Chapter 7
Seven
Christian
On Thursday after lunch, Seema and I have our usual daily briefing.
Seema is my cross-departmental aide, though technically she works for the CIA.
Her job description says she works for me, but I’m not a complete idiot, and neither is the American federal government.
They can’t have a foreign diplomat working in the country and not have eyes and ears on what they do while they’re here.
I’m nearly certain they don’t follow me around outside of office hours, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they did.
I’d meant what I’d told Asher on Saturday night—I don’t care as much about my extra-curricular activities getting in the way as I used to.
They’d still whisper about me in the walls of Whitehall, but now I wouldn’t be there to overhear it.
Leo is my main concern these days. He is what I worry about.
What he’d think of me if he knew where my sexual proclivities lay since his mother died.
There is a conversation to be had, and soon, not necessarily because of Asher, but because I’ve been lying to him for long enough.
“Sir, was there anything else?” Seema asks in a tone that suggests it’s the second time she’s asked.
“Um, no, no that’s all.”
She’s at the door when the thought enters my head.
Re-enters, to be more accurate, because I’ve thought about it frequently this past week.
“Actually, Seema, there is one thing.” She turns back, tablet clutched to her chest and a warm, patient smile on her face.
“What do you know about a cult called ‘HHM’? Is that an…organisation you’re familiar with? ”
A flicker of surprise crosses her face, but she masks it almost immediately as she comes back towards my desk.
“His Humble Messengers. Formed in 1982 by a pastor called Lucas Simmons in Logan, Ohio. He passed in 2004, and directorship of the church passed to his son, Jeremiah, who had a more expansive vision for it. Began calling the church an organisation and moved into Televangelism. They opened a church in LA in 2008. Ten years later, a third in Florida. I think they have seven or eight now across the country. They’re reminiscent of the IBLP.
” She sees the blank look on my face and goes on, “Institute of Basic Life Principles. Another cult. I mean, non-denominational Christian fundamentalist church.”
I blink, veritably impressed by her knowledge. “Are they… well, above board?”
One side of her mouth pinches “Well, they’re a church, so almost probably not.” I huff out a laugh at the directness. “Why do you ask?”
I’d prepared for this. “I read an article about them in a magazine the other day. Piqued my interest; we don’t have this sort of thing in the UK. I mean, not to this extent.”
She nods slowly, but there’s a look on her face that suggests she might not quite believe it. Perhaps the CIA is following my extracurriculars.
“The article spoke to some people who’d left the organisation, whose families were still… inside. I wondered if they were in any danger; if it was the sort of… organisation… who retaliated against those who left?”
“That I don’t know, sir, but I can see what I can find out if you’d like?”
To say yes would be a risk, I suppose. It’s likely she already knows there’s more to this.
It’s likely the CIA knows all about the boy I spent Saturday night with and where he came from, and all I’ve done is confirm everything.
But then I think about the sound of Asher’s voice as he said he missed his mom, the look on his face when he explained how he’d left everything behind when he realised he was gay.
I think about that devastating smile, and how wild and free his heart is despite all of that, and I feel protective of it.
Of him. I’m sure he doesn’t need my help or my protection.
Christ, he’s done everything by himself so far and has turned out magnificently. But I give Seema a nod anyway.
“Yes, if you could. I’d like to know more about this Jeremiah Simmons person.”
Seema nods. “You got it, sir.”
??
My next meeting is with Micah and Sara about the upcoming ambassador’s dinner next month.
A yearly cross-departmental, cross-diplomatic, cultural extravaganza that has more traditions than the swearing in of parliament.
Married ambassadors usually delegate this to their spouse, and so I have to okay almost every aspect of it myself.
Guest list, wine list, each course (including appetisers), music, decoration, lighting.
This one is supposed to serve as an introduction for me, set my stage in terms of style and culture, so there are lots of additional decisions about taste and style preferences that I’ve truly never given much thought to before.
What flower do I think best represents me?
What scent should the residence have? What colour best evokes me as a person.
I’m usually tired after a half hour of these meetings.
“Have you had any confirmation on whether your son will be attending?” asks Micah, scribbling something down in his notepad, which he favours over a tablet.
“Ah, no, not yet. I’ll call him this evening and confirm.”
Micah nods. “And if he’s bringing a guest, we will need a name and any other relevant details for the vetting process.”
“Of course.”
Sara cuts in, “The tailor from Amalfi is scheduled for next Thursday for the final fitting of your tux.”
“Perfect.” I glance at my watch. “If that’s all for now, I’ve a call with the foreign secretary at three and I have some stuff to prepare beforehand.”
“We can follow up tomorrow, sir, no problem.”
After Sara and Micah leave, I make myself a coffee from the machine in the corner and take it into the conference room—adjoined via a small corridor from my office—with my notes.
It’s already been set up for the video call, the screen turned on, and the embassy logo standing proudly in the centre.
As I wait, I shoot off a text to Leo to ask if he’s free later to catch up.
Then I open up my conversation with Asher.
We’ve been communicating, texting, like his generation prefers, but I haven’t seen him since Saturday evening.
Felix also prefers to text, and since it was the method that almost ruined us, one would have thought I’d be smart enough not to repeat the mistake a second time.
But I’ve learned nothing from Adrian’s gambit, clearly.
Me:
Afternoon. Are you busy?
His response is immediate.
Z (I’d put his initial as Z for Zachary because, despite all evidence to the contrary, I was still capable of being a little careful.)
Z:
If you’re asking, then I guess it means you’re not?
Me:
I’m waiting to take a call
Z:
Of course you are, old man
Me:
You’re not too old to put across my knee
Z:
Now you’re just trying to turn me on, daddy
I smile, my dick twitching with interest.
Z:
I’m at the gym, working up a sweat
Me:
Now who’s trying to turn who on?
Z:
I’m always trying to turn you on...
Me:
picture?
The illicit anticipation of waiting for the image is almost as arousing as the image itself, and I remember why I was so reluctant to put an end to things with Felix. This forbidden desire is addictive; it makes me feel alive in ways I otherwise don’t.
It takes a minute, but then it comes through. He’s in an almost shredded black tank top, over-ear earphones on, and cheeks bright pink. His biceps and throat glisten with sweat. He has his tongue pushed out mischievously. My dick flickers awake. I stare at it too long. Another text comes through.
Z:
My asshole is soaked.
Me:
Can I see you tonight?
Z:
Yes, sir. What time?
Me:
I’ll be done here around 6.
Z:
Sounds good. My place?
Me:
Perfect
Z:
I’ll be waiting ass up with the door unlocked
I’m staring at the words, trying to calm my arousal down, when the screen starts singing at me with an incoming call. The foreign secretary’s face blasts onto the screen a second later. He looks stressed, five years older than the last time I saw him, and very happy to see me.
“Lewis.” I smile. “How’s it going?”
“Fucking hell, Chris, how did you do this? Can you come back, please? There’s a flight out of Washington in an hour, I checked.”
I laugh as I turn my phone face down on the table. “I think they changed the locks the moment I left.”
“Yeah, well, they’re fucking idiots for that. This entire place is a fucking circus, and not the good kind, the kind where all the animals are mistreated and everyone’s a clown.”
I give him a commiserative look and listen as he launches into everything that’s gone wrong since I landed in Washington five and a half months ago.
I’m leaving the office just after seven when my mobile rings. I look down to see Leo’s picture. It’s one of him in tennis gear, aged seventeen, before the injury. He’s holding a small silver trophy. I should get a new one.
I put my hand up to the driver, indicating I’ll be a minute.
“Hey, son,” I answer. “You okay?”
“Hi, Dad. Yeah, I’m okay,” he sighs, sounding tired. “You?”
“Winning, mainly. How’s Whitehall?”
“Same circus, different ringleader, you know?”
I laugh. “Lewis Bartlett was saying the very same thing earlier.”
“It’s a shitshow, truly. You got a job for me over there?”
“I do need someone to make tea, they’re bloody terrible at it here.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You want to talk about it?” Leo works in the parliamentary offices for the opposition, but there is very little difference in the designs and machinations going on behind the scenes.
“I don’t actually. I am going to the pub tonight to get drunk and forget all about it. But I just saw your text about the ambassador dinner, I’d love to come, yeah. Haven’t seen you for months.”
“Will you be able to get the time off?”
“Um, yeah. Yeah, that should be no problem.”
“Ah, great, I’ll let Micah and Sara know. And do you want to bring someone? Sabrina?”