The Knight's Tale - 5. Chapter 5

The next morning, a quiet, persistent rap on his bedroom door rousted Lord Henry from a troubled sleep. He opened his eyes and was blinded by bright bars of sunlight piercing through tiny vertical stripes where the heavy window drapes met.

A louder, more insistent knock was followed by the bedroom door quietly opening.

Edward Weems entered the room, carrying a tray with toast and jam, coffee, and a snifter of Rémy Martin brandy. The footman closed the door behind him.

“Sorry to wake you, milord, but we must discuss a few things.”

“Oh, get stuffed, Neddie!” His Lordship groaned, apparently hung over.

The footman smiled as he added brandy to the steaming cup of coffee. “As enticing as your kind offer sounds, Harry, we have some business to attend to just now. Perhaps later.”

Henry sat up in bed. Naked, as he slept every night, he pulled the sheet up to his waist and accepted the cup of spiked coffee from his servant.

Weems seated himself on the side of the bed, and for the next half hour they went over the details of Henry’s extraction mission in Iran, set to begin the next day.

“The whole damned adventure is still too sodding risky, if you ask me.” Henry complained.

“It is indeed, and you have every right to decline the assignment.”

“Bullshit! You know damned well I would never. I suppose I was hoping for some assurance.”

“Assurance... of what? That everything will be a breeze? That you’ll come back alive?”

“Sod that. I’m praying I won’t spend the rest of my life being buggered in some fucking Iranian prison by every sort of filthy criminal they have in their damned shithole of a country.”

“Well, they do say variety is the spice of life.”

Henry gaped at him in astonishment until Weems cracked a smile. They roared with laughter.

“Come here, you randy bastard!” He pulled the man into the bed with him.

In no time at all, the footman was also naked and they were rolling about in the satin sheets, enjoying one another’s bodies.

 

 

Henry noticed that their love-making started out gentler that usual and somewhat reserved, as if each of them was aware this might be the last time for quite a while.

Resting his body as lightly as he could on top of the footman, Henry slid his cock in and out almost languidly, in order to draw out the pleasure for as long as possible.

“Not falling asleep on me, are you?” Ned asked with a chuckle.

“Oh, not. Not at all. Just memorizing a familiar pleasure. I’d like to take this feeling with me when I’m in the midst of the heathen Persians.”

He picked up his pace a bit and soon came in Weems’ arse.

The reverse was true as Weems fucked his master. His thrusts were purposeful and almost violent.

“Not trying to immobilize me so I can’t go, are you?”

Weems stopped suddenly, his prick all the way inside Henry.

“Oh shit, I hope not. I just sort of lost myself... I suppose I was thinking I needed to give you a shagging to remember when you’re thousands of miles away wanking yourself off.”

“Well, now that’s sorted, could you just give me your best and be persuaded I shan’t forget you for even a second?”

They both laughed.

Weems began a purposeful, serious fucking. He stretched out full-length on top of Henry, supporting himself with his elbows and toes. His plunges were performed with almost no bodily contact at all – just his prick diving and rising from his partner’s bung-hole.

After enjoying that position a while, Ned rested his full weight on Harry’s back and just used his hips to gently make the slightest moves inside him.

“Ahh. I could stay this way forever,” Harry moaned with sensual pleasure.

“Oh, but I have so much more fun for you.”

The footman put his arms tightly around Henry’s chest and rolled the two of them over, so that His Lordship was on his back on top of Ned, who then reached down and placed his hands on the man’s buttocks.

Realizing what his top wanted, Henry bent his knees and grasped them inside his elbows. Weems lifted him up and down, sliding his hard cock in and out.

Henry moaned with pleasure. “Mmm. This is new...”

“Anything to please Your Lordship.”

“Well, do carry on.”

Much as they enjoyed the novelty, the new stance proved tiring to both of them. Nonetheless, they savored it while they could. After a few minutes, the footman gently lowered his master and, keeping his hard prick deep inside him, rolled them both onto their right-hand sides.

Weems pulled Lord Henry close, so that their bodies touched from shoulders to thighs. He lifted his left leg and draped it over both of Henry’s, pulling them even closer.

“I like this. It feels like we’re cemented to each other.”

“That was my hope, Harry my love.”

“Love? Does that mean...”

Weems chuckled as he pumped his cock in and out. “It means we are making love, and that we as close to one another as any two men can possibly be.”

“Good. Keep doing that.”

From that position, they managed several other variations, until they could hold back no longer.

With a groan of ecstasy, Weems body shuddered with pleasure as he ejaculated deep inside his master.

A moment later, Harry lay on his back and pumped his aching prick so that it shot a load that splashed his chin and covered his chest and abdomen.

Both men collapsed in exhaustion and cuddled each other tightly.

 

 

Lord Henry sat resting his back against the pillows. He turned his head to the left and brought his cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. Weems’ head rested on his lordship’s bare chest. He took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled the smoke toward the ceiling. The room fairly reeked of the odors of man-sex and unfiltered tobacco.

“Ned, promise me this isn’t actually the last time we’ll do this.”

“I’d promise in a heartbeat, Harry milord, but we’re both big boys, and we know shit happens.”

“It’s all been so much fucking fun up ‘til now, hasn’t it?”

“Well, mostly for you, Your Lordship. I’m stuck back here kissing the arses of the undeserving rich and vaguely famous.”

“Right you are. Sorry, Ned.”

“Not at all. I’m living vicariously through your exploits–official and sexual–and I’ve always been thrilled when you come home and tell me all about them, especially the naughty parts.”

“And when I fuck you?”

“Especially when you fuck me.”

They kissed.

Henry sighed. “Well now, I guess you’d better get me packed for my journey into the jaws of hell.”

Weems sat up and looked at his master. “Actually, Harry, packing won’t be necessary.”

His Lordship gave him a quizzical expression.

“Everything you take into Iran with you will be x-rayed, dog-sniffed, and most likely torn to shreds by the IRGC as soon as you step off the plane.”

“Of course. Silly me.”

“So MI6 is kitting you up with a full load of nothing at all, so your minders will be miserably disappointed after they waste hours taking sod-all apart. I already have your bait suitcase, and when you get to your hotel room–assuming you do get that far–a proper wardrobe of all you need will be waiting. You’ll need to ‘lose’ the fake luggage because they’ll probably bug it nine ways from Sunday.”

Henry smiled and nodded.

“And besides, when you’re extracted from Tehran, you’ll leave everything behind. A set of the necessary supplies for your departure will be delivered to you when you’re ready to move out with the boy.”

“The boy? Is he naught but a wee laddie?” He faked a Scots accent.

“Not at all. He has a full beard–at least he will until the disguise men get their hands on him.”

“Yes, I was told he’d undergo a complete make-over.”

“His mother is Egyptian, which helps greatly. He has a rather generic appearance–not identifiably Iranian at all.”

“And you’re sure he’s gay?”

“Why? Is there some test he must pass to convince you to save him?”

“Well, if he offered me his bum to fap, I’d not say no, considering I’m risking life and limb to save his tender arse.”

“You won’t have time for such distractions. And yes, he is gay. He was caught with his knickers down in a gay club. He would’ve been carted away to the bowels of some grimy nick if he hadn’t identified himself as the Foreign Minister’s son.”

“A gay club in Tehran?” Henry inquired with a lewd grin and a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t get all hot and bothered, Harry old sod. They pop up at odd times and usually last for only one or two nights before they have to disappear and move somewhere else, which as Bijan proves doesn’t always guarantee they won’t be raided. And you won’t have time for any such diversions.”

“So wanking shall be my only joy.”

“I hope you’ll be thinking of me every time.”

“You may count on it.”

Henry pulled Weems into a long kiss. “I don’t suppose we have time for another...?”

“No, Your Lordship. Now roll your beautiful sexy arse out of this damned bed and get cracking.”

 

 

Before dawn the next morning, Her Ladyship the Countess of Westermere was waiting at the bottom of the staircase when her son came down, followed by Weems carrying his suitcase and overnight bag.

“Mother?” Henry was shocked to see her, especially at this early hour. She never seemed to pay any attention to his comings and goings.

“I wanted to... see you off... and wish you Godspeed.” There was a slight break in her voice.

“That is most kind of you.” Henry regarded Lady Elizabeth curiously.

She summoned her composure and smiled at her son. “I know this is unusual, but, for some reason, I feel it necessary this time.”

Henry nodded. He was beginning to worry. Could she possibly know where I’m going or why?

She continued. “I know we are at loggerheads about many things, Henry, but I do hope you always remember I am your mother, and I love you as my dear son, despite the shenanigans you so often get up to.”

“No shenanigans this trip, Mother. Promise. It will be all business.”

“I pray you will be safe.”

“I’ll do my best, as always.”

The countess hesitated a moment, then looked deeply into his eyes. “I am... aware... there are... things... I am not supposed to know about...”

“Mother, please. Stop there.”

“Of course.” She glanced over at Weems, who was doing his damnedest not to betray his concern over the direction the conversation appeared to be taking.

She explained. “Your father apparently has access to information from confidential sources, and he has occasionally hinted at the reason behind your unexplained absences...”

“Mother...”

“All right. I’ll stop. I don’t ‘need to know,’ as they say. I just want you to be careful and come home safely... and soon. I’m not sure your father is quite as well as he puts on to be.” She pulled him into a hug and kissed the side of his head.

Shaken by the unfamiliar show of affection, Henry returned the hug and whispered in her ear. “I’ll be back, all in one piece, and none the worse for wear. I promise. You take care of Father, and I’ll take care of me.”

She released him from the hug, straightened, and assumed her dignified bearing as the daughter of a duke and wife of an earl.

“In that case, you’d best be on your way. I’m sure you have a schedule to keep.”

Henry winked at his mother. “I do indeed. And I shall see you soon.”

He kissed her on both cheeks and proceeded toward the door.

As Weems carried Henry’s bags past Her Ladyship, he nodded respectfully.

She stopped him with a hand hooked into his elbow. She seemed about to speak, but then decided there was nothing she could add.

She looked deep into his eyes, and Weems understood at once the mother’s concern.

He nodded a silent, solemn promise, one which he had no fucking idea whether he could keep.

She released his arm. “Be on your way, then.”

“Yes, Your Ladyship.”

 

 

The Qatar Airways Airbus 350 left London Heathrow at 07:45 the next morning and landed in Doha’s Hamad International Airport at 16:35. After a two-hour layover in Qatar, the second leg of the trip was shorter: depart at 18:30 and land at Imam Khomeini International Airport at 22:00.

Upon landing, Henry retrieved his bag and briefcase from the compartment beside his first-class seat and made sure his passport and visa were safely within the inside pocket of his suit coat.

He consulted his Patek Philippe Chronograph (a gift from his grandfather for Henry’s 21st birthday). The flight attendant had advised him to set it to local time–four and a half hours ahead of Greenwich Mean Time. The flights had taken just over eleven hours, but he had crossed three and a half time zones. His body was screaming for rest, which he knew dulled his faculties and made him less prepared for the unexpected.

Christ! I hope I get through this ordeal with no bullshit to deal with.

He proceeded into the terminal, growing more uneasy with each step. He glanced around uneasily at the other travelers heading for Customs and Immigration. Most of them were business types from the Middle East who made their fortunes acting as go-betweens for businesses in Iran who couldn’t deal directly with their counterparts in the U.K. and Europe.

Just keep your goddamn cool, Harry-boy. Don’t want to give away how totally fucked-up you are feeling just now.

He approached the customs station, trying not to look around too obviously, but the habit of situational awareness and identification of potential escape routes was too automatic in him.

The customs officer gave him an accusing glower and barked, “You are here for what purpose?”

Here we go. The sodding dance is on.

“Partly on business. I work for Sotheby’s...” He looked up hopefully, but the man’s blank expression forced him to go on. “The famous London dealer in fine art and antiques.”

Not that it would mean anything to you, you benighted arsehole.

“You are here to steal Iranian art treasures?”

“Not at all. I am here to arrange for the sale of a Rembrandt etching to your National Museum. Or at least to sort the details of the transaction.” Henry smiled innocently.

Examining the stamps on Henry’s carefully manufactured passport attesting to comings and going in more than a dozen countries–with the notable exceptions of the United States and Israel–the officer’s head shot up.

He barked. “You say partly on business. What else?”

Easy. The cover story will work. It’s just a courtesy visit.

“Ah, well... my father is a friend of your Foreign Minister. They served in Egypt 20 years ago. I’m planning to pay him a call later this week.”

“Minister Tohjani? You know him?”

“No, no. Not at all. I was at school in those days. But he and my father are old friends, and I’ve been invited to dine with the family.”

Without another word, the Customs Agent stamped Henry’s passport and all but threw the little burgundy booklet back at him.

Henry smiled and nodded. Apparently, Her Majesty’s subjects are still not welcome guests in the goddamn Islamic Republic.

As he walked away, he muttered under his breath, “Fuck you, buddy. And fuck your fucking country. I’m here to make arseholes of the lot of you.”

But he had taken no more than ten steps from the entry desk when two men in dark suits intercepted him.

“You are Henry Sandringham?”

Startled by the unfamiliar form of address, he answered, “Yes, I am.”

“Come this way.”

Oh shit. Not now.

Without another word, one suit positioned himself in front of Henry and the other took up station behind.

They escorted him out of the International Arrivals concourse and down a long corridor lit by flickering fluorescent lights. Entering another part of the complex, they guided him to a gray door.

“I say, I am worried about my luggage. Shouldn’t I be collecting it?”

“We have done that for you.”

Yeah. Of course you have, you buggers.

Henry smiled with resignation. He understood perfectly–they were searching every article of clothing and every personal item. For all he knew, they were also cutting the lining out of his cases, looking for whatever they imagined he might be smuggling into their backward shite of a country.

 

 

For the next two hours, Henry answered questions about his business, his travels, and his plans in Iran. He was grateful he had been to all the places represented by visas and stamps in his passport, because his inquisitors questioned every one of them.

I’ll surely thank MI6’s Special Projects Team for their expertise, if I ever se them again.

Finally, they left him alone in the little room for almost an hour, after which the door opened and a man he had not seen before entered. He was wearing an open shirt and loosened necktie.

Henry recognized at once what was happening.

This fellow is the “good cop.” It’s his job to appear casual in order to set me at ease until he’s ready to spring the “gotcha” on me.

Taking a seat across from him, the man smiled and spoke with a British accent.

“I’m sorry you have been detained for so long... My Lord.”

Henry cocked his head and smiled back, showing no surprise that they had discovered his title and hoping it wouldn’t make the interrogation even worse.

“Not a problem. I’ve been in a few places where the process took even longer.”

“Such as?”

“Well, Myanmar, for example. They took nearly a full day, primarily because none of them understood English–or were willing to admit they did.”

“Perhaps they worked hard to forget how to speak your language, after your century of imperialism in their country came to an end.”

Staring his interrogator in the eye, Henry retorted. “Quite possibly. Fortunately, your people have not done the same.”

“We find some things useful, so we continue them, no matter how distasteful they may be.”

Henry didn’t respond. He refused to be baited by this arsehole.

Moving smoothly to the next step of his agenda, the agent continued, “Perhaps, My Lord, we might dispense with the pleasantries?”

If those were “pleasantries,” I hate to think what’s next.

Henry simply replied, “As you wish.”

“You claim you are a friend of our Foreign Minister.” This came as a statement, not a question.

“I do not. In fact, I have made it clear several times. It is my father who knew Ambassador Tohjani when they were both stationed in Cairo. That was 20 years ago, of course–a time when our countries enjoyed more cordial relations.”

“I see. Then you might be surprised to learn that Minister Tohjani denies all knowledge of you or your father, or any relationship in Egypt.”

Henry didn’t blink. He glared into the officer’s eyes.

“I’m sure you’ve got things cocked up somehow. Only last week, I spoke with the Minister on the telephone...”

A conversation I’m sure you fucking arse-eaters recorded.

“...and he invited me to dine with his family this coming Friday evening after prayers. I’m certain he will confirm all this... if you actually speak with him.”

The officer’s stare was as icy as Henry’s.

“Perhaps. But let us speak instead of this business you allege to have in The Islamic Republic.”

I do believe I’ve got you on the hook, you bastard.

“The director of your National Museum will be most disappointed if you detain me to the point where I cannot facilitate the delivery of the Rembrandt. While you’re investigating me, you would do well to contact him to confirm that.”

“Why would the Iranian people be interested in a worthless Dutch painting from 400 years ago?”

“Perhaps because the title of the... etching... is The Persian. It was done in 1632 and portrays a successful and wealthy merchant from your country who visited Holland and gladly posed for Mijnheer Rembrandt.”

The man was stumped.

Gotcha!

Henry smiled innocently. “Everything sorted now? Only, it’s late, and I should be getting to my hotel to take some rest before my important meetings in your country. Or... you could just pack me onto the next plane back to England...”

The man rose with a snort, turned his back, and left the room without another word.

Checkmate, and by the way, FUCK YOU.

A minute or two later, the door opened, and the two dark suits reclaimed their prisoner. In silence, they retraced their way through the now-deserted terminal and escorted him out the front entrance. It was now 2:00 AM. He had been in Iran four hours.

Henry saw his battered suitcase, overnight bag, and briefcase neatly lined up at the taxi stand. A uniformed guard stood over them, and a visibly nervous driver hovered beside his vehicle.

“The Espinas Palace Hotel, please,” he spoke calmly to the terrified man.

Nodding vigorously, the taximan hurriedly loaded Henry’s bags into the car and drove them away.

Once they were on the highway, the man asked with a tremble in his voice, “You are in trouble with Revolutionary Guard?”

“Not at all. Not at all. Simply a little torture they like to bestow on foreigners–especially we British.”

“You are British? I have son in Manchester, and three grandchildren.”

“How lovely. England is... very... different from Tehran.”

“Yes. Is.”

Henry assumed the taxi was bugged, and the driver was being careful not to say much of anything. Without another word, they arrived at the hotel.

A liveried doorman escorted the new guest to the front desk where he checked in. The night clerk didn’t seem the least surprised at the late hour of his arrival. Minutes later, a bellman delivered him and his luggage to a suite on the 10th floor.

In his room at last, Henry took a deep breath, removed his coat and tie, and casually examined his surroundings, trying to act like an exhausted business traveler.

The room was decorated in a sort of quasi-oriental grandeur that appeared to represent what the Espinas Palace believed European travelers expected.

A crystal chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling.

A king-size bed with a white and gold duvet dominated the room. The bed was crowned with a draping billow of pale blue silk suspended from the ceiling.

Across from the bed, a dark wood chest of drawers sprawled below a wide-screen television.

Heavy drapes were parted at the windows, which took up the entire wall of the room.

Through the lace curtains, Henry had a prime view of the city lights spread out before him.

On the opposite side of the room, he saw a glass-fronted cupboard above a granite counter.

Henry smiled when he noticed several bottles of liquor and a sizable collection of glassware. He snickered at the idea that, in a Muslim nation where alcohol is forbidden, a luxury establishment would ensure its guests would never want for a drink.

They’re probably hoping I’ll get pissed and pass out, so they can sneak a naked woman into my bed and take compromising photographs. Little do they know I have no interest at all in naked women!

It was now nearly 4:00 AM. Somehow, he needed to catch up with whatever fucking time zone he was in, and a good night’s–or day’s–sleep was just the thing he needed.

Henry poured himself a double Scotch, stripped off, crawled into the spacious bed naked, and pulled the coverlet up to his waist. He had barely emptied his glass before he was sound asleep.