Mr & Mister Danvers: Initiation - 16. EPISODE 15: THE KING'S KNIGHT

EPISODE 15: THE KING'S KNIGHT

I got out of the car, and several men dropped out of the minivan and swooped in without missing a beat.

Slicked in their dark vests and uniforms, one of them slipped inside the driver’s seat and drove the car away in a span of a minute.

Like the invisible cogs and wheels of this organisation, they did their jobs very efficiently.

A black hackney carriage was then parked in front of the street.

The driver rolled down the windows and said, "Hop in."

With my instincts shot and everything around me seemingly duplicitous, I moved a couple feet back in case I needed to run away, and asked, "Why would I get in?"

"Cause you passed the test mate. You’ve done a tidy job. Come on. I’ll drive you to yer’ family."

"What do you mean I passed the test?"

"Just hop inside. Quickly"

He sounded casual and very Welsh, as if my task from earlier didn’t involve suffocating an old man with the prospect of raping him unconsciously.

I got in the car knowing that if I wanted to learn the address of my family, I could easily find a method to get information from this man and torture him.

His eyes were on the rear-view mirror; our eyes met, and I asked, "Where’s my family?"

I made a pledge to myself that this time, no matter what it takes, I'm going to find them.

I was prepared to snag his seatbelt and choke him from the back seat.

I turned up to the mirror precipitously and was about to strap his neck to the seat when he whispered, "I know what you’re thinking. Killing me won’t do you any good. Your family’s over by in Knightsbridge. We’re on our way there mate." I remained unmoved as he said, "Trust me, we're really going there," doubting the perfidious man's veracity. "Stop looking at me like that friend. I swear, on my nan’s life, we’re on our way to see your family. In fact, we’ll do a video call right now."

He called the number and handed me the phone.

Brady answered the call, "Daddy! I can see you."

His smile brought me some relief.

After experiencing so much desperation, my eyes were watering with the peace I had finally found.

I exhaled and grinned as I wiped the corner of my eye and said, "I'm glad to see you sweety! I really miss you. How are you doing?" Brady appeared to be preoccupied as he gazed elsewhere. "What're you up to, pumpkin?"

"I’m watching the telly daddy."

"Brady, tell me where you are."

He stretched his hand and said, "We’re at this big house. Lotty said it’s our home now."

I got nervous at the mention of a stranger.

"Honey, who’s Lotty?"

"She tells me she’s here to take care of me. Do I need help, daddy? I could take care of myself. I’m big enough to do that."

Then the camera turned to a woman—an unfamiliar woman I’d never seen.

"Mr. Danvers, let’s talk when you get here."

The call ended.

"Who’s this woman? Who is she?" I roared inside the car as I heard myself. "What is she doing with my child?"

"Calm down mate. Lotty’s a good woman. She won’t hurt your child."

After hearing his affirmation, I calmed down.

Seeing Brady was more important than anything else.

I took a deep breath and concentrated all of my attention on maintaining my composure because, at least now, I knew that my son was safe.

I ought to have inquired about my father.

I'm quite cautious and prepared to pounce on this man if he was lying, just in case things didn't go as planned.

My next objective was to discover the truth about this agency.

"You stated that I had passed the test earlier. Why do you say that, exactly?"

He handed me two folders and a new set of clothes.

"Better change it first. I know that one stinks of sex."

A troubled frown wrinkled my thick eyebrows as I unbuttoned my polo.

"Hey, at least you’re getting some action mate."

His eyes were running through the mirror, looking at me on the sly.

I could see his eyes darting towards my bare chest, and then he pointed at the other thing he’d given me.

"There, that’s your contract. And here’s a pen."

"I’m not signing this," I objected, as I tossed my pants in the paper bag and grabbed the jeans. "Tell me what it is I passed."

"Alrighty." He sighed as we came into traffic. "There are five things this job requires: silence, commitment, and the value to uphold your dignity and self-respect. Whatever reasons you had, you didn’t give up your friend. We highly uphold the privacy regarding the identity of every client. That is one of the most important things you’d have to remember. Next, you performed excellently well above your comforts which this job will test to see how far you can go. Every job is curated to the best of your abilities, and you’ll soon learn enough whether you have the guts to do it, or to simply walk away. And lastly, you still had the sense to not do something vile and criminal to your fellow human despite...risking the chance of never seeing your family again. If a client asks you to do something you’re not comfortable with, you’d have to know how to say no. This isn’t a simple escorting job. You are upheld by the highest quality of service. It’s easy to shag someone, get paid, and call it a day. But with our clients, you’d have to get inside their minds, you’d have to study them, observe them, make them feel how they wanted to be treated, and mostly, perform your duty as if you weren’t hired to be there—eventually bending them to your will."

I buttoned up the jeans and said, "You haven’t mentioned the fifth one."

I saw him smile from the rear-view mirror.

"Secrecy. You’ll be working for the British government as an undercover spy. Your role is to mainly gather intelligence that would be detrimental to the safety of this country. Before anything happens, you’re bound to know first."

"A spy? Me?" I said, howling with laughter.

Was this guy joking?

"Yes. Spy and espionage have been synonymously used in acts of sabotage throughout the centuries. Some have used ‘honey traps’ to ensnare potential targets and blackmail the candidates for secret information—to influence them in exchange for whatever their government needs."

"Bu-but...that sounds wrong."

"In 2017, the Italian government used a ‘honey trap’ to lure biochemical physicist Salazar Ratagous from London to Rome. He was supposed to meet with a venerable alluring microbiologist named Anita Randowsky at The Ritz, which sadly for the poor bloke was one of our moles. Instead, he was kidnapped by Italian agents and taken back to Italy to stand trial for leaking nuclear secrets to the media."

I didn’t say anything.

He might be making this up.

"I’ll give you more samples since you don’t believe me."

I looked the other way, seemingly uninterested.

"1987, Clayton J. Pinehearst. He was a US Marine Sergeant and member of the security service of the US Embassy in Moscow and was caught in a ‘sex trap’ by a female Soviet officer and was blackmailed into handing over classified documents when he was assigned to serve in Vienna. 1952. Roy Attiger. A non-commissioned officer of the US Army serving at the US Embassy in Moscow. He had a one-night stand with a female Soviet agent while under the influence of alcohol, and was subsequently blackmailed into believing that the agent was pregnant and that the case would be revealed to his wife unless he cooperated with the Soviet authorities. 1961. Irvin T. Marbeck. An American diplomat was caught in a ‘honeytrap’ with a female French officer with pictures of them doing the act. They were photographed and were told to disclose various information so that the compromising pictures would not be published. For your interest, in 2023, Ronald T. Beacham, an estate agent, held secret meetings at his house in Ealing to incite mass riots across London prior to the King’s coronation. Their meeting comprised of assassinating the King and overthrowing the government’s party and establishing their own. They were pretty legit syndicate, till he met a fellow member, Jeremy Spikes. The two were a powerful couple in their org until Jeremy blackmailed him to confess to all of their members. It was a sting operation. He confessed to 39 of them. He was a great agent."

His statement at the end was marked by a hint of sadness.

I think he might have known this person. "OK, I get it," I said.

"Do you know who the most popular spy is guilty of utilising sexpionage?"

"Who?" I asked, attending to his follies.

"James Bond," he said with a proud tilt of his head. "He’s an operative with the British Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, and he shags almost every woman he meets. That’s a man’s man right there. A fictional one, but—you get it. We also have Mata Hari. She was a Dutch exotic dancer who spied for Germans upon order by the French authorities. Well, er, she was executed by a firing squad in 1917. Maybe not her though. You don’t want to get caught by any means."

"So you’re saying I should be James Bond?" I said, unconvinced. "You’re implying I fuck every gay guy I see to make me macho? This would all have been a waste if I was a bottom then, with the way you phrase things. It's a bit discriminatory. But whatever suits you."

"That’s not what I’m saying." He coughed and added, "So you’re a top. Too bad. What I’m saying is...sign the contract and see where this goes. You’re special, do you know that?"

"Special?"

"You’ll be the only gay agent catered to homosexual targets for the government. We used to hire bisexual men, but something about them was indecisive—always changing their minds at the last minute."

"How many are there?"

"I’m not in the business of disclosing confidential information, but I’d say there’s a couple around. There are a lot of women, of course, and some straight and bisexual men. But you’re the only gay man that’s passed the test. Well, there are two of you now, but he’s not really a spy. He's the one we call when we need something done or someone exterminated quietly. We call him 'Whisper.’"

My thoughts immediately went to the old man.

"What happened to Charles?"

"That man has cancer. Stage four pancreatic cancer. He’ll be sent to a hospice soon. Don’t worry, his family’s been taken care of. A hundred-thousand pounds will do his family well. It’s not often we do these tests—we don’t get a lot of recruits like you. So the government gives premium packages to willing test subjects." As we reached the St. Charles roundabout in Trafalgar Square, he said, "You know what, I should’ve been like you, if you take the job that is...I should’ve been a spy. But I failed the third test."

My mind was idly gaping at the equestrian statue of Charles I at Charing Cross.

He looked uncomfortable riding his horse.

I said nonchalantly, "Why are you telling me this?"

"As part of my test, they found my real father and put him as my neighbour. They placed him in a house across the street. Well, they told me to fuck the guy, but I shot him instead." My eyes darted to his face, looking at his expression in the mirror; he was cheerful. "They didn’t know that the bastard molested me, so I killed him."

"I’m sorry."

"It’s ok. He was garbage. He’d also touched our neighbour’s kid and some others, so he truly was a piece of shit. I informed you ahead since you’ll read about it in that dossier. I don’t want you to think I’m a murderer. Well, I am. But only if you’re a child molester or a prick. In order for me not to go to jail, they made me a handler. I’ll be yours if you sign that contract," he said, looking at me in the mirror impatiently. "Come on, mate, just sign it already."

I steered the conversation to something less morbid.

I glanced at him again and he seemed ok despite mentioning killing his father.

How weird is this guy?

"You’ll be my handler, yet I still have no idea who you are."

He was driving the steering wheel with one hand and reaching out to the back seat.

"Name’s Jean de La Fontaine. Call me Jean. Born and bred in Cardiff. 34. Divorced. No kids. Fan of Abba and morning wanks."

I shook his hand and said, "Nice to meet you, Jean. Your name sounds French."

"Yeah. My mother was French. I took her last name."

It’s understood why he took his mother’s last name.

It would be rude of me to pry.

"So people do fail these tests, huh Jean?"

"Oh yes. A lot. There was one who had raped an old lady and bashed her head with a rock and continued to shag her after the fact that she was dead. He’s now serving life imprisonment. It’s rare that we get maniacal rapists or psychopaths. But in order for the incident to never happen again, the agency ensured the safety of all test partners. There were around 20 agents surrounding your car about to stop you in case you did the unthinkable. Thank god you didn’t. Or else you’d have a radioactive dick from shagging a cancer patient."

After gathering all the information, I was at an impasse on how to segregate all this information and toss away the rigmarole of what was said.

Sex.

Espionage.

Spies.

Escort service.

And the most important of all, the agency.

It got me thinking: was Danny aware of the agency’s cause?

Did he purposely send me off to be assessed by this secret organisation? Was he in the know?

"Danny..." I said.

"What about him?"

"Does he know?"

"Yeah. I forgot to tell you that. Your friend isn’t just a recruiter. He was placed around your sphere to get you recruited. He’s a surveillance and technology expert working for us.”

“So that prick has been lying to me?” I was shocked and annoyed that I ever felt bad for avoiding Danny. “Is Danny even his name?”

“Nope. He’s number 18.”

“18?”

“Yeah, the 18th hacker who tried hacking the agency’s servers. Past SIS encryptions lie in the agency’s fortified security networks. There aren't a lot of people who could tap into that. Well, he’s very good, and he tried.”

So now he tells me that Danny—let me correct myself—number 18 was a hacker. What else was he keeping mum about?

“The British government seems to be hiding a lot of things.”

“There are a few worse things than redactions told to implicitly lie. Not knowing is better than being informed. Everyone thinks they can stomach the truth; the vast majority of the public would probably curl into a ball and kill themselves for not understanding the gravity of what it represents without factoring into the conversation that what was done was the lesser evil out of a greater evil. No one understands that as highly as those involved.”

“So what’s this greater evil you’re talking about?”

“To do nothing—to watch everything burn and do nothing.”

I didn’t want to argue with him; he’s probably seen worse or experienced worse than I could ever expect with that relentless smile he’d been sporting throughout this lesson.

Though I have a few words I could say to correct him with some of his opinions about the truth, my mind was fettered elsewhere, and I asked, “This escort agency...is this real or just a coverup?”

“Yes, there’s a legitimate escort business in the works, but only a select handful are using it as their cover. Not every agent is an escort. But those who are, are considered one of the best. I’m guessing because they tend to practice with unknowing clients whatever skills they’d need to do the job. It somehow hones their craft. Plus, spies who don the ‘escort’ title as their assumed identities get paid a lot—I mean a lot. It’s not a shabby job to go down on a client in exchange for loads of cash, and if you’re required to do something else—let's say, eavesdrop on a furtive clandestine conversation between a traitor and one of Britain’s enemies—that's just the tip of the iceberg. Because, as they say, a man’s lust can overwhelm any sense of loyalty. And the sovereignty of England and his majesty’s government requires very loyal subjects."