The first time he'd met Commander Dorian Red, Major von dem Eberbach had to revise his expectations.
Every Englishman he'd ever had to work with before had been useless. An arrogant race, the English believed they still ruled the world. The sun never sets on the British Empire. And behind every Englishman's smirk was the thought, Who won the war, anyway? And they'd all been incompetent.
When he'd found out that Commander Red was an Earl, he was certain that the man would have twice the arrogance, twice the condescension, and no doubt twice the incompetence. He hadn't relished the prospect of collaborating with him.
That wasn't how things panned out. The mission had been a success, and in spite of his initial reluctance, Klaus had to admit that the Commander was a competent man. More than competent. MI6 went up in Klaus's estimation.
The second time he'd worked with Commander Red, they'd had to spend time together in Zanzibar, waiting for their contact to arrive. Inevitably, they'd got to know each other better, sitting in backstreet bars downing glass after glass of cheap, fiery spirits – whisky for Klaus, gin for the Commander.
Perhaps it was the alcohol, but on that mission, Klaus had begun to appreciate that Commander Dorian Red was a handsome man. And he was homosexual.
Klaus kept a low profile about his own sexuality. Sex was relatively unimportant in his life; he could never understand how men let themselves be ruled by their gonads, particularly in this line of work. Anything that could distract you could kill you. And officially, homosexuality wasn't tolerated by his employers – although if you were discreet, you could survive. Don't ask, don't tell.
Commander Red had no such inhibitions. Well, he was English – and everyone knew the English had no shame. In Zanzibar, the man took up with a good-looking young layabout who acted as his messenger boy during the day and his bed-warmer at night. Klaus had been disgusted – and just a little jealous.
Now, they were to work together for a third time, and Klaus was in Venice, waiting in the foyer of Teatro La Fenice for the Commander to appear.
"Ah, there you are!" Red's well-modulated English tones rang out clearly behind him.
Klaus turned.
The Commander was dressed in a superbly-cut tuxedo that flattered his athletic figure. "I thought since we were meeting here I might as well catch the first act. The tenor was superb – he has quite a career in front of him." Red looked Klaus up and down ruefully. "Come on, you stand out like a sore thumb in that trench-coat. Let's go back to my hotel and talk."
The Commander's hotel proved to be in the next street. He collected his key, requested a light supper to be sent up along with a bottle of red wine and a bottle of gin, and swept into the lift with Klaus trailing behind.
The supper was delivered within minutes. Pouring a glass of wine for Klaus, the Commander said, "Oh, I forgot: you prefer white wine and whisky, don't you? Well, never mind. This is a very good Nebbiolo, you'll enjoy it."
Klaus shrugged. They were here to discuss business. Not to get distracted by one's preferences in wine. Or the graceful, athletic movements of one's host. Klaus loosened his tie, and swallowed a large mouthful of Nebbiolo.
Discussions continued into the night. Commander Red's sharp mind impressed Klaus afresh; he had a capacity for detail that was mind-boggling.
They finished the wine and began working their way through the gin. Klaus had never liked gin, but he hardly took notice of the taste. He was too busy thinking about the details of the mission – and dealing with the distraction of Commander Red's proximity.
At last, he could stand it no longer. "Commander— Dorian—"
The Commander put down the file he'd been reading from, and stared dispassionately at Klaus's hand, which was resting on his knee. He looked up at Klaus's face, and saw from the heat in his colleague's eyes that his mind was no longer on the mission. He smiled, not unkindly, and removed Klaus's hand.
"Sorry, Major, but you're just not my type."
Klaus stared, thunderstruck. He hadn't expected to be brushed off.
Red patted the back of Klaus's hand, which was now on his own knee.
"My backup team arrives tomorrow. One of my lads is quite keen on the tall, dark and brooding type. I'll introduce you. You might like each other. But I've never gone for the Heathcliffian sort myself." He stood up, looking at his watch. "It's late. Let's reconvene after we've had a good night's sleep. 1100 hours? I'll meet you down in the lobby. Good night, Major."
Klaus found that he'd been steered out of the Commander's room into the hallway, and that he was staring at a firmly closed door.
Anything that can distract you can kill you, he reminded himself; or embarrass the hell out of you, anyway. Don't ask, don't tell – and don't make passes at degenerate Englishmen.
He stomped off to find his way back to his own hotel.