Chapter Three
Harland Bathhouse was founded in 1863. The name “Harland” came from the wealthy English aristocrat, William Harland, who’d commissioned its construction following a visit to Istanbul, where he’d fallen in love with the traditions and rituals of the Turkish baths. Today, its labyrinth of tiled steam rooms, saunas and plunge pools offered a relaxing place for Londoners to unwind.
As Warwick paid the admission fee for both of them, he leaned into Jamie and reminded him of their cover story: “Remember, we’re three bankers on our day off… We’ve been hearing about this place for weeks, but never bothered to come down… until now.”
The third “banker” was, of course, Byron, who Jamie had yet to meet, but who he only hoped would be less insufferable than Warwick.
Inside the bathhouse’s main hall, Jamie instantly was met by the sight of naked men from all directions. Cocks swinging, the men engaged in lively group discussions and kicked back on wooden loungers. This clearly was not a place where shyness prevailed. The interior had all the charm of an old-fashioned Turkish bath—as if only minor refurbishments had taken place in a piecemeal manner over the years.
Warwick—predictably for someone of his ego, Jamie thought—had no problems getting naked. Undressing, and placing his clothes in a locker, his meaty penis hung in full view until he eventually turned to ask for a towel from Jamie.
Jamie also never had considered himself to be overly uncomfortable with getting nude; from working in construction, his physique was naturally-toned, and as far as his package went, he’d never had any complaints. In this crowded environment, on the first day of his new job, however, he started to feel self-conscious, and quickly wrapped a towel around his lower half. He took an extra towel for when they managed to catch up with Byron.
“What can you see?” Rosie asked over the earpiece.
He resisted the temptation to say, “about several dozen cocks”, and instead said quietly into the mic on his fingernail, “Men. A lot of naked men.”
“I so wish I was there right now,” Rosie quipped over the earpiece, making Jamie smile.
Jamie had been shown a picture of the target, Daoud Khemidi, so he knew who to be on the lookout for. From the photograph, Khemidi appeared surprisingly handsome—as far as criminal masterminds went—with olive skin, and dark, brooding brown eyes.
“Byron must be downstairs!” said Warwick, having scanned all the males in the main hall.
Having made their way down the tiled staircase that led to the basement floor, Jamie could see corridors and doors leading off to steam rooms of varying temperatures. A small open-plan shower area in the middle of the floor revealed no one who resembled Khemidi.
As Jamie neared one of the steam rooms, he felt the warmth of the steam against his bare skin and started to understand the appeal of these places. Turning to walk down a side corridor, he was met with a sight that caused him to stop right in his tracks. It wasn’t Khemidi.
Warwick shouting “Byron!” confirmed who Jamie was looking at. Byron Ashworth, as far as Jamie was concerned, was the most perfect specimen of male he’d ever set eyes on. Six feet tall, with a body in that perfect middle ground between slim and broad, Byron benefitted also from a face that was so good-looking it invited comment. His dark brown hair formed a natural quaff at the front, while the sides appeared to have been “fade” shaven with the precision of a barber’s razor. And despite the fact he appeared to pay for a good haircut, everything else about him seemed natural – like he didn’t have to try too hard; from the dark stubble on his jaw to his defined, but not over-the-top, six-pack.
Having to walk the full length of the corridor without the luxury of a towel, Byron was exposed; every contour of every muscle glistening in the light and his long penis swinging from side to side as he walked. Jamie, despite his best intentions, could not peel his eyes away. It gave a new meaning to the name Long Watch, he thought. Staring at every inch of Byron’s naked body, water and sweat dripping down his naked torso, Jamie was inordinately grateful at that moment to be wearing a towel.
When Byron eventually got to the end of the corridor, he registered that Jamie was with Warwick. He leaned in to Jamie and said quietly under his breath: “I’ve been waiting for you guys to turn up with a towel! I’ve had to scout this place starkers for the last half hour!”
Unlike Warwick, Byron had a playful tone to his voice that clearly conveyed when he was joking. He had a manly voice, but he spoke softly, and the hint of the “Northern England” accent that Jamie had heard from the earpiece was just as obvious in person.
“I’m Byron! Nice to meet you,” Byron said, shaking Jamie’s hand as Jamie passed the extra towel over with as much eagerness as he could feign.
“Jamie!” Jamie smiled back.
Byron studied Jamie with a level of curiosity. There was the obvious ‘bro respect’ for another good-looking, athletic male, but it was more than that. Having worked in the intelligence service for close to six years, Byron was perceptive to subtle insights offered by a person’s face. There was a warmth to Jamie’s smile that was appealing, and a genuineness, too. And something in his eyes… a sense of being lost but putting on a brave front… that instantly made Byron feel protective toward Jamie.
Byron turned to acknowledge Warwick, and the two men exchanged the standard macho pleasantries of close male friends. Then Byron said something that—despite the heat—sent a chill down Jamie’s spine, and focused his mind back to the mission at hand. “The heat from the steam room over there is macabre!”
Byron gave a nod to the entrance of a steam room up ahead. “Macabre” was the agreed codename for Khemidi. In medieval literature and art, the word “macabre” was associated with symbols of death—and the “dance with death.” Therefore, it made the perfect codename for a man around whom the shadow of death seemed constantly to be lurking.
During his earlier briefing, Camilla had shown Jamie classified photos depicting the gruesome ways in which three high-profile government officials had been killed after meeting with Khemidi. The first—a high-ranking minister in the State Council of China—had died falling from a high-rise tower. Initially thought to be a suicide, footprint patterns at the top of the building later showed a struggle had taken place. The second victim—an employee at the U.S. Department of Commerce—was killed in an apparent street mugging while on holiday in Thailand. However, eyewitness accounts later indicated no property was stolen. The third victim—a Russian oligarch—had drowned at home while taking a bath. Or it least it had looked that way, until traces of poison were discovered in the bath water. In all three cases, there was a single common link: Khemidi, who had met with each of them in the hours leading up to their deaths. With no clear motive for his actions, many suspected Khemidi was a hired killer available to the highest bidder. Others suspected he was a terrorist, aiming to cause maximum political chaos with every killing. The unpredictability of his movements and his methods made him a very dangerous man.
As they entered the steam room where Khemidi now sat, Jamie couldn’t help feeling like they were entering a death lair. Khemidi sat at the back of the steam room, two minders flanking him on either side. A towel draped loosely over his lower half, sweat dripped from every pore of his body. He had a lean physique, moderate amount of body hair and an arresting face with eyes that were very alive, but gave away very little.
When Jamie observed Byron and Warwick undoing their towels and placing them on the wooden slats to sit on, he uneasily followed suit. With Warwick choosing to spread himself out in one corner of the steam room, Jamie found himself sitting next to Byron. He couldn’t decide if he felt more self-conscious being naked around Byron or being naked around a ruthless killer. The whole time, he had a sense of Khemidi’s eyes on all three of them, penetrating through the steam, and scrutinizing the new arrivals as they sat opposite him.
On the wall, the sand of an hourglass clock provided a loose indicator of how much time had passed. The heat of the steam took very little time to intensify, and the absence of conversation between so many closely-bunched naked males felt awkward. Occasional efforts at small talk from other passing males led nowhere.
Jamie knew they were waiting for one of Khemidi’s contacts to turn up. Long Watch had no confirmation of a definite meeting taking place, but it certainly seemed to Camilla and the other intelligence officers that a steam room made a logical choice for a rendezvous. With so much steam and humidity, no surveillance cameras would work down here.
With every passing minute, Jamie wondered how much longer he could last in the heat. His eyes momentarily glanced to Byron’s groin, and he got a pulse of adrenalin seeing Byron’s penis so close. It was a stunning penis. He averted his gaze, not wanting to become visibly aroused. For the briefest of moments, he thought he could feel Byron looking back at him.
Whatever “spy games” may or may not have been taking place, they quickly ceased when a man of Middle Eastern descent entered the steam room and sat himself in close proximity to Khemidi. The steam distorted any clear view of the men engaging in conversation, but Jamie already could hear their voices. They were speaking in a foreign language. He knew Rosie would be recording every word of the conversation on the other end of the earpiece. Then she would pass the recording to a team of linguists, who would translate it.
Their conversation lasted a little under two minutes. At the end of an apparently amicable discussion, the new male rose to his feet and left the steam room as quickly as he had entered. Jamie wondered how much valuable intelligence truly could have been gained from such a brief encounter. He turned to look at Byron for an indication of how their mission had gone.
Byron was focused on Khemidi; his face deep in concentration as he studied the target. Jamie enjoyed seeing Byron at work like this. Byron had picked up on something. Khemidi’s eyes seemed to have a particular interest in Byron’s lower region. Casually, Byron shifted himself on the wooden slats, and slowly rolled back the foreskin of his penis.
Khemidi’s response told Byron what he needed to know: Like a snake moving slowly along the ground, Khemidi slid back the towel draped over his groin, and revealed a very clear semi-erection. Byron’s suspicions had been correct.
“You lot come here regularly?” Khemidi asked suddenly, a faint accent to his voice and his tone exhibiting a flirtatious edge.
“Our first time!” Byron said playfully, leaning back into the slats.
“Are you and your friends gay?” Khemidi asked; the directness of his question momentarily taking all three of the spies by surprise.
“No!” Warwick quickly blurted out, not wanting that label attached to him.
Byron was annoyed at Warwick for not recognizing where he was going with this.
“He’s not,” Byron said, nodding in Warwick’s direction. “But we are.”
As he said “we”, he placed a firm hand on Jamie’s shoulder, and gripped it.
“We’re a couple,” Byron added.
Jamie felt his heartbeat increase when Byron touched him like that. Meanwhile, Khemidi studied the two men. He had an obvious intelligence about him, and perceptiveness; something was telling him that Byron and Jamie were not an actual couple. He couldn’t quite place what it was. A subtle clue in their body language, an unfamiliarity with each other. Byron was aware that Khemidi sensed that, too. He knew he needed to do something fast. With no further comments offered, Byron leaned over to Jamie, and locked lips with him, starting passionately and then letting the kiss transition into something softer and more intimate.
Jamie’s heart rate was intensifying beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Feeling Byron’s stubble pressed against him, their naked bodies dripping with sweat as they kissed and tasted each other was almost too much to bear. Byron’s mouth tasted wet and wonderful. He smelt fantastic.
Jamie’s eyes locked with Byron’s. He told himself not to feel anything… to remember this was just part of the mission. At that moment, though, looking deep into Byron’s eyes, he wanted so much for this to be real.
The kiss seemed to convince Khemidi, too. Leaning in to Byron, he said, “My name is Daoud. I have a penthouse in Mayfair. I’m having a party on Friday evening. You two should come.”
Khemidi whispered the house number and street name seductively into Byron’s ear. Byron smiled; he had just scored them an invite into the house of the devil himself.