BarbarianSpy Xtreme: white slavery, dp, some reluctance
Cosmo Eracules, as an eighteen-year-old orphaned refugee of the 1973 invasion of Cyprus by Turkey, is forced to take up male prostitution in Athens to survive. He is acquired by a wealthy patron who keeps him secret from his family and world and who dies while having sex with Cosmo on a yacht he has put in Cosmo’s name. Fearing arrest for his patron’s death, Cosmo and the crewman flee across the Mediterranean on the yacht, Cosmo’s only possession, which he will rename the Apykos, and use as his home and later as his base of operations.
In Beirut he barely avoids being taken by a white slaver for sale to Arab men in the Middle East.
Rather than shrinking from the concept of young male prostitutes being taken by white slavers to sell to wealthy men, though, Cosmo embraces it. He himself becomes a pimp of young men in bad straits willing to sell their bodies to recover their fortunes. Young men who Cosmo then seduces, debauches, and sells to rich men. He mines the high-stakes casinos from Macau to Monte Carlo to Morocco to Las Vegas over nearly forty years. In the latter years he is moving just a step or two ahead of law enforcement.
Will he manage to retire and get out of the business or will the sordid past he has drifted into catch up with him?
Cosmo and Andreas were barely holding their own at the roulette table in the black-tie-required Cercle d’Or Room of Beirut’s Casino Du Liban. They needed to do more than hold their own, though. After three months’ sailing around the Mediterranean, they were short on their cash—or, rather, on the cash they’d found in Petropopolous’ safe in the main bedroom cabin of the yacht. They both had their passports, so countries weren’t denied them, but they thought it best to stay away from Greece for some time. The newspapers had termed Petropopolous’ disappearance a mystery, with a hint of sour and shady business dealings. There had been no hint that he kept two male prostitutes on a string or that he had a bad heart. . . .
Andreas was taking the brunt of Cosmo’s ire at the table because he had boasted how good he was at gambling and that increasing their stash was a sure thing by stopping in Beirut. The Lebanese Mediterranean port had the only casino in the Arab world in the 1970s and the only one on the eastern end of the Mediterranean where it was safe for the two friends to play. The Western end of the Mediterranean boasted many casinos in seaside cities, but they needed more money than they had to pay for the petrol to get there.
Looking worried, Andreas pushed away from the table. “I’ve got to go take a piss,” he said, “Be back in a few minutes. I’ll try to bring better luck back with me.”
“Maybe we should leave before you lose what money we have,” Cosmo muttered, barely holding in his anger. The dark-skinned, late-thirties Arab sitting across the roulette table from him, with two bodyguards standing behind him, gave Cosmo a sharp look. Cosmo noticed and looked away, not wanting anyone, especially another player, to see the tension between the two young Greeks.
It was too late, though.
“Your friend. He has just about lost all of your resources, hasn’t he?” The voice was British, but the look was definitely Arab. Rich Arab, though. The man was wearing traditional Arab garb, a white cotton robe, called a dishdasha, and a headdress, called a ghutra, but they were of fine material and elegantly cut. And his hands were well manicured, with rings on his fingers, any one of which would have solved the Greek friends’ solvency problems for a couple of years.
He had the face of a fox, which, while certainly handsome, exhibited a sense of superiority and cunning. His dark facial hair included a mustache and beard, but they were close cropped. He was on the thin side, but his chest pushed at the material of the dishdasha to indicate that he was well muscled in the pecs. In all, he looked spoiled and very well taken care of.
“We are doing fine,” Cosmo answered. He took a swig of his gin and tonic to feign nonchalance, but he immediately knew that was a mistake, because the Arab was hawkeyed enough to see the tremble in his hands.
“I am Jabir al-Shabat,” the man said in a manner that suggested that Cosmo should know who he was. Cosmo didn’t, but later he checked the name to find that he was a member of the ruling family of what was then the sheikdom of Kuwait.
When Cosmo didn’t respond fast enough, Al-Shabat said, “And you? You and your friend are Greeks, are you not?”
“My name is Cosmo. Cosmo Eracules,” Cosmo answered. “I am Greek Cypriot.”
“And your friend?”
“Andreas. He’s from mainland Greece.” Cosmo didn’t want to presume to pass on Andreas’ last name. . . .
“And you are lovers, no? . . .”
“I think I’ve had enough for the night,” Cosmo said, starting to rise from the table and looking around for Andreas, who wasn’t in sight yet. Cosmo became frightened as, with a gesture from the Arab, the two bodyguards moved around the table to stand behind him.
“Please don’t leave so quickly, Cosmo Eracules,” the Arab said in a smooth, very-much-in-control voice. “I sense that you two are adventurers and are in need of a great deal of support to be able to continue your adventures. And I sense that you both will go with a man for a price. I fancy your friend, Andreas, and I can offer you a very large price for him.”
