filthy leer, Manfred said: “We have all kinds of openings that need filled!”
Kane interjected before Stefan could reply.
“Stef’s done bar work off and on for years, but he’s far too good to be stuck behind the bar.”
“Oooh, is that right? I’m intrigued.” Manfred purred. “Come, my pretty boy and show us what you can do.”
Sam had no idea what Alexander was playing at. One thing he did know for sure was that below stairs, Mads Hendrik ran a brothel. The MI6 Intel stated that Hendrik was involved in prostitution and people trafficking. The boys working in the basement brothel were shipped into the country purely to be forced into sex work to ‘pay off’ the supposed debt they owed for transit to Austria.
Sam determined there was no way he was copying Alex and fucking strangers for the sake of the mission. Sam shot Alex a furious glare and was surprised to see the mirth in his old friend’s eyes.
Sam followed Manfred and Alex through the café area and then both men held back glorious art nouveau style double doors that led him into the renovated and restored theater.
On Sam’s left, there was a bar area, with a long, polished brass countertop. Colourful bottles of alcohol lined-up like chorus girls along the back wall of the bar, waiting for their encore.
The men continued down a dramatic fanned staircase to where the vast auditorium had been turned into a dance floor with tables on the outside and private booths skirting the walls. It reminded Sam of a location for a 1930s Hollywood musical.
Sam sent his gaze deeper into the darkened, empty theatre and then up to the stage. In the center of the stage, a chrome pole sparkled and gleamed like a rod of silver. Sam turned to Alex and wordlessly they exchanged thoughts. Alexander knew Sam’s talents all-too-well and Sam understood what Alex was setting up. Confidence bloomed in Sam’s chest. This was certainly playing on his strengths! It looked like The Amazing Sam would get another chance to share his mastery!
Sam hadn’t worked on a pole in a few years, but he was a natural, and as with all of Sam’s childhood hobbies, he’d practiced and practiced until he was the best at it. Sam knew some wicked moves that would have men panting at his feet, and he could work a few magic tricks into his act too.
“Can I get a few minutes to warm up before I audition?” Stefan asked.
“Sure, take as long as you want, dahling!” Manfred drawled flashing his eyes. His gaze roamed up and down Sam’s lithe body as if he was imagining him naked.
“I can get you something a little spunky to wear if you want? The boss is due in at twelve, so if you wanna impress, this is your moment, sweetie!”
“KANE!” The sudden roar of consternation that made them all jump had a Russian edge to it and Sam saw Alexander’s eyes blow wide at hearing his fake name said with such aggression. Alex affixed a fake smile to his damaged face and then turned to see the bullish approach of Konstantin Antonov, his on-off fuck buddy, and abuser. The man jogged down the staircase and strode determinedly towards him.
“Why you did not return my calls?” Antonov demanded as his long strides ate up the space between him and Alexander.
Konstantin Antonov was not what Sam expected. He’d thought Antonov would be the stereotype of an older, ugly Russian security guard—and as bald as a billiard ball. But no, Antonov was, at a guess in his early-forties, chisel-jawed, well-built, tall and blond. Peculiarly, he wore mirrored shades indoors so that whoever conversed with him did not see his eyes, but their own reflection. Sam never trusted a man who believed it was okay to wear mirrored shades indoors!
Before Sam could take a breath Alex and Kon were face to face. Alex appeared to have regained a little confidence. He exploded with frustration and Sam guessed that he was letting it all out now that he had Sam on his side as a backup.
“Are you that much of an idiot?” Kane roared boldly thrusting a hand onto the Russian’s broad chest, pushing the man out of his personal space.
“Is it not obvious? Look what you did to my fucking face! I had to go into work at the UN looking like a car-crash victim because you got a little jealous!” He said in a mocking tone.
Covertly, Sam considered Antonov. He was fit, muscled, and well turned out—and as Sam expected, he wore a large jeweled ring on his right hand. Sam’s spidey-senses wondered what Antonov was doing working as the head of security for a small, insignificant Gay club in Vienna? He would put money on this man being Spetsnaz—Russian Special Forces.
“I am so sorry. I don’t know what happened. You make the passions rise in me and I cannot control myself when I see you with another man.”
Sam knew that Antonov was speaking in Russian because he believed that the conversation was private, but Sam understood every word too. Antonov reached out to cup Kane’s damaged face. He ran his thumb across Kane’s split lip but Kane grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. He glared disdainfully at the Russian.
“How many times do I have to tell you? Kane roared. “HE WAS A CLIENT I BOUGHT HERE FOR MR. HENDRIK.”
The once talkative Manfred stood tight-lipped with one hip jutting out and his arms folded. He glared at Antonov, his mouth pinched with disgust as if he was sucking on a lime slice.
“I know that now. I was lost in the red mist. Forgive me, please. I will never lift a hand to you again. I promise.” Antonov continued in his mother tongue.
“Did he do this to you, Kane?” Manfred gasped, his hand flailing flamboyantly at the bruises on Kane’s face. “But you told me—“
Antonov turned and shot a deathly cold stare at Manfred. “Shut it, fag. Get back into the cafe and keep out of my damn business.”
Manfred blanched but fiercely replied.
“You fucking meat-head! If you lay another finger on him I swear—” Manfred did not get to finish his sentence. Antonov shot across the dance floor and his hand was around Manfred’s throat in a flash.
“What do you swear? Eh? Eh? You think there is anything you can do to ME, pussy? I snap your fucking neck easy as a breath if I want to.” Antonov let out a cruel laugh.
“Stop it, Kon! Jesus, let him go!” Kane called anxiously.
Sam was the stranger in this gathering, and he wasn’t going to step in and calm the situation because the only way he knew how to do that would probably blow his cover. But then another voice entered the fray—a laidback, unimpressed English voice drawled.
“Antonov, for fuck's sake, you are employed to do that to customers who get out of hand, not my staff. Now, put him down!”
Sam turned to see the middle-aged man who had joined them in the club. Mads Hendrik strode across the auditorium. He was around five-foot-seven in height and had a cloud of dark shoulder-length curly hair that reminded Sam of Brian May from Queen. From a distance with his tee, jeans, sneaker ensemble, he looked more like a roadie for a rock band than an Eco-warrior businessman and crime lord. Sam wasn’t fooled. Most curious was the fact that when Hendrik spoke he did not have even the remotest hint of a Scandi accent—which was strange for a man who was supposed to be of Danish origin.
Antonov scowled at his prey then reluctantly pushed him away. The smaller man staggered backward, his face locked in a pained grimace as he rubbed at his throat.
“F…f…fucker, if I bruise, I sue!” Manfred whispered hoarsely. Hendrik ignored the two men and instead turned to Kane,
“Did you bring us the new boy?” He asked, his eyes moving to consider Sam with his fresh face and Billy Idol-style peroxide short hair. Surprisingly, the look Hendrik gave him was not sexual in the slightest, Sam felt more like a commodity than a person at that moment.
“Uh, yes, sir. Stef’s studying at the uni. He needs a few nights of work to make ends meet. Let him audition and I swear you won’t be disappointed.” Kane pleaded. Hendrik gave Sam a measured once over.
“Very well.” He drawled, “But, a word of warning, Olsen! You know I don’t have an issue with my staff hooking up. You and Antonov can fuck all you want, but keep your petty dramas out of my club! Do you hear? I won’t have it!”
Chastened, Kane lowered his gaze, “Sorry, Mr. Hendrik, it won’t happen again.”
****
CHAPTER 33
IN THE CLUB
Disguised as Dr. Tobias Hunter, Declan dined at the hotel restaurant OPUS with the UN interpreter and MI6 agent who had introduced himself as Kane Olsen. Declan rested his bearded chin on clasped hands and considered the man who sat across the table. Kane Olsen was unexpectedly easy on the eye, debonair and curiously, Declan found him to be enthusiastic and engaging company. Olsen was articulate, intelligent, and what with the skin-and-bones frame, he had that Heroin Chic look fashion agencies favored.
It was a pity that Olsen wore the scars of a beating, with taped cuts around an eye and a colorful bloom of bruising framing his thin-lipped mouth. It appeared he’d used concealer to try and disguise the healing bruises but the man’s skin was porcelain pale and paper-thin. Declan could see the bruises and he’d had enough hand-to-hand combat experience to know that the damage came from a punch in the mouth.
Kane spoke in hushed tones about his dealings with the duplicitous Mads Hendrik, the possible leader of the Eco-Revolutionaries, as the five-star restaurant service unfurled balletically around them. Gilded dishes with tiny servings of artistically designed food were delivered to the table as Kane told of how publicly; Mads Hendrik was a fiercely passionate environmentalist who invested in regeneration and sustainable developments around the city.
“He uses his club as the base for all of his activities. I’m sure he’s involved in money laundering and people smuggling too, but local cops can deal with that mess!” He scoffed.
“The eco-café front gives the right impression, but when night falls, the kind of clientele the Traum Garten attracts don’t give a flying fuck about the regeneration of a derelict theatre, gluten-free dining, or any shady business the owner might be involved in. They just wanted to dance, get high, get drunk, and fuck.” He explained.
Olsen barely touched his meal, while Declan wolfed down a series of beautifully displayed nouvelle cuisine dishes that, although aesthetically pleasing, offered little substance or sustenance.
“The venue has four areas, the bar and dance floor, the garden, and the basement,” Olsen explained,
“The garden only opens on weekends at midnight. Punter’s pay one-hundred Euros for entry. It’s a cruising area—looks like Hendrik raided a props store. Everything in the garden is plastic and wipeable. There’s a maze made from plastic hedges. It has cubbies where clients can get some private time. I was in their once and… well, you need to have an ‘anything goes’ attitude to set foot in there!”
Declan’s mind was reeling at discovering the kind of environment Sam was working in. He knew Sam could take care of himself but still, he worried about him.
“The basement has a BDSM dungeon and private rooms where the boys work with clients. Over the past year, I’ve checked them all. But there’s one room I can’t get access to—the server room at the end of the main hall.”
Georgios Xenelis laptop was remotely accessed from that location and the Eco-Rev manifesto uploaded, replacing the report the Greek official was supposed to present at the Munich conference.
“Everything at Traum Garten is for sale. I found listening devices and cameras everywhere—from the boy’s rooms, the garden, to the bathrooms. Pay-per-view voyeurs tune-in via the club website and live stream whatever they want. Nothing’s secret there, apart from whatever is behind the server room security door.”
****
As it was Saturday night Vienna was ready to party. Dr. Tobias Hunter and Kane Olsen shared a cab from the restaurant to the Mariahilf district. A boisterous queue of patrons waited outside of Traum Garten. Declan’s instructions were that Tobias Hunter needed to be seen, and he was to look out for anyone who resembled the Munich attackers- the oily ‘English waiter’ with acne scars and the Latino woman with dark curly hair.
“I had no idea it would be so popular,” Hunter said to Olsen as they exited the cab. Declan tightened his jaw as he looked at the queue of revelers. What Kane Olsen neglected to tell him was that it was a theme night at Traum Garten and all customers were in costume.
Hunter pulled at Olsen’s arm as they strode past the queue.
“What?” Olsen barked testily at being manhandled.
“You didn’t tell me it was a fancy dress night!” Tobias Hunter huffed in outrage.
“Oops, didn’t I?” Olsen grinned and his eyes sparkled wickedly.
“But we don’t have costumes!” Hunter said from between gritted teeth.
“Don’t worry. I’ll sort us out!” Kane assured, and continued striding past the queue to the burley blond security guard who was one of two manning the door.
Declan was wearing an unremarkable dark suit. He felt ridiculous as he strode past Gladiators, Centurions, Spartans, and slave boys waiting to get into the club.
Dressed in a white toga that barely covered his crotch Konstantin Antonov gave Kane Olsen a predatory once over.
“Who is your friend?” The man-mountain security guard asked. His tone was rough and accusatory. It was a wee bit of a nippy night to be standing in a suburb of Vienna wearing nothing but a bed sheet and sandals. Declan could not help but check him out and Good God! What a bulge! The golden tanned muscles in the Russian’s thighs flexed dangerously as he moved from foot to foot with agitation as he stared at him. Declan did not want to tempt his roid rage!
Coolly Kane replied. “This is Dr. Tobias Hunter; he's a scientist visiting at the UN. I was asked to show him what entertainments Vienna could offer.”
The security guard let out a malevolent laugh and then sneered, “You know it is theme night, da? No one gets in without costume. Theme is Roman and Greek… not Geek!” He said grinning wolfishly in Hunter’s direction.
It was clear that Antonov was the jealous type. Declan did not return the challenging stare that the security guard shot in his direction, glancing instead at the notice on the door that stated that all activities in the club were filmed and shared with an online pay-per-view audience, so by entering, customers were giving consent to sharing their play-time. Declan found that notice very disturbing.
“Manfred”, Antonov hollered into the foyer of the club. “Do you have costume to fit Kane’s friend?”
An older, bald man poked his head out of the box office booth. He held a grimace of hatred for Antonov, but then he saw Kane and gave his guest a delighted once over.
“Oh jaaaah! I have just the thing!” He drawled. “Send him in!”
The doorman turned back to sneer at Hunter,
“If you want in, you need costume”,
Declan was sure that the real Tobias Hunter would never set foot inside a gay club, let alone one with a brothel in the basement.
“I assure you it will be worth it. Mr. Hendrik said I was to look after you.” Kane enthused, much to the disgust of his on-off fuck buddy.
“Fine”, Hunter huffed reluctantly and then followed Kane and Manfred through the closed café foyer and into a back room.
Ten minutes later Declan was raging and he felt like a complete tool. He was finding it hard to keep his fake persona and his inner Scotsman in their separate corners. Declan was dressed as a Centurion! A plastic red plumed helmet sat precariously on his head, a short red tunic reached just below his plums, and a bronzed plastic armor chest plate just about covered his broad torso. A rubber sword had also been thrust into his hand, which would be ditched at the first opportunity, but Declan damn-well refused to remove his shoes and socks even though they didn’t go with the costume. There was no way in hell he would wear some random person’s discarded sweaty sandals.
Hendrik’s office was on an enclosed mezzanine overlooking the auditorium. There was a long picture window so he could keep an eye on happenings in the club. While Declan changed, Kane vanished upstairs to speak with Mr. Hendrik. When he returned Kane was provided with a simpler, long, white robe and plastic wreath headdress. Declan fretted internally that he hadn’t been offered that costume.
Kane took the costume into the small cloakroom that was also used as a costume room for customers. Flamboyantly, Manfred began calling through the crack in the door.
“Did you hear?” He yelled to Kane,
“Your Stef performed twice last night.”
“Really?”
“Oh ja! The boys love him! There was nearly a riot! The word’s getting out about him on the Twitter!”
“I knew he’d be popular”, Kane snickered as he opened the door and stepped into the hallway dressed in his white robe with a plastic olive wreath on his head. He gave Declan a look that Declan couldn’t quite fathom.
“Popular!” Manfred laughed. ”That’s an understatement! Every man and his pup wants to suck his dick!”
The conversation went over Declan’s head. He was too pissed-off with his distracting costume change and he needed to focus on his objective for the night in the club—to make sure Mads Hendrik saw him.
Declan followed Kane through the vast, low lit auditorium of the venue. Hendrik’s regeneration project brought the rotten carcass of the old theater building back to life. Now Traum Garten was filled with mirror balls, spotlights, and sweaty lithesome men wearing Greek and Roman fancy dress.
Declan snuck his rubber sword onto the first table he passed, then removed the helmet and thrust it to a hot-pant-clad server who stared at Declan blankly as he passed by. Glad to discard the props Declan mirrored Kane as he made a path pushing through the crowd, pressing against the weight of sweaty bodies. The heady scents of testosterone-laden sweat, sex and a cocktail of colognes were potent and aphrodisiac. Declan could not take his eyes off the wall-to-wall flesh, the slave boy fetish wear, the chains, cuffs, and ‘barely-there’ thongs.
