Silas's Choice

"Silas's Choice."

"Say what?" Rocky Hansan asked.

"Silas's Choice," I repeated. "You are offering me the same options you offered Silas Collins three years ago. Did you realize that?"

"Of course not," the chief of the Near East Division said. "Farthest thing from our minds." But he looked of his fifth-floor window at the unexpected April snow falling on his view of the northern Virginia countryside, marred by an expanse of parking lot and a water tower, but being made less institutional by the quickly building blanket of white. He couldn't look at me. He was lying. Certainly he knew. And there was no coincidence at all in the offer. Silas and I had been too close. I'd done nothing, but Silas had angered them with his choice, and they were going to systematically deep six all of his friends in the organization. This was what they did.

On appearances, they were both cushy assignments, but there was nothing in my record that would disqualify me for a cushy assignment. I'd been working for them for ten years now, following graduate school and the most rigorous boot camp training course you could imagine. And I had laid my life on the line repeatedly and always brought home the goods.

I could either take Amman station or stay here in Langley and head up the personality files for the terrorism center. The latter would even come with a promotion. The promotion was window dressing though. The files job was a pasture assignment, a dead end, a signal to all that I was no longer a player or needed to know much of anything. And the Amman station was open because the man who took the job because Silas wouldn't was dead. The public story was that he'd been killed in a stray robbery while taking a couple of visitors to the ancient cliff-city ruins of Petra. But the truth was that he had come out in the open and had been recognized by the opposition and had been eliminated.

So, these were my choices—the same choice they had given Silas—either neutralized and sidelined for the remainder for the eighteen years I'd have to serve before qualifying for early retirement at fifty, or roll the dice in the Mideast. And, like Silas, my expertise was in South America. I could tell when a Colombian was ready to pull a pin by the look of his eyes. I'd been trained to do that. I had no idea how to read an Arab. The last, departed Amman station chief had been transferred from South America too.

For the thousandth time since Silas had made his choice I wondered why he had chosen to do what he did. Maybe it was time to find out.

"How soon would I have to decide, Rocky?" I asked as I rose from the supergrade upholstered chair in front of his supergrade wooden desk and edged toward the door of his supergrade sixteen-by-sixteen office, with its two supergrade windows and partitions that went all of the way to the ceiling. That was the real perk—partitions that were actually walls. I'd get one just like it if I took the files job, but my door would empty out into the corridor, whereas his was connected to that of a deputy director. Of course, if I took Amman, maybe all I'd get was a magazine of Uzi bullets, delivered one by one.

"You've got some time coming to you from the Asuncion operation," Rocky said. "Done very well, I understand, by the way. That's what Ted tells me. Say two weeks. Come on back in in, say, a month from today. I'm sure you will want some time with your wife. If you take the terrorism center job, of course, you can settle down here."

Sharon. Right, I thought. Sharon would be just pleased as punch to have me home in Oakton again and riding a nine-to-five job. She'd be just as thrilled as Ted would be, especially since he sent me to Asuncion in the first place to ease him into getting his dick inside Sharon. Sharon and the Oakton house were history, either way.

It took me three days to track Silas's whereabouts down, using all of the connections I had, which didn't include those of my employers. I didn't want them to know I was doing this. If they found out, even those two choices would evaporate. And then it took four days of talking through intermediaries to get Silas to agree to see me and to arrange a connection point. This, even though we had been like lips and teeth in Brazil and Colombia for five years. We had covered each other's backs and squared off against the world so many times and in such trying conditions that I had been more married to Silas than to Sharon. And yet he had just walked away and left me, left those two choices on the table—and left me without a word. It was time for some explanations regardless of the "Silas Choices" I'd been offered.

Silas was fifteen years my senior. He was already a specialist in staying alive and getting the job done in South America when I was assigned to his operations, trained in everything including suicide, but with absolutely no notion of bringing all of the training off in the real world. He had been a Marine before joining the outfit, and he'd probably always be a tightly bound Marine. But he was something rare as well. He was a Renaissance man. He had a photographic memory and a brilliant mind, and he could have made a success of himself as either a fine artist or a concert pianist. He was equally at home in the drug-producing hidden farms of the Amazon basin and the diplomatic drawing rooms, and, by the way the diplomatic wives fell over him, it was obvious that he wore a tuxedo extremely well. His memory and artistry were of particular help to our operations. We didn't have to fool with cameras—or with explaining why we brought cameras to a drug buy. We could return to the embassy weeks after a meeting, and Silas could still provide a sketch of everyone he'd met, no matter how briefly, that identified the person better than a photograph would have. Silas had taught me everything I knew about the business, but I'd never know half of what he did on the day he walked away from it all.

I was surprised, but not totally surprised, when I got directions to fly into Seville, Spain, and then to book a car from there and a resort on the Mediterranean near Barcelona. I knew that Silas loved the sea and beaches. I could picture him stretched out on the sand of a Costa Dorada beach. I only gave brief thought to why I wasn't just flying into Barcelona—but I knew that Silas never did anything directly. That might be why he was still alive.

Still, I was surprised when I was met at the Seville airport. Silas himself didn't meet me. I was pulled out of the arrivals line just beyond passport control by a young, dark, and handsome man of slight stature and big, engaging, white-teethed smile, who was holding a sketch of me that made me look like a blond movie star stud and that only could have been drawn by Silas. The young man also had a letter from Silas introducing him and telling me to go with him—and the letter contained a code of authenticity that Silas and I had used in the past. So, I went with the man in an elegant, if old, Mercedes sedan, accepting that he had already taken care of the reservations I'd made for a car and hotel room.

Three years and Silas could still do a sketch that a nice young Spanish guy could recognize as me. Except he wasn't a Spanish guy at all—and that surprised me as well, but I should have been able to figure it out. He spoke to me in Portuguese, knowing full well, apparently, that I was conversant in that language, as I had to be to operate in Brazil. And he warned me when we were about to leave the airport that it was almost a four-hour drive to where we were going, and he headed due west—for Portugal. Everyone I had talked to who seemed to have any inkling of where Silas had landed thought he was in Spain. But, of course, with his background in Brazil and Portuguese—and the care that he took to protect himself—it made sense that he was in Portugal instead.

It clicked that even his annuity paymasters would believe he was in Spain. He was smart enough to know that you didn't just walk away from the outfit as he had and not expect to be facing open season—from vengeful enemies and jilted friends alike. As we drove into Portugal, my anger at the difficulty to get him to see me dissipated. Under the circumstances, I guess it was significant that he would agree to see me at all, since I was still with the outfit.

Whatever secrecy Silas was living under, though, didn't transfer to the young man he had sent to pick me up at the airport. He affably told me his name was Marcello, that he was barely twenty, and that he was Silas's houseboy. He also told me, even though I didn't ask, that we were headed toward a seaside village in Portugal's southern coastal Algarve district, where Silas had a cliffside villa; that Silas was reclusive and had become a famous artist in the region, although no one knew who he was; and that he was the best, most generous employer in all of the Algarve. That did sound like the Silas I knew. Marcello was a particularly winsome lad, olive skinned and handsome figured. He was not more than five and a half feet tall, but he was lithe and well-proportioned and that smile of his and his open good humor were winners.

I barely realized we were at Silas's place before we were on top of it—almost literally on top of it. As we approached the Portuguese coast, we were riding along the top of a cliff, where I occasionally could see paths going down to isolated, pristine beaches tucked away between sheer cliffs tumbling down to the Gulf of Cadiz. I saw a sign saying it was seven kilometers to Albufeira, but within two kilometers, Marcello turned the old Mercedes hard to the left in the middle of a stretch of sheer stuccoed rock wall with razor wire running along the top of it and we were sitting in the front of a set of massive iron gates. Marcello activated a remote control on his dashboard and the gates swung open and brought us to a second set of gates in yet another wall. Silas apparently wasn't leaving his past to chance.

Then we were gliding along the top of the cliff's again, rolling toward the sea. And when it looked like he would just drive right over the edge, Marcello pulled the Mercedes to a stop, popped the trunk, and hopped out and started to carry my suitcase down a path leading below the cliff edge that I wouldn't even have known was there before he approached it.

We were looking down on the villa as we descended the path. It was u-shaped around a stone-floored terrace that hung out over the cliff edge. The calm, sky-blue of the small pool in the center of the courtyard contrasted with the pounding of the azure surf far below at the base of the cliff, although I could see that there was a small beach area down there, almost immediately below the house.

"Mr. Salazar regrets that he isn't home at present," Marcello was merrily saying as he led me down to a small forecourt in front of what proved to be a two-story house, that was only attached to the land side by this small entrance court, which was, in fact a stone bridge that crossed a moated area. The only windows on this side of the building were set high and had strong iron bars on them. "He says that you'll want to sleep for several hours after your plane ride. He'll see you at dinner on the terrace at eight p.m."

"Mr. Salazar?" I asked. And then I remembered. That obviously was who Silas Collins was here in his Portuguese hideout. But perhaps he had not been Silas Collins originally either. Maybe the Silas I knew was just one phase of a multichambered life set off in chunks by bars just like these windows were.

Marcello gave me a brief tour of the villa. It didn't take long. We entered a large foyer at the western corner of the arm of the building that ran parallel to the edge of the cliff. I could tell at a glance that the building was constructed for defense. The walls were thick, the windows here were small and high on the northern and western walls, and the two doors leading from the foyer on the first floor, one to on the eastern wall and the other one on the southern wall, were heavy wood reinforced with iron mountings and studs. A graceful iron winding staircase went up to the second floor. Marcello told me the door on the southern wall went into Silas's private rooms, but I wasn't shown those. The first room beyond the door on the western wall was a long living room-dining room area, with a kitchen beyond that in the northeast corner of this arm. All of these rooms had large, French doors that opened onto the central courtyard. The western arm of the building, Marcello told me were store rooms and the servants' quarters.

Then he took me up the stairs. The second floor only stretched across the arm of the building parallel to the sea. The first room, roughly two-thirds the length of the living-dining room below, was obviously Silas's workshop, as it was chockablock with canvases in various stages of completion and scattered painting supplies. Beyond this were two guest bedrooms and a bathroom. Again, as on the first floor, the only windows of any size faced the sea—but these windows were enormous. Doors from the second-floor landing in the Foyer and from the most distant guest room led out onto broad balconies that stretched across the roofs of the two wings that reached out toward the sea.

Marcello guided me into the nearest bedroom, which directly overlooked the courtyard from French doors that led out onto somewhat flimsy-looking iron balconies. The room was richly appointed in maroon and gold brocade on the windows and the corners of a canopy bed that was draped with a white gauzy mosquito netting. The floor was of red terrazzo squares, and the only furniture in the room other than the massive bed was an equally massive armoire facing the bed and two sturdy Spanish-looking arm chairs.

Marcello left me then. When I heard him clomp down the stairs, I went back out into the studio to check on the impression I had gotten when I was ushered through that room. I had been right. Some of the paintings had covers over them, and I didn't look at those. But those I could see were shockingly arresting. Most of Silas's paintings were of young men. Naked young men. They were excellent, of course, but they were evocative and provocative. And they raised stirrings that had had been feeling for many years but had been fighting. I could not work where I did and have those sorts of feelings. But it also was hard to work for long periods of time under stressful situations with the type of men who did what I did—and had to keep themselves in the shape I had to keep myself in—and not have these types of feelings. I had long felt that a man had to be basically narcissistic and adventuresome and risk taking to be in the business I was in—and to survive.

All of the young men in the paintings were beautiful and were perfectly formed—or at least depicted as such. And it didn't take me long to realize that some of the paintings were of Marcello. Silas had captured his engaging, open, trusting smile perfectly as well as that teasing come hither look in his eyes.

Silas had been right, though, in assuming I would be exhausted after my plane trip. So, after a cursory glance at the paintings, I pulled myself away, took a long, cool shower and dropped, naked on the bed. As I drifted off to sleep, my mind was in a muddle. This was a side of Silas I had never suspected in the least. Did the paintings say something about Silas, or was this just one series by a painter who looked for the beauty of whatever he was painting? Perhaps his last series dealt with the beauty of misformed pumpkins. But I couldn't get those paintings out of my mind, and as I drifted toward sleep, my hand involuntarily traveled down my chest and across my thankfully still flat belly and found that I had engorged. And, as I had done countless times while hunched down in a jungle waiting for something to happen, I began to stroke myself. And to think of those paintings and of those young men in the paintings. And of Marcello.

The sun was almost directly parallel to the bed and sinking toward the horizon of the sea when I awoke. My hand was still wrapped around my cock, dormant now, but still a handful, and I had spilled my seed on my thighs in big globs. It had been some time since I'd gotten off and I still felt horny from the memories of Silas's paintings, and I could feel myself stirring again. But I would have to shower again before dinner, and there may not be time for me to indulge myself a second time. I wondered how long it would be before dinner. My alarm clock was in my kit in the bathroom, but neither it nor my watch was set to the local time, and I was too groggy to make the calculations. I knew, though, that I'd have to get up soon and shower again.

Then I heard it. Moaning and groaning. I wasn't so woozy that I didn't recognize that sound. Someone was being fucked and was enjoying it immensely. I rose from the bed and moved over to one of the French doors, which I had opened to the sea breezes before taking my nap. The sounds were coming from the courtyard just below me.

Their lovemaking was already well in progress. Marcello was on his back on top of a patio table, his head toward me and his legs stretched up and out toward the sea. He was gripping the edges of the table with his hands. Silas—a still-magnificently-built Silas—was standing at the seaward edge of the table between Marcello's legs. Both were stark naked and heavily tanned. Silas was holding Marcello's legs up and out with his hands and his hips were moving in and out, as he split the young Portuguese houseboy with what I knew was a prizing-winning cock.

Marcello was moaning and groaning in ecstasy. And as the rhythm of Silas's fucking increased in intensity, the young man began to give little cries of pleasure and was writhing around on the table top. His head flopped back and his eyes picked me out, standing right up against the open second-floor, full-length window—not intending to, but mesmerized by what I was watching. And he smiled for me that big, beautiful toothful smile and his eyes slitted, telling me how much he was enjoying the fuck. And acknowledging with that teasing smile of his that I seemed to be enjoying it too.

I should have withdrawn into the room and not made my presence felt or seen, but I was glued to the spot. And, involuntarily, one of my hands went to my rising cock and the other to my nipples.

As I watched, Silas leaned down into Marcello, heaving chest to heaving chest now, and he kissed the young man deeply on the mouth and then lowered his head and nipped and nuzzled at Marcello's nipples. Marcello was writhing under him and giving little chirping sounds. When Silas raised back up, he released his hands from Marcello's legs, leaving the young houseboy to hold them up on his own and took Marcello's hard cock in both hands and stroked him relentlessly until Marcello gave a little scream and ejaculated up onto his own chest.

Silas then lifted the lithe young man off the table and, while maintaining purchase of his cock deep inside Marcello, stood there on the courtyard stones, holding the younger man against him and, hands under his butt cheeks raised and lowered him on his prodigious tool. Marcello flung his arms around Silas's neck to hold himself in place and, between pants, put his mouth to Silas's ear and whispered something to him.

Silas turned then, never losing stride on pumping Marcello's tender ass on his tool, and looked up and, for the first time in three years, made eye contact with me. And there I stood, in full view, in a full-length, open window, naked and stroking myself and not being able to stop. I was fascinated by the rippling of Silas's arm and chest muscles as he worked his willing houseboy up and down on his pole. Silas's musculature and curly black chest hair had always held a fascination for me, and I had often found my dick dripping after watching him in action either in the gym or in the field. I just hadn't been smart or "in tune" enough to make the connection that Silas, another man, could be sexually arousing to me. I had just thought it was envy and had always doubled my own efforts to develop the muscles he had.