Date: Thu, 27 Oct 2005 19:36:45 -0400 (EDT)
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Knights of Aurora - Chapter 10

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what I write better.

The Knights of Aurora

Chapter 10

	As Michael watched, Daniel Bradley-Smith strolled nonchalantly
along the far wall of the estate. It seemed obvious to Michael that the
doctor was looking for some point of entry, a weakness to serve as a sally
port, such as a gate or an opening. Perhaps he was looking for a break, an
open culvert, a forgotten opening, in the high walls. He would find
nothing, of course, for there was nothing to find. The walls were well
maintained and topped with broken glass. The gateway onto the street was
kept closed, the gilt and glitter disguising hardened steel and there were
always four men inside the gatehouse, fully armed with automatic
weapons. The small gate that Laurence and Logan had used to infiltrate the
grounds was still there, but well hidden behind a flowering bush and, as
was the gate leading to the family compound to the south, alarmed and under
constant observation via CCTV.
	With narrowing eyes, Michael watched as one of the roving patrols
came into view. Daniel waved at the two men and engaged them in
conversation. Checking out the weapons the men carried? Michael assumed
that was exactly what the doctor was doing. Michael knew that the doctor
had a passing knowledge of arms and ammunition - he knew that every member
of the CAF was required to qualify on the small arms range each year. The
doctor, it seemed, might be an amateur spy, but apparently an amateur spy
of some competence.
	The Major followed Michael's gaze and observed tartly, "We must
think of something to keep him busy - and add to the misinformation he will
convey to Diem."
	Michael thought a moment and then rubbed his chin reflectively. "We
must keep Diem, and Minh, focused on the compound. So long as they are
watching me they will not be not paying too much attention to our other
. . ." He smiled grimly. " . . . Activities."
	"And how do you plan on doing that?" asked the Major. Michael could
be extremely devious when he had to be.
	"I have given what I wish to be done much thought," replied Michael
flatly. "I cannot risk an attack on the compound, not with the young
knights here." He looked evenly at the Major. "We must project a show of
force so formidable that Diem will not consider attacking us here."
	"There are the new men," the Major suggested. "They will have to be
brought out of hiding sooner or later."
	Michael nodded. "At first I had thought to let Diem think we were
undermanned, but that was wrong," he said. "Minh is determined to eliminate
me and a few innocent casualties will not concern him in the least. I
. . . we . . . must ensure the safety of our young gentlemen."
	"And how do you plan on doing that?"
	Smiling tightly, Michael nodded toward the slim figure of Doctor
Bradley-Smith. "We will overload him with information. Let him see our
strength, and report it!" A hulking figure appeared in the doorway. Michael
raised his hand, bidding the man to wait. "The new men will need to be
examined." Once again Michael nodded toward the doctor. "I also would like
his input in setting up a sick bay, a clinic."
	The Major laughed quietly and nodded enthusiastically at Michael's
muted suggestion. "A short arm parade! I love it!"
	"Given the doctor's . . . proclivities . . . I am sure he will
enjoy the experience," Michael answered dryly.
	Frowning, the Major could not help adding, "If that is the case it
could be the longest short arm parade in history! There are 50 new men and
. . ."
	"It is to be hoped that the doctor will remember his professional
ethics," interrupted Michael. Then he added, "And behave himself! The main
point is that he knows that we have 50 new men, strong, healthy,
ex-servicemen, and that he passes that information on to Diem."
	"And Minh?"
	"Soon," Michael replied as he motioned for the man in the doorway
to come onto the terrace.
	The Major's eyebrows rose slightly as the man bowed low to
Michael. "So, Michael has brought in the Tsangs," he thought. A small
shudder of trepidation coursed through the Major. If the Tsangs were
involved Michael was about to launch a war of extermination and Minh's days
were numbered.
	Tsang Lin Shao was the go-between between Michael Chan and Tsang Su
Shun, the Elder Brother of the Tsangs. Shao was a huge man, with a broad,
impassive face. He had a phenomenal memory and was valued for it. Shao
could be told something and would repeat it back once, word for word. He
would then return to the Elder Brother and repeat the message. Nothing was
ever written down and thus far Shao had never made a mistake.
	Michael began speaking in Hakka, which few Chinese, except for
Hakka people, spoke or understood. The Major listened, not understanding a
word, at the rapid-fire instructions Michael wished to be conveyed to Tsang
Su Shun. When Michael finished speaking Shao repeated every word the
Serenity had spoken.
	"Amazing," gasped the Major. "He is truly amazing!"
	For the first time Shao's broad face softened and a smile formed on
his lips.
	"Shao is a valuable, and valued friend," replied Michael as he
bowed his head slightly to hulking Chinese.
	From the corner of his eye the Major caught a movement. "The doctor
is heading this way," he warned.
	Shao stepped back, about to return to the house. Michael stopped
him. "Wait, I want the man to see you," he said to Shao. He waited until he
was certain that Doctor Bradley-Smith had seen the Chinese man and then
gestured slowly. "Su Shun is to prepare," he said quietly. "Do not fail
me."
	Shao bowed. "It shall be done, Great One," he murmured and
disappeared into the shadows of the house.

******

	Daniel had seen the Chinese man, someone he had never seen before
and wondered what, or who he was. He greeted Michael and the Major with a
false smile. "What a lovely estate, Michael," he burbled insincerely. He
pointedly did not mention seeing Shao. "The flowers are lovely."
	"Yes, they are," agreed Michael. He had a smile on his lips but his
dark eyes were cold. "I hope that my poor attempts at hospitality are
pleasing to you."
	"Oh, they are!" exclaimed Daniel. "And my room is gorgeous!" He
looked around and asked, "Where are the kids?"
	Wincing inwardly, the Major was hard put not to growl at the
ninny. "They went swimming. Perhaps you would care to join them?"
	The last thing Michael wanted was Doctor Bradley-Smith to have an
opportunity to drool or ogle the scantily clad young knights. "Alas, I must
ask him to forgo his pleasures," Michael said hurriedly.
	Daniel saw The Phantom, with Colin and Alex, followed by Chef, come
through the gate in the wall. He had no desire to put himself in a position
to be insulted by some fat old fraud and his whelps. "That's quite all
right," he burbled, the narrowing of his eyes telling both Michael and the
Major that it was not all right. "I forgot my swimming costume." He looked
at Michael. "Did you have something else in mind?"
	"Why, yes," said Michael, pretending friendship. "I hesitate to
ask, but you are a physician, after all."
	Daniel cocked an eyebrow. "Yes, I am. Are you ill?"
	Forcing a laugh, Michael shook his head. "I am in excellent health,
thank you," he said. "What I would like you to do, well, we have had a
staff problem of late."
	"Really?" Daniel feigned ignorance.
	Michael waved a hand airily. "Some dismissals. A sad affair,
actually." He pretended to frown. "We have had to hire some new security
officers and while I am sure they are all what they claim to be, I would be
much obliged if you would examine them."
	"Physicals?" asked Daniel, surprised. This was too easy!
	"Yes," interjected the Major. "When they were discharged from their
respective militaries they were certified as hale and hearty. However, as
they have all seen combat, and been away from the military since their
discharge we wish to be certain that they bring no baggage with them - a
disability, perhaps an injury they might have suffered afterward." He
looked sternly at the doctor and added, "We do not want to be saddled with
damaged goods, as it were."
	"I would also presume on your professional experience," continued
Michael. "I have many live-in employees, as I am sure you have noticed, and
we have no medical facilities. The nearest hospital is quite a distance
away and in the event of an accident, or a serious illness, we have nothing
and must rely on outside help."
	Daniel could well believe that statement. He could also believe
that Michael would want to keep his staff, and their problems, close to
home. He also thought that Michael's having the new men examined medically
a sensible precaution.  From what he had seen thus far the men of the
Security Force were prime specimens, very fit and alert and it stood to
reason that Michael would not want to take any chances with the men
guarding his home. Daniel, on a less altruistic level, also mentally
calculated how generous Minh would be upon learning this little bit of
information.  He feigned a serious, professional mien. "How may I help?" he
asked.
	"I would like you to assist the Major," Michael said
smoothly. "Inspect the facilities in the villages and find a place for a
clinic." He forced himself to give Daniel's hand a quick pat. "You will
know what will be needed."
	"And set up a schedule for the new lads," said the Major. "There
are 50 of them."
	Daniel's eyes grew wide. "Fifty?" he asked. "Fifty men?" He thought
a moment. "I'll need some supplies, disposable tongue depressors,
thermometers, minor stuff. I don't have enough in my bag."
	Michael's open-handed gesture signalled his complete
understanding. "You will also need an examining table, other equipment?" he
asked, leading the doctor on.
	"Well, yes."
	"Could I presume upon you to visit a medical supply house," Michael
asked earnestly. "Nothing but the best will do, and I know you will want
the best anyway." Michael, while he had every intention of actually setting
up a medical clinic, cared little about the cost. He needed the doctor to
go into the city and make the one mistake that Michael was counting on him
to make. Away from the scrutiny of the house, Daniel Bradley-Smith would no
doubt scurry to report to his master. "Of course," Michael continued, "you
will need funds." He nodded to the Major who returned Michael's nod and
left the table.
	Chef and The Phantom had seen the doctor sitting at the table with
Michael and Major Meinertzhagen and had suddenly found the activities of
the footmen and catering staff busily breaking down the pavilion and
trundling away the portable barbecues, very interesting.
	The actions of The Phantom and Chef were not lost on Daniel
Bradley-Smith. They were snubbing him, and were making no effort to hide
the fact. Daniel's eyes narrowed as he watched The Phantom and Colin
laughing together about something, and Alex pointing out the height of the
wall between the estates to Chef. He seethed inwardly, but there was
nothing he could do about the insults. He could, however, send a little
note to SIU. Both Chef and Colin were still members of the Canadian Armed
Forces. SIU would be very interested in their activities with a moribund,
dust-blown so-called "Order" of Knights, most of whom who were as gay as
ducks. Daniel had no fear about SIU investigating him. He had kept a low
profile and in any case planned to be far, far away when the shit hit the
fan.
	" . . . Do not skimp, Doctor," Michael was saying. "I am sure that
there is enough to outfit any decent clinic." Michael pushed a thick manila
envelope toward Daniel.
	Daniel regarded the envelope. He lifted it, feeling the weight of
the banknotes inside. "I can outfit a hospital for this kind of money," he
said, trying to make a joke.
	"Just a clinic," said the Major impatiently. "Perhaps now would be
a good time to make your inspection?"
	Daniel viewed his "inspection" as a perfect opportunity to
ascertain just what sort of security existed outside the walls of the
compound. He agreed readily to the Major's suggestion and followed him into
the house.
	The Major had made sure that everything Michael wanted the doctor
to see, he would see. The men were in place, the villages prepared. The
doctor would see a great deal. The doctor would see little. The doctor was
being given sufficient rope and the Major was more than happy to unreel the
hemp.
	As the doctor and the Major went inside, they passed Joel and
Patrick. Patrick had been downstairs in the under croft, listening to Joel
arguing with his computer. He had then stopped in the adjoining office to
speak with Joe Hobbes and Gabe Izard, bringing them up to date on what was
happening up top and was about to request a search of the records for
information on the leading members of the Triads when Joel let out a
triumphant whoop.
	"I got the bastard!" Joel crowed. As Gabe, Patrick and Joe crowded
the doorway of the computer room, they watched, amazed, as Joel leaned
forward and actually kissed the mainframe! He then cooed endearments at the
mass of wires and whatnot (none of the three actually understood what made
up a computer), patting the metal casing and smiling like a loon. "I got
the son-of-a-bitch traitor!" Joel waved a long sheet of printouts in the
general direction of the three men. "Where's Michael?"

******

	"What a maroon," Joel hissed scathingly, referring to
Bradley-Smith. "He's been on Minh's payroll for over a year!" He tapped the
printouts that he had laid before Michael. "More, I think, but the records
only go back that far."
	Michael made a "calm down" gesture at Joel. "I am aware of
that. Please explain."
	"Well, I was intrigued where the money in the BC Building Society
came from, so I did a little digging. The Building Society is updating its
records and I noticed that every deposit was a transfer from another
account - an account held by the Toronto Dominion Bank. I managed to get
into their computer and cross-referenced and found out that the money comes
from an outfit called the "Anglo-Oriental Trading Company." He looked at
Michael and grinned. "Would you care to hazard a guess who owns the
Anglo-American Trading Company?"
	Not waiting for an answer, Joel continued. "I decided to dig a
little deeper. The TD's files are all computerized and it was a snap." He
gave himself a metaphorical pat on the back, saw the flint in Michael's
impatient eyes, and hurried on. "I saw something that really intrigued
me. Every few months, at irregular intervals, there were large sums, all
under 10,000 dollars, all made to look as if they were bonus payments, I
think, and all transferred to Doctor Bradley-Smith's account."
	Michael understood what Joel was saying. The amounts would be under
the limit for money transfers, and thus would not draw the attention of
bank - or Federal Treasury regulators. Irregular amounts would draw even
less attention.
	"I added all the amounts and they came to 257,500 dollars!"
exclaimed Joel.
	"But you said he had less that 15,000 in his bank account,"
countered Michael. "Where did the money go?"
	"I haven't found that out . . . yet," replied Joel. His tone said
that he would, though.
	"Keep looking," Michael ordered, thinking that the doctor was
smarter than he looked or acted.
	"No danger," assured Joel as he stood up to leave the
table. "Here's the Major and Pete," he added as he walked toward the house.
	"Well?" Michael asked as the two men sat down.
	"The creature has found a place to set up a clinic," replied the
Major, his voice bland and devoid of expression. "He's off to purchase his
supplies."
	"We've got a tail on him," added Pete. "Wherever he goes, we'll be
there."
	Michael nodded. "You are determined, Pete, to carry out your plan?"
	Pete lowered his eyes. "It's the only way, Michael. Please don't
. . ."
	Holding up his hand, Michael spoke softly, "I will not say more."
He sighed. "I must consider, however, what to do with him when this is
over."
	Pete's eyes hardened. "Doctor Bradley-Smith betrayed you,
Michael. He's feeding information to your sworn enemy. Do you think he
would have a second thought, knowing as he does that every scrap of
information he gives Minh, or Diem, will be used against you?" Pete snorted
angrily. "The son of a bitch would smile that evil grin of his and spit on
your corpse!"
	The Major, who could not bring himself to refer to the doctor as a
human being, blurted, "A firing squad is too good for the creature! He is
willing to betray you, us, the Order!" The Major's eyes blazed with
righteous anger. "For what? Money! You offer him honour, you gave him a
knighthood, will give him a title, and all is for nothing!"
	Michael had no choice but to agree. "I think that is what hurts the
most." Michael suddenly rose and walked to the edge of the terrace, his
dark eyes taking in the peaceful gardens. He saw The Phantom, with Colin
and Chef, Alex in tow, laughing about something as they walked about,
admiring the beds of flowers. "I could understand his betrayal of me," he
said finally, his voice low, but loud enough to carry to the two seated
men. "I chose my life, and I expect that men will try to destroy me." He
turned his head sharply and his dark eyes bore into Pete. "I live by the
gun," Michael said. "I therefore expect men to come with guns to take what
I have away from me."
	Neither the Major nor Pete responded. There was no point.
	More of the young cadets emerged from the gate and Michael
sighed. "I am trying to build something that will allow those young men to
live their lives free of hatred, and discrimination. The Order has existed
for 800 years, and for 800 years men have betrayed it." Michael turned and
faced Pete and the Major. "How can I offer those young men succour and
honour, as the Rule compels, when even its own members betray their oaths?"
	The Major gestured impatiently. "You can hardly blame yourself for
the actions of another!" he insisted heatedly. "You can hardly be held
accountable for something that did not happen on your watch." He
shrugged. "I grant you that you have inherited a cesspool, but you are
cleaning it. Hunter, Willoughby, the unlamented Simpson, have been found
out, and stopped. In time you will know the others."
	Looking thoughtful, Michael nodded. "But how many are there?" he
asked pointedly. "How deep is the cesspool? And what do I . . . we . . . do
with the offal we dredge up?"
	Pete interjected. "Michael, Major, I'm not a part of your
Order. But I have been a part of something akin to it. Every group of
soldiers, whether in a section, a platoon or a company, must depend on each
other! We must trust each other without question. Our lives depended on our
fellow soldiers. It is ingrained in every grunt and gyrene almost from the
first day of their training: trust your brothers, never betray your oath,
no matter how bad it gets you look out for each other and you never turn
your back on them."
	"It is the law of the military," said the Major. "It is the law of
the Order. Time and time again men have gathered to face adversity. History
is replete with 'Last Stands' and 'Heroic Sieges'. Men have stood together
to face horrible adversity and stood the test. It is the same now." He
thought a moment. "To quote G.K. Chesterton, 'we are all in the same boat
in a stormy sea, and we owe each other a terrible loyalty.'"
	"The Order must be protected and defended," responded Michael
firmly. "We must remove those who have proved disloyal! Treachery cannot be
ignored or go unpunished!"
	Both the Major and Pete knew that Doctor Bradley-Smith's ultimate
fate was decided.
	"When?" Pete asked.
	"When the young gentlemen leave," Michael replied.
	There was nothing more to be said. The Major saw The Phantom
approaching and asked quietly, "Are you to tell him then?"
	"No," said Michael. "The doctor's treachery is directed more at me
than at the Order."
	"He is still a knight," observed the Major.
	"And I am still the Grand Master." Michael's tone was one of
finality. He turned abruptly and smiled sincerely at The Phantom. "Ah, my
young friend, you are back."
	Returning Michael's smile, The Phantom joined the others at the
table. "The guys are having a ball. Thanks, Michael."
	"No thanks are necessary," said Michael as he returned to his
seat. "You are my guests."
	"A pity you could not join in the swimming," observed the Major. He
regarded The Phantom's bandaged hand. "I do hope that the injury will not
prevent you from being a member of your school's swim team."
	It never ceased to amaze The Phantom how much the Order seemed to
know about him, and the others. "Oh, I think I'll be all right," countered
The Phantom. He held up his hand. "It doesn't hurt at all and the cut is
not that deep." He opened and closed his bandaged hand. "It doesn't hurt
that much and swim team tryouts don't start until mid-September. I'll be
healed by then."
	Michael was about to caution The Phantom about not using his hand
too much when Chef, with Colin, lumbered up the steps and pulled up a
chair. "Ah, faith, and it's a fine day," he began. "The lads are swimming
like the otters of Lough Derg, so they are." He looked around for a footman
and when one appeared almost by magic, asked, "A drink would be delightful,
for I'm that parched."
	The footman took their requests; The Phantom and Colin stuck to
Coca-Cola. Alex, who was still, officially, The Phantom's protection
officer, stood to one side, keeping watch. Nobody asked Chef what "The
Otters of Lough Derg" were, or even if they existed, for fear of setting
him off on one of his meandering flights of fancy.
	"Still, to sit to the sides and watch others doing something you
enjoy so much must have been disappointing," observed Michael.
	The Phantom recognized an opening when he saw it. "Oh, I had a fine
time," he replied with a smile. "I met some very nice guys. And Cory and
Todd met two of their fellow schoolmates."
	Michael looked askance. "They did? You did?"
	Taking a slow, deliberate drink of his Coke, The Phantom moved in
for the kill. "Yup." His green eyes sparkled as they regarded Michael. "You
have some very nice cousins," he said. "They were a little stand-offish at
first, but you know guys. Before you know it they're all mucking in and
having fun."
	Michael did not know guys. He had not been allowed to be "one of
the boys", since his youth he had never been allowed to form friendships.
	The Phantom continued in an off-hand manner. "Todd is going to see
that Alistair is brought into his house at school, and I think Arden fell
in love with Harry!" He laughed off-handedly. "Harry is a born Sea
Daddy. Anyway, they're all having a good time."
	A small smile formed on Michael's lips. "Are you recruiting new
candidates?" he asked.
	"Oh, no, not really," responded The Phantom. "Just making friends."
He frowned slightly. "I sort of got the impression that they're pretty
insulated, except for school."
	Chef's eyebrows rose slightly. Phantom darlin', the wee devil, was
up to his old tricks. He decided to help out. "Fine, stout lads, so they
are," he boomed. "Sure and once the young cousins discovered that our lads
were not barbarians, and wanting nothing more than to eat them, why they
were bosom companions! Like the Seraphs of Cobh, so they are, too. A fine,
handsome family you have, Michael darlin'." He sipped his whisky. "Such a
fine family."
	Michael tried to think. Because of his position in the criminal
underworld he had deliberately avoided contact with his cousins. They were
safer if he stayed on his side of the wall, and they on theirs.
	"They are," agreed The Phantom. "The boys are getting along great."
He looked at Michael. "It's going to be a chore to have to break away."
	"Break away?" asked Michael.
	"Well, you know, we have to leave soon, and everybody's having so
much fun." Once again he pretended to frown. "But I guess that's the way of
it. You make friends and then you have to go away."
	"You can hardly have known them that well," grumbled the Major,
unwittingly giving The Phantom another opening.
	"True, but I would like to get to know them better, especially
Alistair." He saw Michael's eyes widen slightly and continued on. "He
seems, well, lonely. He doesn't have anyone else but his brother, and his
cousins. He seems very nice."
	Michael could not reply for he did not know Alistair, really. The
boy was just another cousin.
	"It must be a bitch, being stuck at home all the time," continued
The Phantom, "with just school to look forward to."
	"I am sure that my cousins have plenty to amuse themselves with,"
returned Michael tightly. Was The Phantom taking him to task for ignoring
his family?
	"I'm sure they do," countered The Phantom. "But look at it this
way. They're young, and want to explore. I did when I was their age."
	Michael could not help smiling. He sniffed silently. Their age
indeed! The Phantom was not yet eighteen!
	"You know," began The Phantom, trying to look thoughtful, "young
guys need to get out and see the world. Why, back home I wander all over
the place. You'd be surprised what you can see if you go looking. And it's
great to just hang out with the guys. You learn a lot about them when you
do."
	The Phantom's unwavering green eyes caused Michael to squirm
slightly. He had neglected his family and knew nothing about them. He had
also seen how well the cadets interacted together, and how devoted they
were to one another. He remembered the days of his youth, the days before
he had been taken under Uncle Henry's wing, the days when he and his
cousins had gone off to swim at Wreck Beach, or climb Burnaby Mountain,
trips to Grouse Mountain, and Whistler.
	Michael also remembered that they always travelled in a group,
always seemed to be surrounded by minders, and never allowed to make
friends outside of the family. Perhaps, Michael thought, he had been too
protective. As much as he hated the thought Michael realized that his
younger male cousins were just that, males, and if the cadets of Aurora
were any indication, inquisitive, curious young males wanting to explore
the outside world. They needed the company of other boys. And who knew,
they might also form useful friendships, which he had not done. He was
related to his cousins by blood, and yet he had never made a friend of any
of them.
	"Well, perhaps we can arrange something," suggested Michael. "An
outing . . ."
	At that moment Harry, surrounded by a gaggle of black Speedo-clad
Chinese boys, all chattering and playing grab ass, abetted by Harry, of
course, came into the garden. The Cousins, none of whom had ever been
inside Michael's compound, stopped and stared around, somewhat in
awe. Then, in the manner of bloodhounds sniffing the air, the Cousins
collectively turned to where the barbecues and refreshment pavilion were
being dismantled.
	The Twins, with Alistair and Arden in tow, appeared next. Arden was
all but scampering with joy as the Twins poked him and laughed at his
antics.
	Michael had never seen the young cousins so . . . animated. He had
never seen them except in the most formal of situations; a choir of
grim-faced, black clad boys who spoke only when spoken to, and never seem
to laugh, gravely accepting his gifts, never allowing their true feelings
to show.
	Watching the boys, Michael mused, "Yes, an outing together?" he
asked no one in particular. He saw Harry gesturing toward the now collapsed
pavilion, apparently regaling the boys with tales of magnificent food and
drink. Michael turned and gestured for the footman, who had been standing
quietly to one side. "Ask the Maestro to bring something for the boys to
eat. They have been swimming and will be hungry."
	"Cake!" rumbled Chef. "Lads like cake!"
	"I am sure they do," replied Michael smoothly. He smiled at the
footman, who was also smiling. "Please ask the Maestro to do his best and
yes, bring cake."
	The Phantom smiled his secret smile and observed artlessly, "You
know, I just had a thought."
	"Surprise, surprise!" murmured Colin, hoping that Michael had not
overheard.
	Giving his lover a dark look, The Phantom continued. "We're all
going out to dinner, right?"
	"Yes. I have arranged for my restaurant to be available," replied
Michael, suspecting that he would be hosting more than just knights at
table.
	"Well, perhaps we might invite your young cousins?" asked The
Phantom. "They did give up their pool for us after all. Maybe it would be
nice, a thank you, sort of?" The Phantom cocked his head and grinned at
Michael.
	Shaking his head, Michael laughed inwardly. A service for a
service, a favour for a favour, he thought. "I don't see why not," he said
presently. "If you wish it."
	The Phantom regarded Michael a moment. "If you wish it," he said
softly.
	Michael could not bring himself to break the spell of camaraderie
that filled his back garden. He could also not bring himself to deny The
Phantom. He suspected that the young knight was up to something, something
that involved one or more of his young cousins, but had no idea - yet -
just what the boy was up to. He made his decision. "I wish it."
	Turning to the Major, Michael asked, "Will you make the
arrangements with the restaurant?" He smiled grimly. "The chef will pitch a
fit when I add a dozen extra seats."
	"All chef's are as mad as hatters," retorted the Major,
deliberately looking at Chef.
	Chef was not impressed. "At least we don't go crawling through rice
paddies, slithering along like salamanders."
	Before the Major exploded with indignation at the veiled slur on
his beloved Royal Marines, Patrick Tsang came onto the terrace. He nodded
ever so slightly at Michael. Doctor Bradley-Smith had left on his shopping
trip and the surveillance teams were following him.

******

	The Dallas Road brothel was very quiet. Thursday was always a slow
day and few of the courtesans were in evidence. They used the down time to
shop, or sleep. When Daniel was admitted there was only one boy, much too
young to appeal to the doctor, lounging in the parlour.
	"Is Diem here?" Daniel asked the hulking retainer who had answered
the door.
	"Upstairs," the man grunted. "You wait." He turned and reached for
the house phone, spoke a few words in Vietnamese and then grunted again. He
hung up the telephone and told Daniel, "In office. You go up."
	Dismissing the doorman, a flunky of no importance in Daniel's
opinion, with a wave of his hand, the doctor climbed the stairs and rapped
officiously on the office door. He heard a muffled reply and entered.
	Diem was seated at his desk, working on some cabalistic figures
written on a long sheet of paper. He looked up. "Why are you not at your
post," he asked without preamble.
	Ignoring Diem's rudeness, Daniel helped himself to a drink from the
array of bottles on the sideboard. "I'm out shopping. And I have news."
Crooking his little finger, Daniel sipped his drink. "Since I was out I
thought I'd report it." He simpered. "So much more intimate than the
telephone, don't you think?"
	Scowling, for he had no interest, intimate or otherwise, in the
doctor, Diem waved his hand dismissively. "Then report," he growled.
	Daniel languidly reported everything he had seen; including how
well armed the security force seemed to be. He also informed Diem about the
staff dismissals and the expected reinforcements.
	"Chinese?" asked Diem.
	Daniel shook his head. "No, or at least I don't think so. No one
mentioned anything about Chinese. I was told that all the new men are
ex-military and I had the impression that they're white." He smiled
languidly over the rim of his glass. "Chan has asked me to give the new men
physicals. I'm supposed to be shopping for medical supplies."
	Diem looked on disapprovingly as the doctor draped his free hand
across the back of his chair, looking like some over acting Summer Stock
ingénue.
	"I'll know more tomorrow," Daniel said.
	"No doubt more than I wish to know," thought Diem. He asked, his
face impassive. "You are certain that there are no Chinese guards?"
	"None that I saw," replied Daniel with an airy wave of his hand. "I
did see one, a large, very ugly thing. He was getting some orders, or
something from Chan. Then there's Chan's new secretary." He looked
conspiratorially at Diem. "If you ask me, he's more than a secretary."
	"I did not ask," responded Diem, his face impassive. "He is
Chinese, though?"
	"Yes. His name is Patrick Tsang and . . ." Daniel stopped speaking
abruptly, surprised at the reaction Patrick's name had caused in Diem.
	"A Tsang!" whispered Diem in horror. His face seemed to drain of
blood. "A Tsang!"
	"Are you all right?" Daniel asked, not really all that interested,
but he had to say something.
	"You do not want to know!" replied Diem in a whisper. Abruptly
ignoring the doctor, Diem began to write down what his spy had told him.
	"A Tsang!" Diem thought. "Dear God, a Tsang!"

******

	Years before, in Saigon, Diem began his career as a criminal,
employed by General Minh as an enforcer. The General had fingers in many
pies, all of them profitable, and all of them with debtors who were slow in
paying. When he was not tooling around the streets of Saigon on his Citroen
motor scooter, trying to impress the merchants and girls, Diem would visit
delinquent shop and stall keepers who had failed to meet their weekly or
monthly payments for "protection". He specialized in deftly removing, with
a sharp knife, small pieces of flesh from the arms and buttocks of stubborn
peasants who claimed poverty while squealing their inability to pay.
	With plenty of money, dressed in tight American blue jeans and a
body-hugging white T-shirt, Diem swaggered through the streets, enjoying
the fear he engendered wherever he walked. General Minh's patronage opened
doors that would have been firmly closed in Diem's face. He even enjoyed
the amenities of the Circle Sportif, an exclusive sporting club with a pool
patronized by Saigon's military and civilian elite, and their arrogant,
handsome children.
	Before the betrayal, as Diem viewed it, the sporting club had also
been a favourite cruising ground for American officers. Diem could have
supplemented his income many times over but, not being at all interested in
the lowered looks that scanned his near-naked body every time he appeared
poolside, at least from the men, he did not. He sometimes considered it
ironic that he now spent much of his time in a brothel, populated by males,
and patronized by males.
	As Minh's enforcer, Diem was sometimes teamed with the General's
chief lieutenant, a slim, arrogant man named Van, and another, younger man
who bore the unfortunate name of Ho Chi Minh! Poor Ho was castigated from
all sides for his name and compensated for it by being particularly vicious
when it came to northern sympathisers who were behind in their payments.
	Diem was not surprised or worried when one morning Van announced
that he, Diem, and Ho had a special collection to make in Cholon, the
"Large Market", the Chinese section of Saigon.
	Located on the right bank of the Dong Nai, Cholon was a warren of
alleys and winding byways, a place where smart Vietnamese rarely went, even
the dreaded QC, "White Mice", as the Vietnamese military police were
called. The Chinese loathed the Vietnamese and viewed any outsider with
suspicion.
	With the true contempt a Vietnamese held for a Chinese, Diem
followed Van's car as it wended its way through the narrow streets of
Cholon. Diem had been told only that the trio was to make a collection, and
impress upon the shopkeeper, a man named Tsang, that one would always pay
one's debts, on time, and without falling back on the old Chinese custom of
settling accounts on New Year's Day.
	Secure in his arrogance, Diem had entered the ramshackle warehouse
that housed the business enterprises of the Tsang clan. The place reeked of
very old, very dead fish and, except for a thin, reedy old man, appeared to
be empty. Van, as spokesman, demanded payment, an exorbitant sum, which the
old man disputed. At a glance from Van both Diem and Ho brought out long
clasp knives and flipped them open. The old man did not move. He regarded
the three Vietnamese with contempt and then barked a word, which none of
the Vietnamese understood.
	Out of nowhere there appeared six of the largest, ugliest, men Diem
had ever seen and before two seconds had passed not only had he lost his
knife, but the small pistol he had secreted down the back of his jeans. He,
Van and Ho tried to fight, but it was a lost cause. Van shouted and
screamed dire threats while blows rained down on his head and torso. Ho, a
braver soul, fought back but was soon doubled over, vomiting violently from
a blow to his groin.
	Diem, more afraid that he had ever been in his life, found an inner
strength he did not know he had, and managed to break the hold on his
arms. He ran, ran as if all the devils of the Celestial Kingdom were
screeching after him, across the crowded roadway and dove in panic into the
river. He swam frantically downriver, ignoring the cries and shouts of the
boatmen of the dozens of fishing boats and barges that crowded the
river. He only stopped when a long, low, grey patrol boat manned by
Vietnamese Marines threatened to shoot him.
	Pulled aboard, Diem was taken to the local military compound where
he was threatened and beaten, suspected as a VC sympathiser. Only after
screaming out General Minh's name was Diem released. It was well after
midnight and rather than try to find his way through the maze of streets,
Diem spent the night huddled under a cart.
	When he reported the failure of his mission to the General, Diem
was again beaten. The General did not like failure. Diem had protested and
protested, but Minh was unsympathetic. Minh was about to pass final
judgement on the quivering, weeping Diem when two street coolies, army
deserters who owned an ancient truck, delivered two large, tin-lined tea
chests. They did not know the contents of the chests. A man had stopped
them near the Marine Monument and paid them well to deliver the
chests. They knew nothing of the stranger except that he spoke Vietnamese
with a Hakka accent. He had paid well and given the address. That was all
the men were interested in.
	Wondering how the address of his secret villa, which not even his
wife or his current mistress knew could be known to some stranger, Minh
ordered the tea chests opened. What he saw was a fetid, stomach churning
mass of what looked liked chum, the bait fishermen used to attract
sharks. Fearing a bomb, Minh ordered Diem to poke about in the mess and
then stood well back. Diem did as ordered and turned over what looked like
a mass of bloody seaweed. The sightless eyes in the severed head stared
into nothingness. Van had been returned.
	Diem, screaming and soiling himself, fled in panic. That night he
visited a whorehouse and drank himself into oblivion. Two days later the
General contacted him and Diem returned. Nothing was ever said of the fate
of Van and Ho and General Minh quietly wrote off the debt owed by the
Tsangs.

******

	Shuddering at the memory of the Cholon Tsangs, Diem returned,
reluctantly, to his business. "You are certain that new men are in place?"
he asked.
	Daniel shrugged his indifference. "From the way Chan was talking I
think so." He rubbed his crotch reflectively. The urge was returning and
wanted to go upstairs. "Be very careful," Daniel warned. "The place is
crawling with guards, well-armed guards. They seem to be Yanks and Kippers,
all ex-service, Marines, SAS, SEALS, well-trained and dangerous." He
emphasized the last word. Daniel finished his drink and stood.
	Diem looked at Daniel. The information he had given was valuable,
even if useless. It was obvious that the Chan compound was too well
guarded. He sighed inwardly. "Does Chan ever leave that place?" he asked
impatiently.
	"I have no idea," responded Daniel. "He's hosting a dinner tonight
at his restaurant for his guests." He simpered importantly. "I'm invited."
	Making a face, Diem waved Daniel away. "Go. Continue your work."
	When Daniel closed the door behind him, Diem rose and walked to the
array of bottles. He poured a large scotch and sat back down. He could not
recommend an attack to the General, not yet. The time was not
propitious. He could not attack the restaurant. He did not dare attack the
restaurant. Chinatown was Chinatown, filled with tourists, the life-blood
of Vancouver. Attacking anyone in Chinatown would bring down the wrath of
the police, the civic authorities, and invited too much unwanted
attention. The Elders of the Tongs would not be pleased. No, there was too
much to lose, too many imponderables.
	The doorkeeper entered without knocking. He jerked his thumb toward
the ceiling. "He go upstairs," he said without inflection.
	Diem nodded. Let the man enjoy his fun.

******

	The room was dark, the only light coming from the black candles
flickering around the room. "Be gentle, Master," Daniel pleased in mock
humility as he began to strip off his clothing. "I have only a little
time."
	The "Master" was not prepared for a customer. His leather vest was
open and his codpiece was open. He quickly donned the black leather mask
and picked up the light, cloth-covered whip that he knew the doctor
favoured. "I am never gentle, slave," The Master snarled. "On your knees!"
	Whimpering his anticipation, and all but licking his lips, Daniel
sank to his knees, his hand reaching out to touch the long, thick, cylinder
of flesh hanging from the Master's codpiece. Before he could take the
object of his desire in his mouth, the Master pushed Daniel's hand
away. "Wait," he commanded. He gestured and from out the darkest shadow
came another man, large, burley, and seemingly covered in body hair.
	The Master leaned down. "I have a treat for you slave. I have
promised him that you will be most compliant." He brought the whip down on
Daniel's bare back, not hard enough to break the skin or draw blood, but
hard enough to sting.
	Wiggling with pleasure as the pain rippled through his body, Daniel
moaned his acceptance.
	The strange man stood beside the Master, who quickly unsnapped the
red leather cover of the man's codpiece, revealing an impossibly thick,
slug-like penis with a long, dangling ferrule of skin. Daniel's eyes lit up
and without asking permission he skittered forward on his knees. He took
the stranger's dangling bit of skin into his mouth, suckling happily.
	"The slave will please you," the Master rumbled at the
stranger. "He's queer for skin."
	As the foreskin in his mouth began to shorten, and the penis
harden, Daniel groaned ecstatically. The stranger looked down at the slight
figure devouring his cock and grinned. "Fucker must breathe through his
ears!"