Date: Fri, 26 Aug 2005 10:39:22 -0400 (EDT)
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Knights of Aurora - Chapter 6

The Knights of Aurora is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to places, or
persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2005 by John Ellison

This chapter contains scenes of homosexual activity between consenting
adults, which may be offensive to some readers. If this is the case, please
move on to another, less offensive site. If downloading, reading, or
possessing writings of this genre is forbidden by local, state or
provincial law in your area, please move on. Readers are also reminded that
they must be of legal age (18/21) to read, possess or download this story.

As some of you are aware, the first volume of this series, "The Phantom of
Aurora" is in print. I hope to publish the second volume, "Boys of Aurora"
soon. In order to maintain continuity, and avoid the pitfalls of
"publisher's artwork" I would like to invite my readers to submit
photographs, colour or black and white, in jpeg format (size 6 x 9). I
would navy oriented group photos if possible, or just something you might
like to see as a book cover. I can only offer full attribution (or not, the
photographer's choice) and a copy of the printed work(s). I look forward to
hearing from many of you!

The Knights of Aurora

Chapter 6

	The Phantom sat silently, staring at the dark smoky remnants of the
small whisky Michael had poured for him. His eyes blazed with an anger he
could not express. Slowly his hand closed around the glass until his
knuckles whitened and then the glass shattered. The Phantom barely winced
as first a shard of crystal slashed the heel of his hand and then the
whisky scoured the wound with its harshness.
	Michael reacted swiftly as blood seeped through The Phantom's
tightly closed fist and dripped slowly onto the cream and blue and gold
carpet under the young man's chairs. Quickly Michael found the fine cambric
handkerchief in his pocket and pressed it onto The Phantom's hand. "You
need a doctor!" he exclaimed. "I'll send for . . ."
	"No!" The Phantom snapped, his eyes flaring. "Not him!" He pressed
the handkerchief against the wound. "It's nothing," he said quietly. "A
little direct pressure . . ."
	"Will do nothing!" returned Michael. He ignored the truculent look
on The Phantom's. "You are not yet the Prince of the Order, and I am still
the Grand Master!" He walked quickly to the door and opened it. In the
corridor Alex Grinchsten was standing guard.
	Alex had seen The Phantom and Michael leave the terrace and quickly
extricated himself from the soccer game - much to the loud protests of
Randy and Joey - and hurried inside. His job was to protect his
'principal', not to play football. There was also the added incentive that
inside, on guard, there would be no errant little hands slipping up the leg
of his shorts when he wasn't looking!
	Michael gestured to the young protection officer. "Find Doctor
Bradley-Smith and have him come to the office. Have him bring his bag."
Alex's face showed no emotion as he turned to carry out Michael's
order. "Quietly, Sergeant," Michael ordered. "There has been an accident,
and we do not need witnesses."
	Alex nodded and hurried off.
	When he returned to the office Michael took hold of The Phantom's
hand. The Phantom raised his eyes and a small tear coursed his down his
cheek. "I can scarcely believe it," he whispered. "That one of us would
. . . that a knight . . ." he managed through his anger.
	"It is all true, Phantom," said Michael. "Hold this tighter," he
directed. "The Gunner has photographic evidence. There are lists of names."
He shrugged. "In retrospect it should not be surprising that some of the
knights lost their faith, forgot their vow."
	"To the extent that they financed a nest of . . . slavers?"
exclaimed The Phantom. "They must have known where the boys were coming
from! They used their money, their power, to support . . . infamy!"
	"Yes, they did," agreed Michael with a sadness he could not truly
express.
	"And the boys, sir! What of them?"
	"Chef has told you a great deal. I have added to your anger, and
your anguish," replied Michael. "I can tell you, dear son, that steps have
been taken. The Gunner has made arrangements in Toronto, and Ottawa. Soon,
very soon, the boys will be freed. A place has been made for them, a
hospital . . ."
	With the mention of a "hospital" The Phantom smiled, for the first
time since he had entered the office. "I donated all the money I had on me
to help found a hospital," he said quietly. "I think it was $5.64."
	"Actually, it was $5.37," corrected Michael. "You gave it to Chef,
who wanted to pawn his ring." He returned The Phantom's smiled. "I have
exercised my authority as Grand Master and Chef will not be selling his
ring. Your donation has been recorded and allocated to the hospital."
	The Phantom nodded. "Good." His eyes darkened. "And the men
involved?" he asked pointedly.
	"A Bar of Justice has been called," answered Michael.
	"Death by hanging!" responded The Phantom, his voice strong. He
glanced at Michael. "And whether I am a Prince, or a Knight, or merely a
frightened young man, I will be true to my vow."
	Michael nodded slowly. "The fear will remain, and that is good. I
know that you will be true, as will the others you brought to me. The Order
is well served."
	"Not by all," said The Phantom.
	"It is best not to rush to judgement," replied Michael.
	"But there will be a judgement?"
	"There is always a judgement," said Michael. "The matter will be
looked into."
	Before The Phantom could comment there was a short rap on the door
and Doctor Bradley-Smith bustled in clutching a black medical bag. "There
has been an accident?" he asked, his eyes darting about the room. His hopes
could not have worked out better!
	"Phantom has cut his hand," said Michael coldly. "Please examine
it."
	Kneeling, Daniel took away the handkerchief and clucked loudly,
"My, my, a nasty cut!"
	The Phantom flinched at the doctor's touch but remained silent.
	"Come to the desk," Daniel ordered brusquely. "I need a flat
surface to work on."
	The Phantom sat in Michael's chair while Daniel quickly set to
work. He pulled out a small bottle of a dark, coppery liquid and searched
for some cotton swabs.
	"What's that?" asked The Phantom.
	"Betadine," replied Daniel. "Scotch is a good sterilizer, but
better to drink." After cleaning the wound Daniel brought out a syringe and
a small vial. "Xylocaine. It will dull the wound area while I do some fine
stitching." He grinned a horsy smile, all teeth and insincerity.
	Michael, engrossed in what Bradley-Smith was doing, and at The
Phantom's expression of distaste, did not hear Chef, Colin, Alex and Frank
Stockman enter the office. Chef saw the dark look on Michael's face, and
the thunderclouds in The Phantom's eyes, and thought, "Oho, sure and
something is going on!" He said nothing, however, and sat in the chair
recently vacated by The Phantom. Colin stood to one side of the desk while
Alex stood close by, his blue/grey eyes, hard and piercing, never leaving
Doctor Bradley-Smith, or what he was doing.
	When the freezing took effect Daniel deftly closed the wound in The
Phantom's hand with four stitches. He washed the wound with some saline and
then reached out his hand. The Phantom cringed, thinking that the doctor
was about to pat his knee. The Phantom's eyes blazed when Daniel's hand
came to rest on his leg, bare inches from his crotch.
	Chef, who saw the blackness in The Phantom's eyes, stood and
quickly started chattering. "Sure, and a small wound. I've had worse, so I
have."
	Daniel's hand withdrew . . . quickly, and he began to pack away his
needles and sutures, deliberately turning his back to Chef as he did so.
	Chef ignored the insult. "Now then, Phantom as the surgeon has
worked his wonders, you must come and sample some of the delightful viands
and victuals that young Ginger has made for us. Did you know that he comes
from a village not two miles hence from me own home place?"
	Michael, Colin, and The Phantom turned to stare at Chef, Michael
thinking that Chef had finally succumbed to alcoholic delirium. Alex's
mouth fell open. Daniel pretended not to notice.
	"Sure he knows the same people I do. We had a fine chat, so we
did." Chef's eyes never left the doctor as he rambled on. "He even knew
. . ." Anxious to distract The Phantom - who looked as if he were about to
rip the doctor's head off, Chef thought quickly and spoke the first thing
that came into his head. Unfortunately he had been reading a battered copy
of a new novelist's work, The Onion Field, by Joseph Wambaugh. "Ah
. . . aye, he knew the Anteaters!" he blurted.
	Michael, Colin and The Phantom stared open-mouthed at Chef's
inanity, not believing a word they were hearing. Frank's eyes grew large
behind the thick lenses of his glasses, magnifying them to huge orbs of
amusement. Alex's jaw snapped shut and thin smile formed on his lips. His
eyes brightened and danced with laughter.
	"A fine family, so they were, eleven boys and six girls! The boys
were the talk of the town when they all went down the public health for
their school physicals! Sure it's said the doctor - a fine man . . ." Here
Chef glared at Daniel's back, leaving no one in the room ignorant of the
old man's opinion of Doctor Bradley-Smith. " . . . Fair fainted when they
lowered their all-in-ones! Like my old Da's Friesian bull they were! And
popular with the lassies, although young Liam, the middle lad, he had an
eye more for the lads than the lassies . . ."
	Daniel turned abruptly and snapped sharply, "Will that be all?" he
asked, suppressing a sneer at Chef.
	Michael, all but mesmerized by Chef's antics, nodded and waved
toward the door. As the doctor, his lips set primly, left the office.
	The door had barely clicked shut when The Phantom, followed by
Colin and Michael, burst out laughing. Alex, trying to maintain a
professional mien, almost choked trying to stifle his laughter. Chef
beamed!
	"Anteaters!" exclaimed The Phantom. "Wherever did you come up with
that?" he asked, standing and moving toward Chef, wanting to give him a
hug. "Chef, I can't believe you and how you . . ." The Phantom stopped and
looked intently at Alex. "My God! You can laugh!"
	A deep blush coloured Alex's face. "Well, yes, I can!" he
returned. "I do have a sense of humour, you know!" His words were soft,
however, and his eyes glowed. "I just don't show it all the time."
	"So it would seem," observed The Phantom dryly. He winced, in spite
of the anaesthetic, as he moved his fingers.
	"Are you in pain, then?" asked Chef solicitously.
	"I'll live," responded The Phantom.
	"That quack should have prescribed morphia!" said Chef,
rising. "For the pain, which I am sure is more than you can bear." He moved
toward the drinks table, eyeing the crystal decanters.
	The Phantom, seeing where Chef was heading, repeated, "I'll live."
	"Now, now, Phantom darlin', your health must be taken care of."
Chef adroitly poured a round of scotch - there was no rum - and began to
hand the filled glasses to the others. "Now, in normal times I would
prescribe a wee drop or ten of Pusser Penicillin. However, when all else
fails a little Scottish wine will do in a pinch."
	At first, Alex declined the proffered glass. "I'm on duty," he said
with a shake of his head.
	The Phantom glanced at Michael, who nodded slightly, took the glass
from Chef, and handed it to Alex. "I would be honoured if you would drink
with us," he said quietly.
	Alex took the drink. "Thank you," he murmured.
	"Not at all," responded The Phantom with some emotion. "You are,
after all, one of us."
	Starting, Alex looked into The Phantom's emerald green eyes. He
could not speak, and he could not explain the warm tremor that rippled
through his body.
	"Come, and sit," ordered Chef equably. "There are things that must
be discussed." He paused and looked purposefully at Michael. "Doctor
Bradley-Smith, for one!" he finished with a growl.
	"He's a scheming prick," observed Colin. "He's up to something."
	"So I understand," said Michael staring into his drink. He looked
at Chef. "Perhaps it is time?" he asked, knowing the answer.
	Chef nodded and Michael indicated seats. "Please sit." He noticed
Frank and Alex about to withdraw. "Please stay, Commander Stockman, and you
Sergeant Grinchsten."
	Frank settled back in his chair. Alex, surprised at Michael's
request, found a seat. This was the first time that any of the security
staff - so far as Alex knew - had been made privy to anything other than
the normal day-to-day security operations. He was also very curious about
something he had heard whispers about, something called . . . The Order.
Settling behind his desk, Michael spoke softly, calmly and very
coolly. "Commander, I have asked you to remain because, quite frankly, if
our plans come a cropper, you will be the front man so far as the
authorities are concerned. Our new knights, after all, are your cadets."
	Frank could have argued that point, but did not. As the Commanding
Officer of HMCS Aurora anything involving the cadets would end up on his
plate. The new knights, however, were The Phantom's, plain and simple. He
was merely the official custodian.  Frank smiled. "Once more into the
breach, dear friends," he thought as he said to Michael, "Goes with the
territory, Michael."
	Satisfied, Michael regarded Colin and Alex. "The matter of the
doctor will be . . . looked into," he said enigmatically. Then he said, "It
is time, however that you, my dear Lieutenant Arnott, and you, Sergeant
Grinchsten, be brought into the picture. There are certain events about to
unfold that you will become involved with." Michael looked evenly at The
Phantom. "You have no choice, really."
	Both Colin and Alex saw Michael's look. Colin had sworn to protect
his lover and friend, and Alex was a professional soldier. Where The
Phantom went, they would go.

******

	Michael held nothing back. As he spoke he observed Colin and Alex's
reactions. Alex's face remained impassive. His eyes, however, betrayed him,
turning as grey as the dark waves of the North Atlantic. Colin sat,
slightly stunned as Michael said, "The men involved will be punished. A Bar
of Justice has been called. There is no appeal, no mercy."
	As a naval officer, Colin had always known that one day he would be
called upon to issue the order: "Shoot!" An order that would send a high
explosive projectile, or a surface-to-air missile hurtling into air, an
order that would result in death.
	Colin was, after all, a Gunnery Officer, and trained to do his
duty. He had, as the saying went, 'Taken the Queen's Shilling'. He
questioned whether if what he was required to do, as an officer, were the
same as what he would be requested to do. Could he, in good conscience, be
true to his vow?
	Michael sensed Colin's hesitation but said nothing. Each man must
come to his own way, in his own time. Michael knew that he was asking a
great deal of this young man. He did not doubt that Colin would come to a
decision; he doubted that Colin would make the right decision.
	Chef had no misgivings. He was a student of mankind in general,
sailors in particular. He had judged men before, and while he admitted to a
failure or seven, his instincts told him that Colin Arnott had a hidden rod
of steel deep within him. He folded his hands over his ample paunch,
waiting patiently.
	The Phantom remained quiet and determined not to allow his
feelings, his fervent love, for Colin to influence him. He could understand
Colin having doubts, having reservations, about implementing the Bar of
Justice. He believed that Chef had chosen well, that Colin was the right
man to be the Custos Principum, the "Guardian of Princes". Colin had
demonstrated his courage, had shown himself to be cool and collected in
adverse situations, remaining at his post when every instinct screamed for
him to run to tear apart the burning pile of deadwood that threatened to
consume not only The Phantom, but Matt and Joey and Randy. Colin had
remained steadfast in his duty. Colin was a good officer. The Phantom was
convinced that Colin was a better man.
	Alex for some reason felt that he was included in what he thought
to be an inquisition. He stood and stared at Michael. "May I speak?" he
asked tightly.
	Chef shrugged at Michael's querulous look. The Phantom snorted and
stood. He walked purposely to stand in front of Alex. "You don't know it,
and I don't know why, but you are one of us. You will hear . . . talk
. . . about a dream, about a Tapestry. I will make known to you, when I
feel you are ready to hear it, everything you need to know."
	Confused, but determined to speak his mind, Alex nodded. "You say
that I am one of you, and to me that means I can say what I wish to say?"
he asked.
	"There are no restrictions," replied The Phantom. He turned to
glance at Michael over his shoulder. Michael nodded and The Phantom gently
kissed Alex on each side of his face. "Say what is in your heart Alex,
speak to us as you would a brother."
	Looking deeply into The Phantom's emerald eyes, Alex saw something
he had seen only once before: a deep, abiding love of a man for
another. More and more Alex was beginning to understand why the boys that
were screaming imprecations at each other in the back garden, why the men
who were in this room, why the men who laughed at the antics of their
charges, why they all trusted this slim, handsome young man. He would
speak, as a brother.
	"I have known war," Alex began slowly. "I know what it is like to
kill a man in the heat of battle, and I know what it is like to kill a man
with cold dispassionate purpose. I was not drafted, I volunteered straight
out of high school. I was going to save the world." He laughed
caustically. "I heard the band playing, I saw the flags flying, and I
answered my country's call." His eyes scanned the room. "And I was
betrayed, betrayed by my leaders, and by my officers. I was starry-eyed and
filled with American righteousness, and I was betrayed. I went to Vietnam
determined to do my duty, as a soldier, and as a man, and I was betrayed. I
can home disillusioned and vowing never to trust those who think that they
lead us." He stared intensely at The Phantom. "You will never betray me,
sir."
	The Phantom could not reply. He lowered his eyes, and waited.
	"I was a grunt, then a tunnel rat, and then a grunt again," said
Alex. "I will not speak of what I saw, or what I did. I will instead say
this, doing what is right, doing your duty, is the only choice a man
has. Anything less is to betray your friends . . ." His eyes brightened as
he looked at The Phantom. "Your brothers."
	Sighing heavily, Colin nodded. Alex was right.

******

	Saying noting, Colin rose from his seat and walked to the drinks
table where he poured a large measure of scotch. He studied the dark, smoky
mixture and then turned to confront his inquisitors.
	Not yet being privy to the internal workings of the Order, or of
Michael Chan's organization, Colin had assumed, quite rightly, that Michael
gave nothing gratuitously. Michael could raise a man to great heights; give
him honour and mighty power, but only if he were worthy. Colin did not know
it but even Stephen Winslow, known to all as 'The Gunner', the man Michael
was certain Fate had chosen to be Chancellor of the order, had undergone a
searching scrutiny before his name was put forward to the Knights Electors.
	Colin studied the silent faces of Michael and Chef, as they studied
him, waiting for his words, his thoughts. The Phantom, darting glances at
Colin, fidgeted, while Frank Stockman studied the exquisite jade and gold
figurines in the cabinet beside which he sat. Alex had returned to his
professional stance.
	Clearing his throat, Colin gathered his thoughts. "A few days ago,
although at times it seems like a lifetime, I was walking along the uppers,
minding my own business and, truthfully, trying to understand why I was
feeling . . ." He stopped speaking and looked directly at The Phantom. Then
he darted a look to Alex, whose eyes seemed hooded, his face impassive.
	Continuing, Colin said, "Anyway, I had these strange feelings, and
I admit I acted on them with no reluctance at all." He smiled fondly toward
The Phantom. "I fell in love, with a man, and just so we're all clear on
that point, I am still in love, and I have no regrets."
	The Phantom squirmed in embarrassment. Until now Colin had confined
his terms of endearment to their private moments together. While Colin's
public declaration of his love was a wonderful statement, The Phantom's
innate conservatism, and natural caution, gave him pause.
	Ignoring his lover's discomfiture, Colin smiled. "After expressing
my love, in a way that only another man can understand, I was accosted,
loudly, profanely, and rudely, by a large, cherub-like man with the mien
and soul of the Devil's familiar!" He grinned wickedly at Chef who, having
been called worse, grinned just as evilly back at Colin.
	"I was then thrust into a derelict space where the . . . apparition
of outrage . . . not only accused me of trifling with the affections of
someone near and dear to him - a most unjust and untrue accusation - and
threatened a meeting on a dark night!"
	Chef barely contained a snicker. Not only did Colin have a lip on
him of a Belfast tinker, he had the retentive memory of a Dublin lawyer!
	Giving Chef a black look, Colin went on. "Not only was I asked some
very personal questions, questions which not even my father would ask, I
was again threatened, and called 'some horny little man'! My reply
apparently was satisfactory as then the chubby cherub . . ." Once again
Colin grinned wickedly. " . . . Changed his tune! He told me that some men
cannot follow their heart because God and man have destined them to be
something that does not allow them to follow anything but the path set
before them." Impulsively he reached out for The Phantom's uninjured hand.
	Feeling the warmth of The Phantom's hand in his, Colin stated
firmly, and without reservation, "I will follow the path that as been set
for me."
	The Phantom's eyes gleamed with love. He looked deeply into Colin's
wonderful blue eyes and Colin knew that their path, no matter who had
destined them to follow, would be long.
	Returning to look at Michael, Colin took a deep breath. "When I
knelt before you told me that the great gift . . ." He glanced obliquely at
The Phantom, " . . . That I had been given was not some passing fancy of a
cantankerous old man. I had been given the gift but because there dwelt in
me a gentleness of nature, and a firmness of will." Colin gave Chef a "So
there!" look. "I was also told that I have a wisdom that belies my years,
that I am not afraid to speak my mind, and not afraid to stand up for my
beliefs."
	Michael now squirmed uncomfortably, wondering if he should choose
his words more carefully, or at least with more circumspection when next
addressing a candidate knight.
	Once again Colin turned, this time addressing The Phantom
directly. "I had accepted a gift, a gift that needed a firm hand, for the
gift was wilful and, at times, was more 'a pestiferous brat' than a Prince
of the Order!'"
	The Phantom glared at Colin but there was really nothing he could
say. He could, when he put his mind to it, be a "Pestiferous Brat!"
	"Phantom, I reaffirm my acceptance of the keepership of a treasure
so great that if I hurt you, or offend you, I will risk the wrath of gods."
Colin looked first at Michael, and then at Chef. "To that risk I stand and
say, bring it on!"
	A wave of almost indescribable love swept through The Phantom. He
began to rise from his chair to clasp Colin to him when the young officer
held up his hand. "I am not finished," Colin said softly.
	As The Phantom sank back in his chair, Colin looked purposefully at
Alex. "You have said that Phantom will never betray you. That is true."
Gesturing around the office, Colin said with conviction, "None in this room
will ever betray you, or Phantom or me. They, we, are true knights, loyal
to each other, loyal to the Order." A strange, sad look came into Colin's
eyes.
	"I am the new boy here. I don't know everything, and chances are
that I never will. But I do know this: outside, kicking the shit out of
each other in what is supposed to be a friendly game of football, is a
group of young men who know what love, and trust and loyalty are. They
will, without question, risk the wrath of God, man, and lesser beings,
being they believe in what they are, in what they do now, and what they
will do in the future.  "They are the future of the Order, and because they
are the future of the Order they will restore the loss of honour, of trust,
all lost, not only because of the rage of men, but because of the frailty,
the venality, the greed of men!"
	Much to everyone's surprise, Colin turned and held out his hand to
Michael, who took it, wondering what was coming next.
	"There is a poem, little known outside of the Navy," said
Colin. "It was written at the turn of the century by a man, named Ronald
A. Hopgood. It is called 'The Laws of the Navy'. One of the verses goes
like this:

	'On the strength of one link in the cable
	Dependeth the might of the chain,
	Who knows when thou may be tested?
	So live that thou bearest the strain!'"

	Colin then asked Michael directly, "Have I borne the strain?"
	Michael nodded slowly. "You are indeed the Custos Principum. You
are a man of strength and honour, Colin Arnott, and you were chosen well."
He looked first at Chef, who nodded, and then at Major Meinertzhagen. "And
tomorrow you shall be named 'Defensor Princeps'."
	"I accept with humility and honour," responded Colin, not quite
sure what his new title meant, but he would face whatever came.
	Smiling, Michael then said, "The Order will have many princes, I am
thinking, and they will need, not only each other, but men of
leadership. You are one of them." He glanced at Alex, but did not address
him. Instead he said, "And just so you know that I am not the ignorant land
lubber you might think me to be, I am familiar with the Hopgood poem."
Michael gave Chef a searching look and then said, "You have been told that
you have the lip on you of a Belfast tinker. Good! We need men who are not
afraid to speak their minds." Then Michael laughed quietly, "However, I am
reminded of more words of wisdom from the admiral:

	'Take heed what ye say of thy rulers,
	Be thy words spoken softly or plain,
	Lest a bird of the air tell the matter
	And so ye shall hear them again!'"

	Colin laughed heartily. He had a very good idea which 'bird of the
air' had been chirping and twittering in Michael's ear.
	Michael then walked purposefully to where Alex Grinchsten was
standing. He placed his hands squarely on Alex's shoulders. "You have
endured the unendurable. You have suffered wounds that you think will never
heal. You have been lied to and betrayed by your country. What I offer you
will, I hope, help to heal your wounds. I cannot change the past, Alex, I
can only offer you the future." Michael looked into Alex's eyes. "If you
will accept it."
	Alex displayed no emotion. His eyes darted about the room. He had
never known such a feeling as he felt now. Yet, somehow, he knew that he
could not refuse what was about to be offered to him. "I . . ." he began.
	"There is no need," cautioned Michael. "Do not make a decision
until you have heard what must be told to you." He turned to Chef. "It is
time."
	Gesturing, Michael led The Phantom, Colin, Frank and the Major from
the office. As he closed the office door behind him he could hear Chef's
booming greeting to Alex: "Now then, lad, while ye have the look of the
delicacy of the Waif of the Vale of Drumcondra, this old 'bird of the air'
sees in ye the heart of the Black Canon of Trim! Sit ye down, and we will
speak of many things!"

******

	"I cannot believe he said that!" exclaimed Colin as he sat at the
table beside Phantom. "Really, 'The Waif of the Vale of Drumcondra!'"
	The Phantom giggled. "There are some who say Chef's waifs and
canons and knights can only be found at the bottom of the bottle of
whatever he happens to be drinking at the time." He looked over the
lawns. The soccer game had come to an end and now the players were
debating, vociferously, with the officials - Fred, Nathan and Ned - who had
won, or lost. The Major, who had returned directly from Michael's office to
the game in play, was not helping matters. Michael had gone in search of
Pete Sheppard and was nowhere in evidence.
	Colin watched the chaos for a moment and then asked, "Alex is going
to be offered a knighthood, isn't he?"
	"Yep." The Phantom looked at Colin. "He'll make a good one, I
think."
	A waspish look came over Colin's face. "He will. Any man who has
faced down the Viet Cong can face down that fat old fraud!"
	"Colin!" exclaimed The Phantom. "Be nice! Chef means well, and he's
only doing his job."
	"His job?"
	The Phantom head bobbed. "He's the Proctor, only I didn't tell
you."
	"The Proctor? The man who is supposed to gently lead a candidate to
knighthood?"
	"The one and only."
	Colin looked perplexed. "But Phantom, he's . . . he's rude, and
grumpy, insults everything in sight and . . ."
	"True," replied The Phantom. "It's all an act!"
	"You're kidding," said Colin disbelievingly.
	"Still true," responded The Phantom stubbornly. "You see, Colin,
you have to understand Chef. He's really quite soft-hearted."
	"A real teddy bear," replied Colin sourly. "I don't think he likes
me."
	Laughing, The Phantom took Colin's hand. "You can't be more
wrong. He likes you very much."
	"He does? Well he sure has a strange way of showing it!"
	"As I said, you have to understand Chef," said The Phantom. "If he
likes you he rails at you, insults you, calls you all sorts of names - he
adores Ray and you should hear what he calls him! Or he'll threaten you
with a cleaver, or this huge spoon he has back in the galley in Aurora!"
The Phantom grew silent, his eyes suddenly looking onto the vast, green
expanse of the lawn.
	"What?" Colin asked.
	"If Chef didn't like you, he wouldn't say a word. It would be like
you weren't there." He nodded with his chin at the fast dispersing scrum of
players. "You saw how Chef acted when he was in the office."
	Colin's eyes followed The Phantom's. Doctor Bradley-Smith was
fluttering about, ostentatiously congratulating the "winners" of the soccer
game. Rebuffed by shirtless Harry and Mark, he seemed to be concentrating
on a footman, also shirtless, who seemed embarrassed.
	"He sure doesn't trouble to hide it," sniped Colin, frowning at the
doctor's attentions toward the hapless footman.
	Scowling, The Phantom observed as Bradley-Smith and the handsome
footman strolled toward the terrace. He snorted disdainfully. "It would
seem that the pathway to the doctor's affections is not very narrow, and is
not difficult of access!"
	"A polite way of calling him a slut!" observed Colin dryly. "And
where did that come from?"
	"I think I read it somewhere," responded The Phantom absently. His
eyes narrowed. "The man is slime and he is up to something."
	"Michael knows?" asked Colin.
	"He knows, because I told him," replied The Phantom grimly. "The
creature is slime, and he is up to something." He turned to look at
Colin. "Michael Chan will find out exactly what Doctor Bradley-Smith is up
to, and Michael will deal with him accordingly."

******

	In the central control room Michael's face grew hard as he watch
the CCTV monitor with Pete Sheppard. The picture was clear and crisp and
Michael had no difficulty in seeing the doctor and the footmen cross the
terrace and disappear into the house. "Who is the footman?" asked Michael
quietly.
	Pete Sheppard shrugged. "One of the Maestro's," he replied.
	Michael shot a look at his Chief of Security. "He is to be
questioned, when . . . when he is done with whatever he is about to do."
	Shuddering at the thought of what the footman and the doctor were
about to do, Pete nodded. "The doctor?" he asked.
	Michael's eyes never left the monitor. He could see that the soccer
had had ended and that the players and officials were gathering around the
tables of food and drink. "The doctor is here for an ulterior purpose, to
gather information, I suspect."
	Pete scratched his chin reflectively. He had seen the same sort of
thing before. "He's a scout, so to speak. He won't do anything overt to
call attention to himself. He'll wait and report to whoever sent him."
	"Do nothing until we know what he is up to," ordered Michael. "The
man is not a professional. He has already made one error, which was
noticed. He will make more."
	"And when we are sure?" asked Pete.
	Michael did not reply. His long, dark look spoke volumes.

******

	In the smallish bedroom he'd been assigned, Daniel had barely
turned the lock when he made his move. The footman, who was a tall,
well-built young man with dark red hair, waited. He had long ago learned
that his ruddy good looks, handsome features and intriguing smile made him
attractive to many people, both male and female. He had been working for
the Maestro for five years, had served, in one capacity or another, in
houses large and small all over the Vancouver area, and had never failed to
"score" in one way or another. He knew exactly what this strange man wanted
and was prepared to give it to him . . . for a price.
	"You're very handsome," Daniel purred coquettishly. He reached out
to stroke the footman's broad chest under his sweat-soaked white
shirt. "And very muscular."
	"Thanks. Sorry about the sweat?" he apologized with a winning
smile. "Those kids sure gave me a workout."
	"But not the kind I'm going to give you," thought Daniel
lasciviously. "You play very well. I was watching," he said, his voice low
and gravely. His hand drifted down to the footman's waist. "What's your
name?"
	"Quinn Bogart," replied the footman while thinking, "Oh Gawd, one
of them! He sounds like Joan Crawford on a bad day!" He feigned an
embarrassed smile. "My folks were wrapped up in the Beatnik scene, real
'Bohemians', and infatuated with the movies." He felt the doctor's hand
squeeze his package gently and added, "I can't stay long." He had seen the
lust in Daniel's eyes and was making his first move.
	"Oh," responded Daniel, pouting. He saw the tray of bottles and
glasses on the bedside table. "You can at least stay for a drink?" He never
removed his hand, his fingers lingering and slowly caressing what gave
promise of being a treasure indeed.
	Quinn could hear the doctor's breathing and hear his anxious
panting. The man's face was flushed and his sloping forehead was beaded
with sweat. "I shouldn't," said Quinn, his voice low and inviting. "The
Maestro might not like smelling booze on my breath." He deliberately
reached up and tweaked Daniel's left nipple. Quinn knew how to reel in this
kind of a Nelly.
	Groaning, Daniel offered his thin lips for kissing. Quinn responded
and when they drew apart Daniel asked, "You will stay, then?" He was all
but overcome by Quinn's masculinity, and needed to feel a man in him!
"Please?" he whined.
	"I can't," Quinn whispered as he again tweaked Daniel's nipple. His
hand slid down the doctor's thin chest and came to rest on his trousers
hidden lump. "The Maestro will dock my pay if he finds out I'm up here." He
pretended reluctance and great desire. "I'd like to, I really would, but I
have to help clean the silver for tomorrow's dinner." He felt Daniel's
fingers fiddling with his zipper. "I really can't stay."
	"Not even for say . . . an hour?" Daniel asked, his hand groping
inside of Quinn's trousers for the prize he knew was there.
	Quinn grinned. "Oh, I'm good for more than an hour," he said with a
low, dirty laugh. Then he sobered. "But I can't afford to lose any money."
	The double entendre was not lost on Daniel. Nor was the blatant
hint. He withdrew his hand and his eyes came to rest on the night
table. "Perhaps if I left a small . . . gratuity . . . say fifty . . . on
the night table, do you think you could stay?"
	"Oh, in that case, I think I could," replied Quinn, grinning
inwardly. Hook, line and sinker!
	The words were barely out of Quinn's mouth when Daniel sank to his
knees. With shaking hands he all but ripped open Quinn's trousers, pulled
down his white boxer underpants and revealed Quinn's delight. It was over
eight inches long, decorated with ropey veins, and the head peeked out of a
thin covering of foreskin. Daniel groaned with unrepressed desire. He did
so love a natural man! Daniel then frowned slightly as he fondled Quinn's
balls. They were the hairiest Daniel had ever fondled. "Oh well," he
thought as he reached out to slowly push back Quinn's foreskin, "Win some,
lose some."
	Quinn's hips jerked as Daniel's mouth took every inch of him in. He
could feel the man's harsh breathing riffling the bright red hair that
surrounded his turgid organ. Quinn knew that while he had remarkable
staying power, he did enjoy a good blowjob and would last maybe ten minutes
- tops. Gritting his teeth, Quinn tried to stave off the inevitable. His
hips began to hump instinctively when suddenly Daniel withdrew and stood
up.
	"What? Is something wrong?" Quinn asked.
	"No, not at all," replied Daniel, batting his eyelashes. "I want
something else."
	"Oh!"
	Moving swiftly, Daniel stripped and moved to the bed. He lay down,
his head on the pillow, his hindquarter in the air. He spread his legs. "Do
me," he growled.
	Shrugging mentally, Quinn took off his shirt and stepped out of his
trousers and undershorts, which were gathered untidily around his
ankles. He looked around the bedroom. "Do you have any lube, some
Vaseline?" he asked as he stroked himself to even further hardness.
	"I don't need it," responded Daniel, all but drooling with
anticipation of what was to come.
	Quinn positioned himself behind Daniel on the bed. As he guided the
head of his cock toward the brown target, the wrinkled hole open to receive
him, he asked, "You like it doggy style?"
	"Oh yeah," breathed Daniel. "And I like it hard!" He looked back at
Quinn, his eyes blazing. "Fuck me, hard!"
	Leaning down, Quinn reached under Daniel's body and his free hand
gripped the doctor's shoulder. He thrust his hips viciously forward and
heard Daniel grunt as eight inches of steel-hard man entered him. "Whatever
you want, faggot!" thought Quinn as began his instinctive rhythmic
thrusting. "Whatever you want!"

******

	Almost two hours later, Quinn Bogart, dressed and fifty dollars
richer, quietly opened the bedroom door and stepped into the
corridor. Behind him, on the bed, Daniel lay naked, sated, and purring
contentedly.
	"Always leave them happy," laughed Quinn to himself as he stepped
into the corridor. He all but fainted when a broad hand dropped onto his
shoulder.
	"Come with me," came a gruff voice. Ned Hadfield tightened his grip
on Quinn's. "Now!"

******

	The room in the under croft was plainly furnished: a desk, some
chairs, and the required filing cabinet. Quinn was told to sit, offered a
drink, and then . . . nothing.
	In one corner Pete Sheppard sat, waiting and watching. Ned Hadfield
lounged against the doorframe, ostensibly cleaning his fingernails with a
small file. His eyes never strayed from Quinn.
	Behind the desk, Michael Chan sat with his fingers steepled, his
dark eyes narrow. He said nothing, and his features displayed no
emotion. Michael had used this ploy often. The victim, for lack of a better
word, expected yelling, threats, violence. Michael offered silence, calm
logic, and a drink.
	Beads of sweat broke out on Quinn's forehead. The cold, the icy
cold in the eyes of the man behind the desk, was terrifying, so terrifying
that Quinn swore that he could feel his testicles shrinking into the
sanctuary of his scrotal cavity, and his penis shrivelling into a small
tassel of skin. He gulped down the drink quickly, coughed, and waited.
	Michael was in no hurry. Haste made for errors, in judgement, in
decisions. Doctor Bradley-Smith was in his room, sleeping, according to
Ned. Michael was content to let the doctor sleep. The man was someone's
agent, of that Michael was sure. Just whom Bradley-Smith was working for
would be revealed, in time.
	As Quinn squirmed uneasily, Michael asked himself just whom
Bradley-Smith could be working for. Logic told Michael that the doctor was
hardly spying for his own benefit. He had no connection with any of the
traitorous knights, Logan, Hunter, Willoughby, or the late, and apparently
unlamented Simpson. His name had never appeared in any of the reports of
their doing. The doctor was much too young to have been involved in the
orgies in Coquitlam - except perhaps as one of the elderly knight's
catamite. Michael dismissed this thought. The Gunner had read the list of
names found in Noel's possession. Bradley-Smith's name was absent.
	Michael considered the Tongs. Or the Triads. Again, he dismissed
this thought. Though the Tongs and Triads were not above suborning ferengis
- white foreigners - once again there was nothing to indicate his
involvement with them. Michael had considered that the doctor might be a
"confidential informant" for one of the government investigative
agencies. A quick telephone call to Ottawa, to Rick Maslen, the man who
commanded Naval Intelligence Special Branch, had put Michael's mind at
ease. Rick had never heard of Doctor Daniel Bradley-Smith. Rick had offered
to make discreet inquiries with the RCMP, CSIS, and call in a marker or two
with the Vancouver PD, but Michael had declined the offer. Bradley-Smith
was what he seemed to be on the surface: a Naval Surgeon. His dossier,
meticulously kept by Major Meinertzhagen had noted no affiliations with any
organization or person of interest to the Order. Bradley-Smith was a
nondescript, ineffectual knight, a cipher, really, kept on the rolls in the
event that he might be needed sometime or other in the future.
	A quick perusal of Bradley-Smith's dossier told Michael that of the
doctor's three sponsors - one a former dean of the Anglican cathedral in
Kingston, Ontario - two were dead and one nearly so. Once again there was
nothing to indicate that the three men had been involved in anything
approaching being nefarious.
	There were others, of course, the Italians, came to mind. Michael
doubted that Bradley-Smith would be working for the Italians. He was
determinedly British, and the Italians rarely worked with anyone outside of
their own culture. In addition, the "Family" in western Canada was small,
and very tight-knit. In the main, Michael left them strictly alone. Their
business interests did not conflict with his, and he was on good terms with
the local Don. Michael had, in fact, done a 'service' for the Don, nothing
spectacular, and all very gentlemanly. The Major had entertained a certain
official of the BC Ministry of Transportation to luncheon at his club and
suggested that the Italian construction company bidding on the
reconstruction of the ferry terminal was the low bid. If that were the
case, as the Major had no doubt it was, why the official's indebtedness to
a certain casino would be forgiven and become a surplus, and that a certain
young woman, who was known to the official, would be persuaded to return to
the reservation and not make known to anyone, the official's wife in
particular, the true nature of their relationship.
	That left the Vietnamese. Michael loathed them for many reasons,
not the least of which was the traditional enmity that had existed between
the two peoples for hundreds of years. Michael considered the Viets less
than human, vicious, venal, untrustworthy and willing to betray anyone,
stooped to the lowest levels of debauchery and depravity, and would sink to
any depth to amass power and gold.
	Everything Michael loathed in the Vietnamese was epitomized by
General Cao Din Minh, who had cheated the Americans, been bribed by the
Viet Cong, sold the rations of his own soldiers and, in the dying days of
the late war, had shipped to Canada - under diplomatic seal - the coffins
of his ancestors, containing not bodies, but kilo bags of heroin.
	Minh had arrived in Vancouver well in advance of the horde of
refugees fleeing the Communists, bringing with him his wife, his children,
his concubines and his fortune. He had very quickly learned the lay of the
land and had approached Michael Chan, the "Emperor" of Chinatown, with a
scheme to smuggle large amounts of heroin from the so-called "Golden
Triangle" into Canada via the Vancouver docks. Minh would handle all the
processing, packaging, distribution and payments to the drug lords back
home. All Michael had to do use his influence with the Customs
officials. Michael would not.
	Uncle Henry had warned his nephew that under no circumstances was
he to become involved with narcotics. The authorities might turn a blind
eye to prostitution, to gambling, to bootlegging, to loan sharking, to the
normal vices that all men were subject to. They would not be so
accommodating when narcotics were involved. Michael had remembered his
uncle's words and warning, and had always refused the generous offers and
rewards the trade would bring him.
	Michael was aware that his refusal to do business with Minh had
gained him a powerful enemy and he also knew that Minh was not a man to
forgive a slight.
	Yet Michael could not for the life of him see how Bradley-Smith
might be involved with Minh. The doctor had spent all of his time in
British Columbia in Victoria, where there were no Vietnamese. Granted, a
tidal wave of refugees was lapping against the city of Vancouver's shores,
and Little Saigon was growing daily. But Bradley-Smith was not involved in
any of the growing refugee aid committees or services.
	The more Michael thought of the doctor, the more questions seemed
to come to mind. In the end Michael decided that there was no point -
yet. The Major was busy working the telephones and flailing Joel verbally,
urging haste in his quest for anything his computer snooping might reveal
about the enigmatic Doctor Bradley-Smith.
	Noticing that Quinn's glass was empty, Michael gestured for Ned to
refill it. As the tall West Virginian tipped the lip of the decanter into
Quinn's out-held glass, the harsh jangle of the telephone broke the
silence. Quinn jumped and there was soft clink of crystal against glass.
	Michael reached for the telephone and placed the handset against
his ear.
	"Michael?" It was Joel.
	"Yes." Michael's voice was flat and emotionless.
	Knowing Michael, Joel immediately began to relate the fruits of his
snooping. "Bradley-Smith has two bank accounts," he said. "The first is
with the CAF Credit Union." Joel could not help sniffing. "They've only
just started upgrading their systems - I think they used an abacus before
they discovered computers - and have just started in-putting their payroll
data."
	Michael said nothing. The silence told Joel that his cousin was not
about to say anything that would be heard by Quinn. "Anyway," Joel
continued, "There is nothing unusual in the Credit Union account. His pay -
all $940.00, less the usual deductions for income tax, pension, and so on,
is deposited monthly. There are no questionable withdrawals, just the
usual, cash for walking around money, a payment for his car, and so on."
	"Go on," murmured Michael.
	"The second account, now that is interesting," said Joel. "He has a
savings account with the British Columbia Building Society - they have a
branch on base - which has a cash balance of $14,652.37. That includes
interest."
	Michael's right eyebrow rose slightly. "Interesting," was all he
said.
	"What is more interesting is that the doctor - or someone - has
been depositing cash to the account. A grand a month for the past year."
	This last was interesting. Michael knew from the doctor's file,
meticulously kept by the Major, that Bradley-Smith came from solid middle
class stock. There was no wealth in the family, and no trusts or sources of
income that would generate anywhere near a thousand a month.
	"This account shows nothing more. Just the deposits," Joel
finished.
	"Keep looking," Michael ordered. He was about to hang up the
telephone when Joel spoke again.
	"Now, as to Quinn Bogart . . ." Joel was saying. Michael nodded
unconsciously and listened. "Tall, an inch or so over six feet, red
hair. Not bad looking," said Joel.
	"Yes."
	"Well, I know him."
	Suppressing his surprise, Michael asked, "You do?"
	"Michael, he's quite popular in certain circles."
	Michael has a very good idea just what circles Quinn was popular
in. "Go on," he said dryly.
	Knowing what a prude Michael could be at times, Joel decided not to
go into too many details. "I called some of my people," Joel
explained. "Quinn is self-employed, so to speak."
	Michael had a very good idea just how Quinn supported himself, but
did not reply.
	"He's very discreet, but my people tell me that he is
ambidextrous."
	Michael, who was still trying to absorb that Joel might have
"people", started. He had no idea of what his cousin was chattering
about. "I beg your pardon?" he asked impatiently.
	"He swings both ways," responded Joel. He'd tried to be discreet,
but Michael was obviously miles behind when it came to understanding the
lingua franca of gay life. "He sleeps with both men and women, men more
than women. He works for the Maestro, as you know, and is very popular. He
commands primo fees for what he calls 'a visit'."
	"Anything else?"
	"Well . . ." Here Joel paused and smiled wickedly. He rarely had a
chance to shock his cousin, whom Joel thought was much too straight-laced
for his own good. "He's hung, and is a top, although he's been known to
bottom if the price is right. He is very good, or so I've been told, and
gives value for money . . ."
	Michael coughed loudly into the telephone. He was being given much
more information than he needed - or wanted!
	Ignoring Michael, Joel went on gleefully. "Quinn likes the good
life but he's the type who spends every dime he makes. He lives alone."
	"Anything else?" growled Michael, closing his eyes and wishing his
cousin a most distasteful demise.
	"Only if you need to know that if he is being considered a
candidate knight, Quinn will need the services of a mohel - or a surgeon."
	"I do not need to know!" replied Michael tightly. He hung up the
telephone abruptly and regarded Quinn a moment. Then he asked ominously,
"You know who I am?"
	Perspiration began to cascade down Quinn's face. He knew who
Michael was.
	The Maestro, as a businessman, was very careful in all his
dealings. No waiter - or junior footman, many of them recruited from the
gay community - went anywhere near a client's table until they had
completed an intensive three-week training course in the Maestro's own
academy. Before every function he held a meeting with those chosen to
serve, and imparted what he thought was pertinent information about the
likes and dislikes the particular client might have.  The Maestro's
knowledge about his clients was encyclopaedic. He had for years used the
services of a clipping agency, read anything and everything he could on the
so-called "Society" of lower British Columbia. That Michael Chan was not,
and had never been, a part of that society, was unimportant. He was a man
of interest and everything the Maestro heard, or read about the "Emperor of
Chinatown" went into a neatly kept file.
	The Maestro also listened to gossip. Servants were the best source
of information and he was not above paying a maid or a butler or a chauffer
a small "pour boire" for a particularly juicy piece of information. His own
people saw things when serving, of course, and heard things. That Quinn was
using his employment as a source of clientele was unimportant to the
Maestro. A boy had to make a living, after all. What was important was that
Quinn, and more than a few of the other waiters, had access to "pillow
talk". Pillow talk often brought some very interesting titbits about very
well known people and the Maestro gladly supplemented his employees' pay
packets with a small, but significant, bonus, for any titbit of interest.
	At the staff meeting, held after the contract with Michael Chan had
been signed, the Maestro had chosen his staff, which would be all male. His
most experienced waiters would be used. The Maestro had thought to use the
brigade of handsome young men he had on call, but rejected the
thought. Nothing he had heard, or read, gave any indication that Michael
Chan would respond to a ready smile and a large basket! He had included
Quinn, and a few others, in the staff roster, more out of keeping his
reputation as a caterer who supplied the best than speculation.
	The Maestro had made it very clear to everyone that they were not,
under any circumstances, to do anything that would offend the most powerful
man in the province. What he did in his business was Michael Chan's affair,
and not theirs. The Maestro had expressed the hope that he would live a few
more years in comfort and expressed the hope that his employees would enjoy
the same hope. He told his staff that there were rumours - just rumours -
but reminded them all that all too often rumour had a way of becoming
fact. Quinn Bogart had listened to the Maestro's cautions, and taken heed.
	"I . . . know . . ." Quinn said with real fear.
	"Then there is no need to fear me," responded Michael. He looked at
Quinn. "What you have been told is not true. I am a businessman."
	Quinn nodded, although he did not believe a word Michael said.
	Michael saw that Quinn was too frightened to believe him. He
decided to take a direct, almost truthful path. "If you know who I am, then
I want you to understand that you will not be harmed in any way . . ."
Michael paused and his dark eyes bore into the quaking footman. " . . . If
you tell the truth."
	Swallowing in terror at Michael's calm demeanour, Quinn
answered. "We . . . I . . . don't know anything."
	"Perhaps, perhaps not," responded Michael with a chilling
smile. "You spent some time with one of my guests."
	Knowing that Michael was not asking a question, Quinn
nodded. "Yes."
	"You had . . . sex with him?" Michael's distaste was evident. He
saw Quinn's terror increasing. The man was no doubt thinking that he
disapproved. Michael did, but his disapproval was not what he wanted to
impart. "I am uninterested in the sordid details," Michael said quietly. "I
wish merely to know what happened."
	"We, uh, we had sex, twice," replied Quinn.
	"I know that," retorted Michael. "What . . . did you have a
conversation with him?"
	"Well, he did ask me some questions that I couldn't answer,"
replied Quinn, wondering just what he had managed to get himself into.
	"Explain," said Michael flatly.
	"He, um, after the first time, he asked me if I worked for
you. When I told him I didn't, that I was just with the caterer he seemed,
I don't know, disappointed. Then he asked me if I thought that there was a
lot of security around the place. I told him that yes, there seemed to be,
but I didn't know anything about it!" He then almost wept as he said, "How
could I? I've only been in the kitchens, and on the terrace! I haven't seen
anything, so help me! After I got here I was put to work setting up, and
then serving lunch!"
	Michel glanced at Pete, who had had a very quiet talk with the
Maestro, and Ginger. Quinn had been much too busy to notice too much. Pete
nodded.
	Rising from behind the desk, Michael walked to where Quinn was
sitting. The footman cringed when Michael placed his hand on Quinn's
shoulder. "I believe you," was all Michael said.
	Visibly relieved, Quinn let out a long breath. "He came on to me,
sir, honest."
	"I know." Michael gently patted Quinn's shoulder. "You are free to
go. The Maestro has decided that there is another function where your
services are needed." Then, without preamble, Michael gripped Quinn's
shoulder. "You were never in this room, you never had a conversation with
me." He glanced at Ned.
	Ned put away his nail file and opened the door. "The car's
waiting," he said to Quinn.
	With shaking legs, Quinn rose from his chair and followed Ned from
the office.

******

 	"The poor guy probably thinks that he's being taken for the
proverbial last ride," commented Pete when the door clicked firmly closed.
	Michael returned Pete's smile thinly. He had no doubt that Quinn
was telling the truth. Bradley-Smith was an inept amateur, who had been
sent on a fishing expedition. The doctor had already made two mistakes. He
would make more.
	"Speak to Joel," instructed Michael. "He has contacts in the gay
community. Bogart is to be watched, and if he talks about what happened
here, which I doubt he will, I wish to know about it." He regarded Pete a
moment. "Your thoughts?" he asked.
	Shrugging, Pete answered. "Quinn Bogart is a dead end. He slept
with the doctor for whatever fee he was paid." He left his chair and poured
a small drink. "He told the doctor nothing because he knew nothing."
	"I agree."
	"Bradley-Smith is working for someone, just who, I can't say," said
Pete. "His questions about the security force are disturbing." He
chuckled. "I think someone doesn't like you, sir."
	Michael snorted. "The line is long."
	"I can imagine," thought Pete.  He regarded Michael a moment. "I am
not worried about the patrols, or their timing. That can, and will be
changed. I have some new men coming up from the States tonight."
	Nodding Michael considered Pete's words. "There must be no overt
increase in security. If the doctor has been sent to study our security
arrangements, and count heads, let him think that we are somewhat
understaffed."
	Pete nodded. "They can bunk down in the stables. I'll arrange for
the other men to stay well away from the house when they're off duty." He
thought a moment. "It's only a matter of time before he notices the absence
of the Chinese."
	"Of course," agreed Michael. "Whoever sent him has a slight
knowledge of my security arrangements - they have hardly been hidden - and
anyone who has worked here, or visited here, knows that I have Chinese
guards. When Bradley-Smith makes his move, and he will, he will report the
absence of the Chinese."
	"Leaving the impression that we are under strength, and
vulnerable." Pete completed Michael's thoughts.
	"Yes, which is why the new men must keep a very low profile."
Michael scratched the side of his nose reflectively. "It might be wise to
have some roving patrols in the woods. The Vietnamese are not stupid and
will come at me from different directions."
	"You think its Minh?"
	"There can be no one else," replied Michael flatly. "Minh craves
the power. He would build an empire but for me. He lost face when I refused
to participate in his drug smuggling, and forbade its importation through
Vancouver. He has many reasons to want to see me eliminated."
	"The authorities?" suggested Pete.
	Michael chuckled. "Pete, in time you will learn that the
authorities are not quite the fools we think them to be. The RCMP knows
what I do, yet they leave me alone because they also know I will never,
under any circumstances traffic in narcotics. True, I have interests in
gambling, and the unions, and yes, I have 'friends' in the Legislature and
the judiciary but, and here is the real reason I am left alone: union
corruption, Chinese gambling joints and a bribed Member of Parliament do
not garner headlines!
	"I maintain a low profile; I do not give the authorities cause to
have more than a passing interest in my activities. They watch me, as is to
be expected. They see very little. They hear very little, because there is
nothing to see or hear. They do not know the true scope of my interests,
and they do not know about my involvement in the Order. Discretion, my dear
Pete, in all things keeps the authorities wondering, and sooner or later
they just go through the motions."
	Pouring a small dram of scotch, Michael continued. "It cannot be
the Italians. We are on good terms with them, and they have no interest in
what I do, as I have no interest in what they do. The Tongs, while not
entirely 'loyal' in the conventional sense, are too weak, and too
interested in their public image as Samaritans and philanthropists to
involve themselves in anything sordid. They are, after all, composed of
proper Chinese gentlemen." He laughed dryly. "The Triads are too closely
watched in Hong Kong. Their reputation precedes them and the authorities
here work closely with the Hong Kong Police. While the Triads would dearly
love to establish a foothold here in the West, it simply cannot work. The
police keep too sharp an eye."
	"So it is Minh."
	"Yes. And do not under any circumstances underestimate his cruelty
or his ruthlessness. To get to me Minh would cheerfully slaughter everyone
who happens to get in his way." Glancing at his watch, Michael said
quietly, "Doctor Bradley-Smith is a spy. He was sent here to ascertain if
an attack here, at the house, would be feasible. We must deflect any
thoughts along that line. When the time comes, the doctor will be fed
information, which will ensure that any attack against me will take place
elsewhere."
	"You're that sure?" asked Pete.
	"Yes. Minh wants me dead, so I will present him with a golden
opportunity to attain his goal." He smiled coldly. "He will fail, of
course."
	"And the doctor?"
	Michael's eyes became dark, obsidian spheres. His face grew hard,
but he did not answer Pete's question. He walked to the door and opened
it. "If you will excuse me, I have neglected my young guests for far too
long."
	For a long time Pete stared at the closed door. Pete felt a cold
chill run down his spine. He downed his drink in one gulp and placed the
glass carefully on the desk. Doctor Bradley-Smith would very soon learn
that Michael Chan never forgot a slight, and never forgave an injury.