Hassan’s mood bordered on cavalier as he tossed his long hair back over his shoulder with casual abandon. The dark and sweet smelling Turkish cigarette burned slowly down this too he flicked off with an elegant twitch of the thumb. He looked up, aware and uncaring of the eyes of his masters who followed him. Did Pieta really think, for a moment, he would be so shallow as to allow Illya to die for a moment of gracelessness. Human nature confused him at times and with it the moral tenant of the western world in the middle east and far east homosexuality was not a disease or dishonour, it was expected, so long as you did your duty. Woman were for procreation, men for recreation and he saw nothing wrong with ploughing the field when he chose.

And Illya was a sweet catch, fire and sinew under steel and ice, passionate in only the way a man denied can be of love. He closed his eyes and smiled, as if starved of water Illya had come to him, had allowed him to bring him to pleasure and find release and as they lay twined in a lovers embrace they struck.

Darkness descended and the pale body was laid bare against the virgin will of their wickedness. They found the vein under the pale skin blue and swollen as they filled him with their drugs and then as he fought them they gentled him with chloroform until his supine form could be bent to their wishes. Propped and posed with several young men in various states of arousal and all the while Illya slept, not knowing his fate. And he? What had he done? The cigarette burned down and he cursed as he stubbed it out with a sandaled foot on the rough ground. The old rattan fan blew warm air tainted with the scent of poverty across him and he closed his eyes again. He had been a friend, he had done nothing to help, to stop the brutality with which they abused the tender flesh. He watched stony faced as the drugs wracked the small body with pain and sweat, and he died inside as he heard the plaintive cry of an addict begging for the very drug that would kill him. And still for fear, for money he stopped them from hurting his friend. One of the few he considered his and he sighed, he had betrayed Illya, not once but twice. Knowing the avarice and pain they would inflict.

The only consolation was that late that night, he dressed his friend, and helped him away to the steps of a local monastery in hope they would free him from the drugs and the demons that would haunt his every step.

Hassan was a professional, dark good looks, athletic and built in all the right places he cut a dashing figure no matter the occasion from the opera, to the embassy balls and even now on Rajaparop Road in a street side café frequented by westerners, you would still stop to look twice. He sighed again and sat up straighter in the chair, Napoleon Solo was a man about to be caught in a vicious trap and neither of them may survive. But still, this was the best paid game in town and until he found his masters soft underbelly it was the only game in town. One he was prepared to play to its final conclusion.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

The sonorous chants of the monks filled the monastery as Napoleon kicked off his shoes before he entered the shrine and paid a small child a few bahts to look after them until his return.

He wandered for a few moments around the ornate carvings, the locals on bended knees before the idol as other placed small squares of gold leaf on the face of Buddha for luck and prosperity. The scent of flowers and the tolling of a bell and for a moment only he found peace. He waited for what seemed like hours on the stone bench by the Coy pool until a familiar face stopped and sat with him. Older now than years before when they had known each other, but still the face was soft and unmarked, the eyes alert with kindness and gentle humour.

“It’s not often we see American here. They tend more towards the bars on Patpong Road.” The old monk smiled as he stared ahead.

“I’m not a tourist.” Napoleon answered softly, to speak of his job, to acknowledge the pain and suffering that he had caused over the years was obscene in the setting.

“Ah, so you seek enlightenment old friend?”

“I seek my associate.”

“For what purpose?” now the glittering gaze was turned on him full force and Napoleon knew he knew where Illya was.

“Truth.”

“Yours? Or perhaps those who dictate how you should behave? Your masters perhaps with their gentle ministrations?”

Napoleon laughed, “Keit, he is in real danger, and I need to speak to him, to see him for a few moments in sanctuary.”

“He is not here.”

“But he will be back?”

“I don’t know, Buddha guides his steps he may return or he may not.” Keit shrugged as he smiled.

“Do you know where he went?”

“Riding the back of the dragon.” Keit answered cryptically and smiled again. “You will guarantee him safety?”

“I can guarantee him safety from me only.” Napoleon sighed.

“Then I will tell him you called.”

“If he comes back.” Napoleon said with finality.

“Ah but my friend, he has given his word.” Keit smiled mischievously and hobbled away to afternoon prayer, saffron robes almost glowed in the late afternoon sun and for a moment the American found hope.

~~~~oooOOOooo~~~~

Illya watched from the dark and cool interior of the marble halls of the monastery.

“He offers help.” Keit whispered as he ambled past.

“I have been disavowed by my people, he has been sent to kill me.” Illya’s face was pale and the normally expressive eyes dulled with the pain of betrayal.

“He has given his word you will be safe from him, I felt no lie in his heart or eyes.”

“Perhaps.” Illya frowned and watched as the American retrieved his shoes and left into a waiting Pedi cab.