The Knight's Tale - 11. Chapter 11

After thanking the captain and crew for delivering them from Turkmenistan without further incident, Henry and Bijan stepped out onto the main deck of the corvette.

As they made their way down the gangplank, they saw a man standing next to a car, holding a little sign that said simply, “Henry.”

They walked over to the driver, who smiled in recognition and greeted them in Azeri, then heavily-accented English. “Xoş gəlmisiniz — Welcome to Azerbaijan, Honorable Sirs. We should leave at once.”

After the two men climbed into the back seat, Henry inquired, “What’s the big hurry? Are we late for our flight?”

“Not at all, Sir.” He gestured to his left. “Do you see that gate over there?”

Henry and Bijan turned in the indicated direction. The gate was about 200 metres away, and it was guarded on both sides by uniformed men.

The driver explained. “Astara is two cities, straddled across border. We are in Azeri city, and past gate is Iran. We should not spend any more time than necessary this close to frontier. Sometimes, IRGC point their cameras this way.”

“Then let’s get the fuck out of here!” Bijan exclaimed.

With a nod and a chuckle, the driver sped away, turning at the first corner that would take them out of sight of the border guards.

Henry demanded, “Why the hell did Winnie send us so close to the fucking place we were trying to escape from?”

“Astara — the Azeri side, that is — is international dropping-off point for all kinds of people who need to be somewhere different than where they have been living. Is easy to blend in with such crush of refugees, escapees, criminals, and spies.”

Henry and Bijan sat in silence.

They left the city behind in ten minutes and continued up the coastal highway toward Lankaran.

“Is only 40 kilometres, one-half hour, to airport, Honorable Sirs. We shall be there in plenty of time.”

“Once we arrive at the airport, what happens next?” Bijan asked.

“You will be on only flight today, to Moscow. It leaves 09:30, but check-in is two hours earlier. We will be arriving at airport at 07:15, so you see — plenty time.”

“Moscow? Shit, we can’t go through Russia!” Henry was livid.

“Please, sir. Is no problem. We have passports and IDs for both of you. Young man is your nephew, and the two of you will be in Moscow for only one hour. You won’t even leave International Transit area or go through customs, just lay-over. It happens all the time.”

“And there is no other option?”

“When I say ‘is only flight today,’ I mean is only flight any day. Azerbaijan has no air treaties with any nation other than Russia. Only carrier is Ural Airlines. One day they fly to Moscow, next day to St Petersburg, and so on.”

“Are there any other airports in this fucking country?”

“Yes, are more, but all go only to Russia. Remember, Azerbaijan used to be Soviet Socialist Republic. Ties with Russia are still close, especially given endless conflict with Armenia, another former Soviet Republic.”

Henry took a deep breath and checked on Bijan. The young man was sweating and his hands were shaking.

“Listen, Bijan. Everything’s going to be fine. We’re just passing through, and Winnie will make sure we won’t end up stuck in Moscow.” To the driver, he said, “May I please see the passports and IDs?”

Without another word, the man picked up some items off the seat next to him and handed them back to Henry.

Examining the documents, Henry had to admit that MI6 had done a bang-up job on them. He was Mr Harold Carter of Birmingham, UK, and his “nephew” was Bishoy Soliman, born in Cairo and now living with his uncle in England.

“These are all right, I suppose, but I still have questions.” Henry said warily.

“Then you will want to listen this.” The driver fished around on the seat again and handed Henry a small tape recorder.

Henry pressed Play, and they heard Winnie’s cheerful voice.

 

Hi there, mates. If you’re listening to this, two things are true.

First, you made it safely to shore and are on your way to Lankaran’s airport. I’m damn glad to hear that.

Second, you’re undoubtedly surprised, perhaps concerned, and probably pissed that I didn’t tell you all the details of your escape.

Please calm down and stop cursing me. The route we planned for you is designed to get you out quickly and securely, and land you on British soil ASAP. And by “British soil,” I mean the consulate in Istanbul. You’ll be safe there, and we will extract you conveniently under diplomatic cover.

As you have no doubt figured out, the only way out of fucking Azerbaijan is through Russia, and that’s where you’re headed. That actually works to your benefit. Although they supposedly have friendly relations, they are oil rivals. Iran doesn’t meddle in Russian business, and the Russkies don’t do Iran any favors.

Your driver is totally reliable and will make sure you arrive at your departure gate in plenty of time.

When you land in Moscow, you don’t have to do a goddamn thing except sit on your arses and wait for your flight to Turkey to be called. And don’t worry, they announce in English, among other languages.

If anyone asks, you two are returning from a delightful holiday on the Caspian Riviera. Your documents include a credit card receipt from the Grand Palace Hotel in Aktau, two tickets on the ferry to and from Baku, and your used tickets from your flights into Azerbaijan two weeks ago.

Henry, Bijan is your nephew — in the convenient sense. If people see you together, they’ll probably have their doubts at first, but then they’ll remember that many rich “uncles” take their “nephews” on expensive vacations. Need I say more?

You’re to have been relaxing in the Caspian sunshine since long before Henry arrived in Tehran or Bijan took his little nap. Oh, sorry — I know that was kind of insensitive, but I’m trying to lighten the mood.

 

“Shit, I wish we had been doing all that!” Henry interjected.

 

I know this isn’t quite what you blokes expected, but we didn’t have a lot of options. So, safe travels, and I’ll see you soon.

Oh, by the way — no hanky-panky on the planes. The mile-high club isn’t taking any new members! Cheers.

 

“The mile-what club? What the fuck is he talking about?” Bijan was curious.

“Never mind. That was just a bad joke.” Sighing and shrugging his shoulders, Henry considered his nervous companion with a wan smile. “We’ve trusted the son of a bitch this long, so I guess it makes no sense to doubt him now.”

“What did he mean about uncles and nephews?”

Henry hesitated. “I... suppose... you’re aware that sometimes... older men... develop relationships with younger ones... that involve money and gifts... including luxury vacations.”

“Oh. I see... Yes, I get it.” He paused, then blushed. “Is that what people will think you and I are doing?”

“Who knows? Who gives a shit? If they do, they’ll quickly look away, and that works to our advantage — they won’t be nosing around asking for details if they assume... well, you know.”

Although it seemed impossible, Bijan blushed even deeper but said nothing more.

The two sat back in silence. They understood no other options existed, and they had been in good hands all the way here, including several potential disasters that Winnie had gotten them through.

Henry tried to lighten the moment. “Well, Bishoy, my ‘nephew from Egypt,’ it appears we’ll just have to become familiar with using our new names. I say, it’s damned lucky you speak proper Arabic.”

Relieved, Bijan imitated a posh British accent. “Quite so, ‘Uncle Harold from Birmingham.’ I say, isn’t that a football city?”

“It certainly is, Nephew dear. The BCFC have competed in Tier Two footie for several years now and have won a couple of EFL championships. They’ve a goal-keeper named Neil Etheridge who bloody shines. His parents are from the Philippines, but the bloke is English all the way. He’s tall, strong, and has a body to fucking die for.”

They both laughed. The conversation was more relaxed for the remainder of the journey.

 

The driver brought them to the Departures terminal and went to the rear of the car. Opening the boot, he took out two suitcases and a brief case.

“What’s that?” Bijan wondered.

Henry laughed. “Oh, I’m not surprised. Winnie seems to always think of everything. I’m sure this is our luggage, and if anyone examines it, whatever they find will prove to be spot-on appropriate, and may even have our fingerprints all over it. And perhaps a few grains of sand from the actual beach!”

“No shit! That’s fucking amazing.”

“Just part of the service, I think Winnie would say.”

 

As promised, their passage through Lankaran Airport was smooth and uneventful.

On board the 20-year old Airbus 321, they were offered drinks and snacks for the 3-hour flight to Moscow’s Domodedovo International Airport. They were pleasantly surprised to learn that smoking on the aircraft was permitted, except during take-off and landing.

Upon arrival in Moscow at half twelve, they were on edge, but Winnie’s prediction again proved prescient. No one paid any attention at all to them as they bought lunch and waited in the Transit Lounge. They didn’t even need the “Caspian Riviera Holiday” alibi.

They boarded the Pegasus Airlines flight from Moscow to Istanbul Sabiha Gökçen International Airport, and it took off at 13:45. The four and a half hours on the smaller Boeing 727 seemed interminable, but the flight was uneventful. They landed on time at 18:15.

They were still wary about passing through Turkish customs, more so because, at that hour, there were fewer passengers and the douaniers had more time to spend on each.

But as the plane was taxiing to the arrival gate, a flight attendant came over to Henry’s seat. “Sir, I am informed that you will be met at the gate by your diplomatic courier. You will then be taken through special processing, so please don’t follow the crowd to Immigration.”

As promised, they were greeted by a placard that read “Mr Harold Carter,” held by a tall young man who introduced himself as William Gregoire, Deputy Consular Agent.

With his help, they were processed through Turkish customs as diplomatic staff and not subject to baggage search or immigration questioning. It only took a half hour to come out the main entrance, where their car was waiting.

Gregoire shepherded them into the consular vehicle, and the three men settled into the spacious interior.

“Will we meet the ambassador to Turkey?” Bijan inquired hopefully.

“Um, no, sir. The ambassador, Sir Anthony Brickerton, resides in the capital, Ankara. Here in Istanbul, Her Majesty has a Consulate, and the chief officer is the Consul General, Dr Margaret Noorzai. Would you like to meet her?”

“Er, I guess so. Would she want to meet me?”

“Oh yes, Mr Tohjani. You are something of a celebrity in the consulate right now — although only among a tiny cadre of senior officers who are in the know. By the way, the country isn’t styled as ‘Turkey’ any longer. The official name is Türkiye now. They always hated the English word and its association with barnyard fowl that we eat.”

“I can imagine why.” Bijan agreed.

 

45 minutes later, they drove through the tall gates of the British Consulate General and into an underground parking garage.

“Wouldn’t want someone to see you gents arriving.” Gregoire winked.

“I was wondering why the windows of the car were such dark glass.” Bijan admitted.

“Yes, well... Only, we couldn’t do anything about the public areas of the airport. We had spotters all around, with an eye out for anyone who might be tracking you or photographing your arrival. The diplomatic side of the terminal is high-security, with less likelihood of spying eyes”

“Has Bijan’s disappearance been discovered yet?” Henry worried.

“Not as far as we can detect. If it is, they’re keeping it quiet. The Tohjanis are preparing for their trip here, and the Grand Ayatullah has given his blessing to COMEPH. Not to jinx anything, but it would seem you’re in the clear, at least for now.”

With a deep sigh, Bijan smiled. “Thanks be to God — and Henry, and Winnie, and... all the others.”

They were conducted up into the heart of the consulate compound. In a lobby with high ceilings, Gregoire stopped. A uniformed guard was waiting.

“Mr Tohjani, this officer will accompany you to your secure quarters.” Turning to Henry he added, “If Your Lordship will follow me, I will show you to your suite.”

Bijan’s face clouded, and Henry straightened in indignation.

“One moment, Mr Gregoire. This absolutely will not do. I am responsible for Bijan’s safety until we reach London, and I’m not about to be separated from him, even on ‘British soil’ as you might call this.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid Mr Tohjani must be housed in a secure area. He is not a British subject, and he cannot wander freely throughout the consulate.”

Henry’s face was scarlet. Controlling his rage, he spoke quietly and precisely.

“Then prepare a space for me in the secure area, either with Bijan or in an adjoining room.”

“But... but, Your Lordship, your suite is much more comfortable. It’s...”

“You don’t have to say it — proper protocol is to house a member of the nobility in the comfort to which they are accustomed, or some bullshit like that.”

Gregoire stiffened. He was not used to being addressed with profanity. He glared at Henry, who returned the look with even greater fury.

The diplomat was the first to blink. “I’ll, er... have to confer with the Consul General and the Chief of Security.” He ordered the guard, “Please take these gentlemen to my office and offer them tea.”

The man said, “Yes, sir,” and indicated the way.

As they followed, Bijan whispered, “You won’t really stay in the jail with me, will you?”

“You bet your sweet arse I will. But I doubt that will be necessary. They can’t endure the shame of locking up a Viscount.”

“Are you sure you’re not just arranging things so we can sleep in the same bed?” Bijan winked.

“Thought never crossed my mind.”

Half an hour later, Gregoire returned, visibly pissed off. “Dr Noorzai has given permission for Bijan to share your suite with you. You’ll find a spacious bed chamber, and also a rather smaller one for a butler or servant. Will that be satisfactory, Your Lordship?”

Henry smiled as he nodded, trying to repair the damage of the prior altercation. “Most satisfactory, and thank you very much, Mr Gregoire. And please convey my deepest gratitude to the Consul General.”

The haughty diplomat smirked. “However, given Mr Tohjani’s status, he will be accompanied by an officer any time he is outside your suite.”

“We don’t have much interest in exploring the consulate.”

The diplomat swallowed hard. “And I am to tell you that Dr Noorzai invites both of you to dine with her and some of the senior staff at 8:30 this evening. Nothing formal, just a get-to-know-you drinks and dinner.”

“Please tell her we would be delighted.” He thought a moment. “And please notify the waiters that Bijan does not consume alcohol, so his place setting should be adjusted accordingly.”

“The consulate entertains Muslim guests all the time, My Lord. We know how to adjust.” Gregoire huffed. “This officer will conduct you to your rooms.”

That night, after the informal dinner and three hours of hobnobbing with the consul and her senior officers, Henry and Bijan were escorted to their suite. The guard opened the door for them and stood aside.

“I’ll just be outside, sir, if you need anything else.”

Henry understood —a watcher would be on their door at all times.

“I appreciate the thoroughness of your security here. Mr Tohjani is in grave danger until we get him to England.” He closed the door and winked at Bijan.

The sumptuous apartment had high ceilings, damask wall covering, several chandeliers, two fireplaces, and opulent furniture all around.

“What the fuck is this, the royal suite?” Bijan asked in wonder.

“Believe it or not, that one is even more posh.” Henry walked over to a side table laden with bottles and glassware. “I hope you’re not offended if I have a drink.”

“Not in the least. I... if... oh fuck, do you think I could try some of that?”

Wide-eyed, Henry said, “Of course. I...” He decided not to finish the thought. He picked up a crystal glass and poured an inch of single malt into it. Then he took a pitcher of clear liquid and added another half inch.

“What is all that?”

“The golden part is single-malt Scotch Whisky — one of the best, I can attest.”

“And the other?”

“Water, not from the tap, but likely imported from Switzerland or some place renowned for its purity.” The thought brought him back to Madame Coy’s and their perfect ice cubes.

“You don’t need to dilute the drink just because this is my first.”

“Oh, my boy, I’m sorry. That’s not what I’m doing at all. The whisky requires the addition of water in order to allow its flavors to blossom and soften.” He handed the glass to Bijan.

“Drunk straight, all you would sense is the raw blast of alcohol and peat, and that would not be right at all. Trust me, I’ve been drinking this shite for most of my life, and I know how to appreciate it.”

Cautiously, Bijan lifted the whisky toward his mouth.

“Hold on a second.” Henry raised his glass and the younger man mimicked the gesture.

Tapping, the crystal tumblers made a sound like a tiny bell ringing. “Here’s to us. We’ve been through hell together, and the fucking mission isn’t over yet, but I’m hopeful things will be a lot calmer from here on in.”

They each took a sip. Bijan raised his eyebrows. “This is wonderful! I can’t understand why it has been forbidden.”

“Oh, perhaps because someone close to Mohamed got drunk and made a fool of himself a long time ago.”

Bijan nodded, “There are many things we’re not told about life back then.”

He paused thoughtfully and then smiled wickedly. “So, Lord Henry, about this ‘fucking mission’ we’re on... when does the ‘fucking’ begin?”

Henry took a healthy sip of his whisky and stepped closer to the handsome young Persian.

Lowering his glass to the table, he reached over and took Bijan’s out of his hand, carefully placing it next to his.

He pulled the handsome young man close and inclined his head toward Bijan.

Their lips met for the second time — less cautiously than they had in the shower on the boat.

Henry savored the heady tang of the malt and tobacco from the cigarettes they had been smoking. The combination was wildly masculine and sensual.

He placed one hand on Bijan’s head and the other on his chest, lightly caressing the front of his shirt.

Bijan responded by throwing his arms around Henry and tugging him into a passionate embrace. Their tongues battled with pent-up fervor.

After a minute or two, Henry ended the kiss and said softly, “I think we should retire to our bedchamber.”

“Ours? I thought I was banished to the servants’ quarters.”

“Not a fucking chance in hell.”

They retrieved their drinks and almost raced into the adjoining chamber.

Standing at the foot of the bed, they kissed again and again, their hands fondling every part of their lovers’ bodies.

Without a word, they began removing their clothing, tossing things right and left.

In a moment, they faced each other, naked and hard.

“Just like in the shower on that ship.” Bijan observed.

“With one big difference.”

“Oh?”

“We don’t have to worry about some arsehole bursting in on us.”

They laughed and kissed again.

Henry moved his lips to the side of Bijan’s neck.

The young man responded with a moan of pleasure.

Henry continued, kissing Bijan’s ears, shoulders, armpits, and upper chest.

He paused to kiss and then gently bite on each dark brown nipple.

Bijan took in a deep breath and arched his back at the new sensation.

“No one’s ever done that to me before.”

“Well, prepare yourself for a lot more of those ‘never befores’ tonight, my young friend.”

Henry lowered himself to his knees, and his warm wet tongue continued its path toward the ultimate prize.

Nuzzling Bijan’s navel, Henry began to lick his way downward to the shaved pubic skin.

Bijan’s erection visibly throbbed with needy desire, but Henry merely brushed his cheek against it, prolonging the exquisite agony of waiting.

At last, he pulled his head away and faced directly at the tip of man’s penis.

A pearl drop of precum glistened and threatened to fall to the floor.

Henry stuck out his tongue and caught it.

He wrapped his lips around the head of Bijan’s cock, slipping his tongue along the underside.

With excruciating slowness, he leaned forward centimetre by centimetre, sucking the beautiful hot prick deeper into his throat.

Henry could feel each quickening heartbeat as Bijan’s cock pulsed with lust. He was determined to give his young lover the best blowjob he had ever experienced.

“Oh no! Shit!” Bijan exclaimed as his body suddenly tensed and he emptied his balls into Henry’s throat. “Fuck! I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold it back.”

Swallowing the salty sweet elixir, Henry leaned back and grinned. “It’s fine. The first one is always fast and easy. That means the next ones will take longer and be more fun for both of us.”

He got to his feet and drew Bijan into another tight embrace.

As they kissed, Bijan paused. “What is that flavor? Is it my own cum?”

Henry nodded.

“It is delicious, and now I want yours.”

They moved to the bed. Henry sat with his back against the plush headboard, and Bijan knelt between Henry’s legs.

The young man put his hand around Henry’s hard cock, deftly slipping the foreskin up and down.

“I’ve never seen one of these before...”

“This is a reality we must accept: I have one; you don’t. There are perfectly good reasons for both. Variety is the spice of life, isn’t it?”

Bijan laughed happily. “You know, I’m not as skilled at this as you are.”

“Not to worry. The machinery works no matter how experienced the operator may be. You will learn, and I will gladly teach you. Just do whatever you want, whatever you like me to do to you, and we will surely enjoy this.”

Bijan lowered his head and took Henry’s cock into his mouth.

He used his lips to slide the foreskin down and immediately noted a delicious flavor.

“I can taste... honey or something sweet.”

“We call that ‘precum’ and it serves as lubrication. I’m sure you’ve seen it when you were wanking off all those days you were trapped at home.”

“Yes, but I never knew what it tasted like. I think I love it.”

“There’s a lot more to love, if you just keep doing what you’re doing.”

Henry’s ejaculation took longer than Bijan’s. He knew how to hold it back and relish the feeling of his prick being aroused by Bijan’s willing mouth.

Finally, he warned. “I’m about to come. You don’t have to take it in your mouth... or swallow it.”

Bijan ignored the advice. He thrust his head down, burying his nose in Henry’s bushy pubic hair, just as the surge of semen hit the back of his mouth.

Almost choking, he swallowed greedily. The involuntary contractions of his throat only intensified Henry’s pleasure.

When he was confident he had consumed every delicious remnant of cum, Bijan leaned back, still holding the tip of Henry’s penis between his lips.

He raised his head slightly and peered up into Henry’s eyes, questioning.

“You did well, my boy. One would think you’ve been doing this your whole life. It was spectacular.”

Bijan laughed so hard that Henry’s cock slipped out. “That’s bullshit and you know it! I’ve sucked off a couple of fellows, but it was always quick and dirty, and I never let them come in my mouth — semen is definitely not halal.” He giggled again.

“Come here, you gorgeous fucker.” Henry pulled this lover up the bed so that Bijan lay on top of him.

They kissed again and again, laughing like schoolboys on holiday.

After a while, Henry said, “I’d love to take this to the next level, Bijan, but we’ve been on the run for three days now, and I’m knackered. You must be too. We’ll save the follow-on for another time.”

Disappointed, but also on the verge of exhaustion, Bijan yawned. “Though I hate to admit it, I suppose you must be right, Henry. I don’t want to try to learn everything in the first lesson.”

 

The light of morning streaked through the drapes.

Two naked men lay entwined in each other’s arms, nuzzling their noses and lightly kissing.

“That was a night to remember.” Bijan smiled.

“I’ll never forget it.”

“Why don’t we just pick up where we left off?”

“Because I need to take a piss, then a shower and shave, and do some business. We’re not out of the woods yet, my love.”

“And what shall I do?”

Henry grew serious. “Well, you know you can’t go anywhere else in the consulate without a minder with you, and you sure as shit can’t leave the grounds, or even go outdoors where someone in a taller building might photograph you.

Bijan sighed as a tear formed in one eye.

“Don’t worry. It’s not the end of the world. We’ll only be here a short while, and then it’s on to our final destination: Merrie Olde England.”

He lifted Bijan’s chin with two fingers.

“And don’t forget — your parents will be here soon. Well, not here... they’ll be in your consulate and we won’t be able to contact them. But the whole goddamn progression is moving on as planned, and before long we’ll all be out of this shit and relaxing by the pool on my estate.”

Bijan wiped his eye and smiled at his lover.

“I just don’t want this to ever end.”

Giving the lad a comforting hug, Henry said softly, “I can’t speak to ‘ever,’ but we’ll only be here for the remainder of today. We’re leaving on a military flight around midnight, and we have to be at the airport by 6 PM.”

He kissed Bijan tenderly. “Once we’re safely in England — my lifelong home and your new one — we can resume your education at a leisurely pace.”

 

Henry returned to his suite at 1:00 PM.

Bijan was just finishing a light lunch. “The steward told me you were busy, so I ordered something to eat. I hope it’s all right.”

“Perfectly. I grabbed a sandwich in the canteen.”

Henry sat down across the table from Bijan, who was lighting a cigarette.

“I... er, have news.”

“Oh?” Bijan was wary.

“Yes. Well, it seems it’s rather bad news... only, my father, the Earl of Westermere, died yesterday.”

Bijan rose and came around the table. He stood a short distance from Henry, not sure what was polite in this circumstance. He settled on resting a hand on Henry’s shoulder.

Henry looked up at his charge’s face. “He had a heart attack a few days ago, and it seemed minor, but then he had a second one, and... it all ended so goddamned fast.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Henry. I... don’t know what to say.”

“That’s all right, Bijan. There’s not much anyone can say. I have to admit that we weren’t close, but dammit I wish I could have seen him once more.”

“Was he old, your father?”

“Early 60s. That’s not very old, but he lived a rather carefree life, drinking, womanizing...”

“Perhaps it is better to live the life you love than to have long years of unhappiness.”

Henry started and smiled up at Bijan. “You are wise beyond your years, young man.”

He stood, and took Bijan into his arms. They embraced for a time, then looked into each other’s eyes. Their lips met in a tender kiss.

“This changes the plan, I’m afraid.”

Bijan stepped back. “How?”

“We are now scheduled to leave tonight. There’s a NATO flight from Çorlu, which is about an hour from here, on a German Luftwaffe flight to Geilenkirchen — it’s near the Dutch border in Germany. We depart at 11 PM.”

He checked on Bijan’s reaction, but got only a blank expression. “Then, tomorrow morning, we have a 2-hour flight to RAF Northolt, outside London, arriving mid-morning. It will be tiring, all over again, but at the end, we’ll be home... er, home for me, that is.”

They hugged again. “This means I won’t see my parents here.”

“That was unlikely to happen, since you are officially dead and they would be the Iranian consulate or at the COMEPH conference. You were not to be reunited until you are all safely in England.”

 

There was not much more to discuss. They packed and were driven in a black van with no windows to the NATO base, where they were sequestered while waiting to board their flight.

“I have to use my real passport and ID now, but you will remain Bishoy Soliman to protect your identity. We are still under diplomatic cover, so no one will question us very much.”

Twenty minutes before take-off, a uniformed officer collected them.

“I’m afraid we don’t have a first class cabin, Lord Westermere, but we have most of the comforts of a commercial flight.”

Bijan was confused. “Lord Westermere? I thought you were Lord Lockham... oh, I see. You are now the Earl.”

“It will take some getting used to.” Henry lowered his eyes. “Fuck! Why did it have to happen now?”

 

The two flights were long but uneventful. Henry and Bijan were each lost in thought.

Disembarking at RAF Northolt, Henry stopped and turned to Bijan. “I’m afraid I saved the worst for last...”

“Oh shit.”

“Right you are. We are being separated. I have to report to Vauxhall, where I shall be debriefed for a few days. You are being taken to a safe house where you will be cared for but kept away from the public eye. We should be able to reunite in two or three days.”

Bijan wiped away a tear, trying to be brave. “I’ve become so dependent on you...”

“Yes, and I’m sorry about that... in a way. But you will be in good hands, you’ll be perfectly safe, and as time passes, they may even take you out and show you a bit of London from the car.”

“Another one with dark windows?”

“Naturally. Now come here, you sexy lad.”

They kissed good-bye, obliviously to the looks on the faces of their minders. Then they were shepherded into separate vehicles and departed in different directions.