Bangkok Defection

But that was only for one more month, until the evening of the Chopin piano concert I went to at the Bangkok Opera hall. As president of the local society, I had been invited to sit in Ambassador Bacher's box. His wife, Lidka, was the honorary sponsor of the concert, so we were in the king's box. Kemp and his wife were there too. And, to my consternation, a political officer from the American embassy was in the box as well.

Nothing untoward happened until the interval, although I could feel the heat coming off the ambassador as he took occasional glances in my direction. There was no pretense, I knew, in how much he wanted me, how hooked he was on me. The Indian doctor was still lending me out to his friends during this period, and I was finding that I melted more to a rough thug than to someone as elegant and refined as the ambassador. So, although I liked him well enough and enjoyed being doubled by him, in particular, he did not hold me in thrall. Certainly not as much as the Indian doctor did with his variety and his mesmerizing voice—and with perhaps the longest cock I'd had in Bangkok, a cock that was like a snake and could kiss my channel walls from any direction with its rubbing bulb and almost seemed to be able to suck on my prostrate until I came in prodigious flow.

At the interval, the men in the box were separated from the women. The women were sent down to the lobby to mingle with the other high rollers in the audience. The men withdrew to a nearby parlor for, the ambassador said, a smoke. As we were ushered toward that room, I realized that the ushers were all station assets from the embassy. I knew then that something was coming down, something important.

We had all been wearing tuxedos, and all, I knew, looked very good in them—as good, I had to say, as we looked out of them. The ambassador and Kemp started taking theirs off as soon as we entered the small parlor. The political officer from the American embassy stood at the closed door to the corridor and motioned for me to disrobe too. I knew then that he was from the station as well.

Bacher and Kemp fucked me, standing, with me suspended between them, my knees hooked on Bacher's hips and Kemp's dick pressed shallowly inside me from the rear. This time, Bacher was urged to take the lead in the fucking, and he did so, with gusto, coming first and then withdrawing as Kemp bent me over the arm of an upholstered chair and finished with his ejaculation. Bacher was invited to take me again, and did so in the same position.

Only afterward, while we were toweling off with wet cloths and dry towels provided, did Bacher begin to "get" what had transpired and why. He'd never asked about the political officer at the door, watching the double fuck intensely. But when he was putting his tux back on and murmuring that it probably was well past the time we returned to the opera hall, Kemp gently placed a hand on his chest and said that Bacher's evening at the concert was over, that they had something to discuss.

Kemp motioned me to dress and leave, saying I would be driven home from there. He was taking charge, and now the assignations at the Indian doctor's apartment and the two glasses and bottle of vodka on the doctor's dining room table each time, and my leaving and the two men staying all came together. Kemp wasn't just a highly placed German-origin American businessman in Bangkok. He was one of us—and probably the senior agent here. This was his defection operation.

As I headed for the door, I looked back at Bacher, who looked sheepish and somewhat confused and lost even as Kemp was pointing out the cameras attached high on the walls of the room, their lenses pointed down to where the two men had stood and shared me.

I was surprised—but in later years wouldn't have been—to find that the chauffeur who drove me home from the opera hall was Bacher's own chauffeur, who obviously had been embedded on Bacher's staff and was part of the operation. He stopped in the familiar quiet cul-de-sac short of my apartment compound and pounded my ass hard in the backseat. He was thug and rough enough for me, and I continued to see him and writhe under him for the rest of my tour in Bangkok.

Weeks later, I read in the newspaper that Ambassador Bacher had defected to the British in Singapore—everything well away from Bangkok. His family had been sent to London ahead of him. All neat and tidy.

"Regardless," the station chief said to me, looking down at me over the rim of his glasses, as we "discussed"—with him not sharing all that much—this matter in his office later that morning, "I don't think it would be wise now for you to accept that invitation to the Chopin competitions in Warsaw this year. You should arrange for your vice president to go. She's a classical pianist and you play show tunes, so I think you should manage to rationalize the switch."

"Oh, also," he said, as I was leaving his office. "There's a Russian freighter captain in town whose ship, we think, is carrying Russian arms to Vietnam. He's a rough thug, but we know that he likes your type. Rodney will brief you and arrange the encounter."

"Yes, sir, I understand," I said, as I turned and left the office. Not a preferred double, but the "rough thug" aspect was intriguing.

"And he has a first mate he likes to include in the play," the station chief called after me. "We have an officer in place on board who might be included too."

Even better, I thought, as my smile broadened. I was beginning to get a handle on my job here.