"All right."
"Rather like old times."
"Not at all like old times."
The eyes of all the young ladies in the lounge followed Miles as he preceded Jonathan along the walkway and over an arched stone bridge to an isolated table. His uncommon good looks, the grace and strength of his dancer's walk, and the extreme styling of his clothes would have eclipsed a man of less panache, but Miles moved slowly among the girls, granting them the benediction of his easy smile, honestly pitying them because he was ultimately unavailable.
As soon as they were seated, Miles released the dog which vibrated with tense energy until its toenails clicked on the rock, scrambling in circles of frenzy, then scampered along to a nearby table where he was captured, whimpering, by three young ladies in bikinis who were clearly delighted to possess this entree to the handsomest man they had ever seen. One of them approached the table carrying the shivering, clawing animal in her arms.
Miles rested his eyes on her breast languidly, and she produced a nervous laugh. "What do you call him?" she asked.
"Faggot, my dear."
"Oh, that's cute! Why do you call him that?"
"Because he's a bundle of nerves."
She did not understand, so she said, "That's cute!"
Miles beckoned the girl to his side and placed his hand lightly on her buttock. "Would you do me a great favor, dear?"
She giggled at the unexpected contact, but did not withdraw. "Surely. Glad to."
"Take Faggot and go play with him for a while."
"All right," she said. Then, "Thank you."
"There's a good girl." He patted the buttock in dismissal and the girl left the lounge, followed by her companions who were just dying to know what had transpired.
"They're cute little tricks, aren't they, Jonathan. And not completely without their uses. Bees are attracted to the honey."
"And drones," Jonathan added.
A young Indian waiter stood by the table.
"A double Laphroaig for my friend, and a brandy Alexander for me," Miles ordered, looking deeply into the waiter's eyes.
Miles's gaze followed the waiter as he made his way along the walkway and over the artificial streams of bubbling water. "Good-looking boy, that." Then he turned his attention to Jonathan, touching his palms together and resting his forefingers against his lips, his thumbs under his chin. Over the tips of his fingers, his still eyes smiled with gentle frost, and Jonathan reminded himself how dangerous this ruthless man could be, despite appearances. For a minute neither of them spoke. Then Miles broke it with a rich laugh. "Oh, Jonathan. No one can best you at the game of cold silence. I should have known better than to try. Was my memory accurate about the Laphroaig?"
"Yes."
"A whole monosyllable! How gracious."
Jonathan supposed Miles would come to the subject in his own time, and he had no intention of helping him. Until the drinks came, Miles scanned the men and girls around the pool. He sat poised in his black velvet suit, high-rolled linen collar with a drooping velvet cravat, slim and expensive Italian boots. Obviously, he was doing well. It was rumored that, after leaving CII, Mellough had set himself up in San Francisco where he dealt in all kinds of merchandise, chiefly drugs.
In essential ways, Miles had not changed. Tall, brilliant in his physical trim, he pulled off his epic homosexuality with such style that plebeian men did not recognize it, and worldly men did not mind it. As always, girls were attracted to him in gaggles, and he treated them with amused condescension of a glamorous Parisian aunt visiting relatives in Nebraska. Jonathan had seen Miles in tight and dangerous spots during their time together in CII, but he had never seen a hair out of place or a rumpled cuff. Henri had frequently mentioned that he knew no equal to Miles for cold physical courage.
Neither Jonathan nor Henri had objected to their comrade's sexual preference; indeed, they had benefited upon occasion from the clusters of women he attracted but did not satisfy. Miles's divergence had been one of his most valuable assets to CII. It had put him in contact with people and sources not open to the straight, and had given him the power of blackmail over several highly placed American political figures.
As the waiter placed the drinks on the table, Miles spoke to him. "You're a very attractive young man. It's God's gift to you, and you should be grateful for it. I hope you are. Now run along and attend to your duties."
The waiter smiled and left. Once he was out of earshot, Miles sighed and said, "I would say he's made, wouldn't you?"
"If you have time."
Miles laughed and raised his glass. "Cheers." He sipped the frothy mixture thoughtfully. "You know, Jonathan, you and I have similar approaches to love, or to balling, if you prefer. Both of us have discovered that the confident cold turkey technique drops more of them than all the romantic mooning around our sexual inferiors bait their little traps with. After all, the targets want to be made. They simply ask to be protected from guilt by feeling they've been swept off their feet. And it is refreshing for them to have their paths to evil lubricated with urbanity. Don't you agree?"
"I assume you're covered?"
"Of course."
"Where is he?"
"Behind you. At the bar."
Jonathan turned and glanced along the bar until, at the end, he sighted a blond primate who must have weighed two hundred twenty pounds. Jonathan guessed him to be in his mid-forties, despite the heavy purplish sun lamp tan and the long bleached hair that fell over his collar. He was typical of the ex-wrestlers and beachboys Miles carried along, half as bodyguards, half as lovers, should nothing better turn up. "And that's all the cover you have?" Jonathan asked, returning to his drink.
"Dewayne is very strong, Jonathan. He used to be a world's champion."
"Didn't they all."
"I'll send Dewayne away, if he makes you nervous."
"He doesn't look like much of a threat."
"Don't depend on that. He's very well paid, and he's totally devoted to me." Miles's movie smile displayed his perfect teeth as he pushed the mash of ice around in his glass with a swizzle stick. Then he began rather tentatively, "It must seem odd to you that I have sought you out, instead of waiting for you to step up to me someday and relieve me of the burden of existence."
"Your phrasing answered any questions I might have had."
"Yes, I've grown weary of ice in my stomach every time I see a man who resembles you." He smiled. "You have no idea how damaging it's been to my cool."
"It will soon be over."
"One way or another. And I think I'm in a good bargaining position."
"Forget it."
"Not even curious?"
"About one thing. How did you know I was here?"
"Oh, you remember what we used to say: CII secrets and common knowledge differ only in that common knowledge..."
"...is harder to come by. Yes, I remember."
Miles rested his large, soft eyes on Jonathan. "I didn't actually kill Henri, you know."
"You set him up. You were his friend and you set him up."
"But I didn't actually kill him."
"I probably won't actually kill you."
"But I'd rather be dead than like the Greek you gave Datura to."
Jonathan smiled with the bland, gentle look he donned before combat. "I didn't actually prepare the Datura. I paid someone else to do it."
Miles sighed and looked down, his long lashes covering his eyes. "I see your point." Then he looked up and tried a new tact. "Did you know that Henri was a double agent?"
In fact, Jonathan had discovered this several months after Henri's death. But it did not matter. "He was your friend. And mine."
"It was only a matter of time, for God's sake, Jonathan! Both sides wanted him dead."