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"Does your pretty partner have some kaffir blood in him, hmm?" van Neikerk's voice was quietly confidential. "Could be, with all that curly hair."
Bodie propped one shoulder against the wall and didn't respond.
It was all standard procedure, Secret Police 101. You kept the prisoner in isolation, no phone call, no hope of any outside contact. You left the light burning day and night, to disorient him, and the room cool and damp, just this side of freezing, so he was always shivering, couldn't ever relax and get a minute's rest. No coffee, no cigarettes, no loo.
And no clothes.
Strip a man, and suddenly he was completely aware of his vulnerability, his mortality. No clothes meant nothing to hide behind. No shelter. Back to the caves in the time it took to undress. Add some big dangerous-looking bastard like, say, Bodie, looking him up and down with an eye that was obviously measuring him for a fucking, and often that was all it took. Bodie had seen more than one man start sobbing five minutes after his trousers came off.
The problem was, van Neikerk was a professional too. He'd taken a ride on this merry-go-round a few times himself, and he knew one of the few ways a prisoner could resist was to turn the wheel good and hard in the direction it was already going. Despite the chill he'd let the blanket slip, so his puckered nipples and tight-skinned stomach showed in the shadows. He lounged back in the rickety straight chair, legs spread, the material of his thin blue pants the only touch of colour in the bleak little room as it stretched taut over his cock and balls The fabric was something synthetic, tight and clinging enough to leave nothing to the imagination. There was a small damp spot over the head of his cock that Bodie had to consciously keep his eyes away from.
"Ever try him out?" van Neikerk went on, leaning forward so the blanket slipped further, showed a little more skin, on his shoulders this time. "You know, they say half-castes are even hotter than pure blacks. It's that mix of savage and civilisation that does it."
"Guess that explains you then," Bodie ground out. He clenched his hands in his jacket pockets hard enough to make his knuckles ache.
Without Cowley's iron rectitude standing behind him, Bodie had no doubt he'd have had the bastard bent over the table and screaming ten minutes ago. Part of it would have been the job: they needed any information they could get to give Doyle as much of an edge as possible. Bodie had seen enough of van Neikerk's file that he wasn't really particular about how he made him talk. Part of it would have been because, like it or not, the challenge van Neikerk was throwing out acted like a shot of amphetamine, zinging through his bloodstream and licking along every erogenous zone with an electrifying mix of danger and arousal. And there was a part, a small part that he tried very hard to keep bottled up, that wanted it because the bastard looked a bit like Doyle. Not much, just the long line from shoulder to waist as he turned slightly, the light thatch of chest hair. But even that little was too much.
Bodie turned away, as if bored, and took a slow deep breath. If he let van Neikerk rattle him he'd be useless, and Cowley would pull him out. He couldn't risk that, not with Doyle's safety at stake. It wasn't as if CI5 didn't have plenty of skilled interrogators, but none of them were Doyle's partner.
"You want it, don't you, soutpiel?" van Neikerk's voice was barely a whisper, and close, much too close.
Bodie whirled, ready for a killing strike. van Neikerk was good, he'd give him that. He'd judged Bodie's punching range to a T, and stopped just outside it. The blanket was abandoned over the chair, and for all the underwear hid the man might as well have been naked. He ran his left thumb up and down along his cock, and then rubbed it over the damp spot on the cloth.
"Want a taste?" He extended his hand towards Bodie. "Want to see if I taste like him?"
It was almost too easy. van Neikerk might have been a soldier once, but the years he'd spent killing from ambush Bodie had spent fighting for his life against Macklin. He had van Neikerk's feet out from under him and his arm bent back up over his shoulder blade before the other man even had time to start whatever move he'd been planning to make. The urge was riding him hard: to take, to break, to shatter that complacency once and for all with brute force.
Taste like Doyle?
The picture of Doyle as he'd last seen him filled Bodie's mind. Carrying van Neikirk's suitcase, wearing his overcoat, flashing Bodie a quick grin before he headed out through the terminal to the cab rank.
"Like hell." Bodie released van Neikirk's arm and gave him just enough of a shove to send him sprawling on the floor. Supple as a cat, he rolled onto his back, one knee raised and splayed out, the pose an open dare. The look on his face said he knew Bodie couldn't resist it, wouldn't want to resist.
Bodie took a long and very deliberate step back. He wasn't that man any more. When he'd joined CI5, he'd made a few promises to Cowley that he didn't intend to break, no matter what his cock and his hindbrain had to say on the matter. More importantly, he'd made a few promises the first time he'd taken Doyle to bed as well. Not fidelity—neither of them was naïve enough for that—but integrity, something both harder and far more essential. Fucking van Neikerk wouldn't be a betrayal of Doyle. Fucking him because he wanted to see him shiver and bleed and beg for mercy would.
The thought steadied him. Watches my back even when he isn't here, Bodie thought with true gratitude. Up to me to make sure I keep watching his.
With that in mind, he turned his sunniest smile on van Neikirk, feeling satisfaction as the gloating look slipped a fraction. "Put your blankie back on, sunshine. I wouldn't have you on toast," he said cheerily. "But if you're willing to offer it round, I'm sure I can find a few of the boys—and girls—who'll be happy to accommodate you." He winked, and then, smile still firmly in place, sauntered over to the door and slipped outside.
He wasn't sure he'd actually made it out of the room without blood on his hands until he heard the cumbersome metallic sound of the lock slipping into place. If the wall hadn't been at his back he might have ended up on his arse in the corridor. As it was, he leaned hard against it, breathing harshly and sweating, feeling much as he imagined a cobra must when the mongoose couldn't quite squeeze through the entrance to its nest.
When he finally looked through the observation window, van Neikerk was sitting in the chair again, wrapped in the blanket, as if the past ten minutes had been nothing but Bodie's personal hallucination. He closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against the cool glass.
There but for the grace of God.
"All right, Bodie?"
His eyes jerked open at the sound of Cowley's voice. For one horrified instant he wondered if the old man had been standing at the observation window through the whole thing, and he felt sweat break out afresh under his arms and in the small of his back. But Cowley's face held only its usual expression of bland exasperation, and Bodie felt himself relax slightly.
"Yes, sir. Just giving him a few minutes alone to think about what I might do next." He forced a grin. "Any particular request?"
"No, I think it's time to move on to stage two. Get his clothes. He's had a touch of the stick; let's see how he takes to the carrot. That might give us a better idea how to proceed."
"Yes, sir." With a sigh of relief, Bodie turned in the direction of the stairs.
"Oh, and Bodie?"
"Sir?" Bodie looked around, still half-afraid of what he might see on Cowley's face.
"Thought you might like to know, Doyle's checked in. Everything's still quiet. And he said to thank you for the jigsaw puzzle."
Bodie shrugged. "Had to give him something to pass the time, didn't I? Him all by himself in that posh hotel room, room service at government expense, hot and cold running chambermaids—"
"That will do, Bodie." Cowley shook his head, obviously fighting a smile. "Get on with you."
Bodie sketched a salute in Cowley's direction and headed for the stairs. By the time he was half-way up he was taking the steps two at a time and whistling.