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AT A SECRET LOCATION IN LONDON. MORNING, 10 DECEMBER.
“Stop stalling!” Major Klaus von dem Eberbach thumped the tabletop, making the prisoner jump. “Look, you scumbag, we’ve intercepted paperwork about the explosives. We know you’re planning mass murder at a public occasion. You surrendered. You agreed to assist with our inquiries. So, spit it out! When and where?”
The prisoner mumbled something.
“Say that again.” Klaus leaned forward over the bare table, eyes fixed on the trembling man cowering back in his seat.
“Stockholm,” the prisoner mumbled through trembling lips. “Stockholm, not London. The Nobel Prize ceremony.”
Klaus stepped back. Nobel Prize Ceremony? That’s tonight!
“And before the explosion—” the prisoner gulped air “—the King of Sweden will be shot. In front of the cameras. Live television.”
Fucking anarchists – can’t even organize a terrorist threat in a rational form. Shoot the King first, then blow everything up? Where’s the logic in that?
“All right.” Klaus sat down in the chair opposite the prisoner. “A shooting; followed by a bomb. I want details. Tell me everything you know about how this is being set up.”
...
Klaus strode out of the building into the carpark, his trench coat flying behind like a crusader’s cape.
Anarchists! Not only do they come up with hare-brained plans, they also recruit unreliable amateurs. Like the prisoner— he's just an industrial scientist working for an agricultural chemicals company. Knew enough to develop an effective bomb; easily blackmailed into helping them by threats to his family. But the thing about amateurs— Klaus smiled grimly— is that they have consciences.
The prisoner had provided enough information to get a response operation under way— and it was likely he was telling the truth. Klaus climbed into his rented car and turned the key, but before he could put the car into gear there was an urgent rapping on the driver’s-side window.
Glaring, he wound the window down half-way. “What?”
“Sir? I phoned Bonham. He confirms Lord Gloria’s at his London house. He’s at home now but planning to go out later. You’ll have to hurry.”
Klaus nodded tightly. Agent A’s friendship with Eroica’s right-hand man sometimes proved useful. “All right. I’ll hurry. If I miss him at Gloria House, I’ll catch up with him wherever he’s gone. Get the plane on standby. We’ll meet you at London City Airport.” He wound up the window, put the car in gear, and sped out of the carpark.
GLORIA HOUSE, KNIGHTSBRIDGE. LATE MORNING.
As soon as the front door of Gloria House opened, Klaus pushed past without waiting to be invited in.
“Where’s Eroica?”
Bonham closed the door. “Er— Beg pardon, Major, but ‘is lordship’s busy just now. Per’aps you’d like to wait in the drawin’ room? ‘E won’t be that long.”
“God damn it!” Klaus snarled. “I’ll go and find him myself!”
He bounded up the broad staircase, two steps at a time. Bonham followed a stride or two behind him, and as Klaus paused on the landing Bonham brushed past and hurried down the hallway to the right.
About halfway down he started knocking on a richly carved door. With a growl, the Major followed, shoved Bonham aside, jerked the door open – and froze.
He was looking at— A woman? Eroica’s got a woman in his bedroom?
Klaus’s jaw dropped as he realised he was not looking at a woman at all. He was looking at Eroica, hair perfectly coiffed, face immaculately made up, wearing a red evening gown and matching stiletto-heeled shoes.
“Major, I wasn’t expecting you. What a surprise.”
Eroica didn’t sound pleased to see him at all – but Klaus didn’t have time to bother about the thief’s feelings on the matter. He strode forward, seized Eroica by the arm, and started dragging him toward the door. “NATO needs your expertise. Come with me.”
“Stop pulling at me, Major!” Eroica dug his high heels into the carpet. “I can’t come with you! I’m expected somewhere else.”
“Forget whatever perverted freak-show you’re dressed up for. You’re coming with me.”
“Let me go, you bully!” With a mammoth effort, Eroica wrenched his arm out of Klaus’s grasp. “Perhaps you could explain what’s going on. It must be important, for you to come bursting in here and manhandling me in this uncouth fashion.”
DORIAN
Unbelievably bad luck, I call it. Talk about poor timing.
There I was, having my last fitting for the gown I planned to wear to the Antinoan Society ball, with Jonesy kneeling on the floor just putting the last stitches into the hem— when the door flew open and there was the Major!
I’ve spent many an hour fantasizing about the Major bursting into my bedroom, but when it actually happened things played out rather differently from what I’ve longed for.
He pushed Jonesy out of the way, seized hold of me, and started dragging me toward the door! Without explanation! I was livid! Shows of masculine ferocity are all very well – and I admit, can add spice to one’s more piquant daydreams – but I don’t appreciate people dragging me about without explaining themselves!
Eventually I got myself out of his grip – which was no mean feat, I can tell you – and since he hadn’t succeeded in dragging me off to wherever he wanted me to go, he had to offer an explanation.
He needed me to go to Stockholm, he said. There was a terrorist threat, he said – explosives laid beneath the Stockholms Konzerthus, with the intention of blowing up the building during the Nobel Prize Ceremony! Which was to take place that night!!!
I was appalled. Any civilized person would be. “But Major,” I said, “what help can I possibly be? I’m not an explosives expert.”
He gave me that steely look – the one where his eyes drill right through you. “The explosives are locked in a steel vault in the basement of the Concert Hall,” he said; “You’re the only person I trust to get the vault open so we can disarm the bomb.”
The only person I trust! He actually said those words. Well, how could I say no, after that?
I picked up my evening bag – a custom clutch by Bulgari, just the right shade of red. “Bonham love, telephone Monty Pounsett and tell him I’m not coming to the Ball. Make up any story you like.” I patted my hair into shape. “I’m ready, Major. Lead on.”
KLAUS
A and Z were shocked into silence when I got out of the car and walked across the tarmac with a tall blond in a red evening gown. When we got close enough for them to recognize Eroica, A just widened his eyes a little, but Z’s jaw dropped open as if he’d never seen a man in drag before. Young idiot.
We got priority clearance to take off. I briefed Eroica on the way over. The prisoner had given us detailed specifications for the vault: manufacturer, model, date of installation. I asked Eroica if he was familiar with the type. He said he’d had experience with an identical vault, and didn’t expect any trouble with the one in Stockholm if it hadn’t been modified at all.
I asked him if he’d need any specialized tools, since he hadn’t had time to gather any together before we left. He opened up his ridiculous red purse and held up a set of lock-picks. “I’m never completely without the tools of the trade, Major,” he said, “but I doubt that these will get me into a stainless steel vault.” I told him to give a list of tools he required to Herr A. The faster he can get the thing open, I reasoned, the faster we can get the bomb defused.
AGENT Z
When I saw the Major walking across the tarmac with a tall, gorgeous blond I was a bit confused, because he’d said he was going off to find Eroica to help us to open the vault. When they got closer, I saw it wasn’t a woman at all – it was Eroica!
In a dress and high heels!
And he looked sensational!
I’d never seen anything like it before. I mean, there are drag queens in clubs in Hamburg, I’ve been to those shows, but the way they look is exaggerated. It’s parody. Eroica looked nothing like that. No parody at all. He was just … a handsome, athletic man in a long red dress.
When we got on the plane, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. I couldn’t help it– I kept stealing glances at him. He was sitting a few seats in front of me, so I didn’t think he’d noticed.
Then, he came back to sit next to Agent A to give him a list of the tools he’d need for the job. He took a seat on the other side of the aisle and crossed his legs – and the long side-split in his dress fell open all the way up to the top of his thigh. My mouth went dry. I couldn’t look away. That long, smooth, shapely leg, from his high-heeled satin shoe right up to… Well, I think he must have been wearing a g-string.
And then he turned around and smiled at me. And he winked.
KLAUS
We made good time to Stockholm and we were met at the airport by people from the Swedish armed forces. Sweden’s not a member of the NATO alliance but we cooperate actively.
I didn’t bother to introduce Eroica. Let them wonder.
One of the Swedish contingent took Agent A off to collect the items Eroica wanted. They’d meet us at the Konserthus.
The commanding officer pulled me aside and told me he’d made the arrangements I’d requested; he handed me an envelope containing two tickets for the Nobel Prize Award Ceremony, for ‘Professor Ludwig Diersing and guest’.
We needed to get someone inside the auditorium to deal with the assassins when they revealed themselves. Someone good with a handgun; someone who wouldn’t miss. It was a job I’d have to do myself. The tickets would get me inside; whether I took a ‘guest’ with me or not would depend on whether we’d got the bomb defused in time. I decided to deal with that when the time came.
DORIAN
We went straight from the airport to the Konserthus, where we were let into the basement under the building through a neighbouring underground carpark. Agent A and his Swedish counterpart turned up just as we got there. Sweetheart that he is, he’d got me everything I’d asked for.
The Swedish contingent was very efficient and completely humourless: military types. The Major wouldn’t let me talk to any of them, and he wouldn’t let any of them talk to me. Didn’t want to explain why his safe-breaking expert was wearing a crimson Giorgio Armani sheath, I suppose.
The vault looked daunting – huge circular door like a giant Swiss watch mechanism, the whole thing constructed of stainless steel – but in fact, I knew this particular model would be fairly easy to get open. I’d had some experience with a vault of this type the previous year in Toulouse … but that’s another story.
“Wouldn’t this contain any explosion set off inside?” I asked the Major, wondering why on earth the terrorists would choose to set their bomb inside a vault.
“Not with the amount of explosives they’ve used,” he said, sounding grim. “Our information is that the vault’s packed with enough explosive material to blow the whole thing apart and the building as well. The vault will act like a bomb casing.”
I have to say, I felt a bit sick hearing that.
AGENT A
I was left waiting at ground level, watching for developments. Night was falling. The streetlights, and the lights of the Konzerthus, blinked on one by one. At the front of the building, crowds of people gathered, and guests in formal attire climbed the steps to the grand entrance.
I saw only a slice of this activity, peering down a walkway at the side of the building. Down in the basement, I knew, the atmosphere would be tense as Eroica tackled the locking mechanism on the huge steel vault, and the Swedish army’s bomb disposal squad stood by waiting to disarm the bomb. No doubt those who believed in prayer were praying that there were no booby traps set to prevent the terrorists’ plot being foiled.
The minutes ticked by, and I waited to hear the Major’s voice coming through the radio to say all was well.
AGENT Z
There wasn’t much I could do but watch. From where I stood, sidearm at the ready in case of hostile intruders, I had a clear view of the whole basement. The bomb disposal squad was standing by, looking tense, while Eroica bent to the task of opening the vault.
As he moved to place himself at the best angle, the red gown clung and shifted against his body. Muscle and bone under sequins and silk. It was hypnotic. When he bent forward to lean his weight against the lever at the centre of the bulky mechanism, the cloth pulled tight across his backside. I could hardly breathe, watching him: balanced on his red stiletto heels, his whole body braced against the gigantic metal door.
And then— a whirring sound, a series of muted clicks, and the huge door swung slowly open.
Eroica stepped back, looking straight at Major von dem Eberbach. Their eyes locked and neither of them said a word as the bomb squad rushed past and entered the vault.
When the bomb squad went in the rest of us cleared the area, moving back through the underground carpark and out into the open air. We all gathered in a ragged group, at the side of the Konzerthus.
The Major said something to Eroica— one of his terse acknowledgements of a job well done— and Eroica couldn’t have looked more delighted if the Major had recited a love-sonnet to him. I made myself stop watching him, and went to look for Agent A.
DORIAN
After the bomb disposal unit went in and the rest of us cleared the area, we waited. Everyone was tense. Nobody said anything. I don’t know how many minutes ticked by. At last, we heard the sound of heavy footsteps as one of the bomb squad bounded up the stairs with the news that the bomb had been disarmed. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
The next thing I knew, the Major had seized hold of my arm again. “You’re coming with me.”
Not this again, I thought.
I realised this time there was no point in asking for further explanation, so I allowed him to propel me down the side of the building to the front entrance, where the last of the invited guests were making their way in. He paused long enough to let go his vice-like grip, and link his arm through mine.
“We’re going in,” he said, pulling two tickets out of his suit pocket. “Follow my lead. And behave yourself.”
At the top of the steps, he handed the tickets to an usher. “Professor Ludwig Diersing and Frau Ursula Diersing,” he said curtly. “I apologise that we are late.”
KLAUS
A professor and his wife— a suitable cover that got us in to the auditorium without anyone taking undue notice of us. The allocated seats were in a box at one side of the auditorium. We had a clear view of the audience, and of the people seated on the stage. If there was any disturbance, I’d see it straight away.
Eroica sat quietly beside me, not doing anything to draw attention to himself. He didn’t have to, of course: just being there in that red dress was enough. Men all over the auditorium began to turn their heads to glance at him; bored by waiting, most likely. Women too, looking envious. Little did they know how distance was deceiving them. The fop, of course, lapped it up— but he sat there demurely, pretending not to notice.
The anthem played, and everyone got to their feet; the King and Queen of Sweden took their places. The ceremony began. I scanned the crowd looking for anomalies— any person who didn’t fit in, any person who looked wrong— but there was nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. Would a fanatic planning a public assassination in front of a crowd of hundreds and a television audience that would number in the millions stand out?
The ceremony ground on. Speeches. Music. More speeches. Nearly an hour passed with no disruption.
And then—
DORIAN
The Major was like a coiled spring, wound up tight. His eyes were darting everywhere, looking for trouble. I wasn’t sure what trouble he was expecting. If the terrorists had planned to blow up the building, surely they wouldn’t be here themselves? The Major must have known something— but he wasn’t telling me.
On the stage, a stern-faced grey-haired woman was speaking, thanking her collaborators in whatever complicated work had earned her a Nobel Prize in some branch of scientific endeavour. If there was a Nobel Prize for Art, I might have been paying more attention.
Suddenly, two men were striding down the central aisle of the auditorium. An usher in formal black clothes scurried behind them trying to stop them: “Ursäkta! Ursäkta mig! Sir? Sir?”
One of the men turned and drew a pistol from a concealed holster. The usher skidded to a halt; he began to back away.
The other man leapt onto the stage, aiming a gun at the King. “This ceremony is nothing but a farce glorifying the Establishment!” the intruder shouted. “Tonight, this glorification of the Elite will end!”
Beside me, the Major sprang to his feet, his own gun in his hand. He fired at the man on the stage, wounding him in the leg. The man dropped his gun as he fell to the floor.
The second gunman turned and fired at the Major, missing him by inches, as below us the panicked crowd heaved and churned and screamed.
“Eroica! Get down!” The Major grabbed a handful of my skirt and yanked hard, pulling me to the floor with him as he crouched below the parapet encircling our box. “Too many people in the way to shoot back, damn it!”
The people on the stage were lurching toward the wings; someone was pushing the King and Queen toward the backstage exit. The wounded gunman rolled around whining and clutching his leg, bleeding profusely.
The second gunman strode across the space in front of the stage; the Major leapt to his feet and took aim. With all the seething crowd of frightened people surging around, taking a shot was a dangerous choice. The Major didn’t falter— and the second gunman fell and lay still.
Vaguely, I became aware that the air was full of camera flashes going off.
“Fucking press!” snarled the Major. “Here’s a potential disaster, terrorist scum firing guns, hundreds of people panicking— and the press are lining up to photograph it.” He shoved his Magnum back into his shoulder holster.
Below us, I saw new figures coming into the theatre: Swedish military, and several of the Major’s agents.
“Come on, Eroica. They’ll manage the crowd and sort out those two worthless terrorist bastards. We have to get out of here.” He linked his arm through mine. “Stay in character. We’re heading for the side exit.”
A HOTEL IN STOCKHOLM. THE NEXT MORNING.
Eroica, wearing borrowed jeans and shirt, sat at a hotel dining table reading the front pages of newspapers as they were handed to him by Major von dem Eberbach.
“GUNMAN FOILED IN ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT” – the headlines filled nearly a third of the front page of this one, so large was the print.
“Last night, the Nobel Prize Ceremony at the Stockholms Konzerthus was disrupted by an attempt on the life of the King and Queen,” the article ran. “Two gunmen forced their way into the Konzerthus and threatened the lives of the Royal couple. The attempted assassination was foiled by the intervention of an anonymous sharpshooter. Information received by this newspaper suggests the Swedish Military received information about a threat to the Ceremony and the Royal couple. The shooter who disabled both assassins is thought to be a highly-trained officer attached to the Swedish army.”
The accompanying photograph— a grainy black and white shot, occupying a large portion of the right-hand side of the page— showed a tall man in a suit firing a large handgun, while behind him, a blond woman dressed in an elegant evening gown watched wide-eyed with shock.
Eroica lowered the paper and reached for his cup of tea.
“That’s what the papers are saying,” the Major remarked. “And that one’s the city’s most conservative paper.” He handed Eroica another newspaper. “This one usually goes for a more sensational approach.”
Eroica put down his teacup and flattened the paper out on the table in front of him.
“MYSTERY MARKSMAN THWARTS ASSASSINS” shouted the headline; “UNKNOWN HERO PROTECTS ROYAL COUPLE.”
A similar photograph, showing the wide-eyed blond woman pressing herself back against the wall while the ‘mystery marksman’ fired his Magnum, occupied the full width of the page.
The text beneath stated, “We have established that the man whose expert shooting prevented an assassination during last night’s Nobel Prize ceremony held tickets under the name of Professor Ludwig Diersing. This is understood to be a false name, protecting the identity of a highly trained military sniper, recruited in the wake of information received by Army Intelligence. The woman, posing as the wife of the fictional Professor, is thought to be a military police officer and martial-arts expert.”
Eroica lowered the paper, a look of utter astonishment on his face. “Martial arts expert? How do they deduce that?”
The Major poured himself a second cup of coffee. “They make things up as they please,” he said; “but I’d rather see them making things up than finding the true story.”
“Quite,” said Eroica. “None of them have mentioned terrorist plots to blow up the building, along with all those members of the public and leading scientists.” He swallowed the last of his tea. “Nor have they realised that Frau Diersing, so-called, isn’t all that meets the eye.”
A faint frown creased Klaus’s forehead. “Exactly why were you dressed up like that, Eroica? It was eleven o’clock in the morning, and you were wearing a fucking evening dress, for Christ’s sake.”
Eroica shrugged. “Jonesy was taking up the hem.”
“That’s no answer!” snapped Klaus. “Why were you dressed like a woman?”
“I was trying on my outfit for the Antinoan Society Ball, if you must know, Major.”
“The what?”
Eroica rolled his eyes. “The Antinoan Society is an exclusive dining club for Oxford graduates. It’s a rather select group.”
“Antinoan?”
“Antinoüs was a young Greek man who was the lover of the Roman Emperor Hadrian. He died before he was twenty, and the Emperor declared him to be a god.” Eroica gave the Major a sideways glance, watching his reactions. “The Ball is an important date on the Society’s calendar. I always like to look my best. Unfortunately, I’ve missed this year’s Ball— it was last night, and I was otherwise engaged.”
Klaus shook his head. “I suppose the lot of you dress up in drag for the occasion.” He sounded disgusted.
“In fact, no, Major. Some of us do, but not all. We like to celebrate all the possibilities that life has to offer.”
“And you do that by pretending to be a woman?” the Major snorted.
“I might have been wearing a dress when you found me yesterday, Major, but I assure you I wasn’t pretending to be a woman.”
“You were wearing women’s clothes!”
“Wearing a dress and pretending to be a woman are not the same thing, Major. Not the same thing at all.”
There was a long silence, and then the Major said, “All the same, I don’t like seeing you dressed like that.”
“Z didn’t mind. He liked it.”
The Major made a scornful noise. “Z’s young and callow. Easily titillated by novelty.”
Eroica bit back the smart reply he was about to make. The Major, he realised, was being entirely serious. “So why do you object?”
“Dressing like that— diminishes you. Your strength, your ability— they’re devalued.”
Dorian stared, unable to answer.
After a long silence, Klaus said irritably, “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Because, Major, you’re being serious— about cross-dressing and identity.”
Klaus’s face suddenly took on the ‘deer caught in the headlights’ look that Dorian had seen so many times before. He knew by now what it meant: the Major had reached a point where he had no idea how he should respond, or even how he wanted to respond, to some question of sexuality and gender.
Dorian sighed. Looks like that’s the end of that conversation. Poor darling, he just can’t let himself be himself – or even find out what that means.
“Sexual identity is complex, Major,” he said. “Every kind of identity is.”
Klaus stood up abruptly. “We have to be at the airport in two hours. Don’t be late. And stay in the clothes you’re wearing. I don’t want to see that damned red dress again.” Without waiting for a reply, he marched out of the dining room.
Dorian poured another cup of tea, smiling to himself.