Date: Fri, 30 Sep 2005 18:20:13 -0400 (EDT)
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Knights of Aurora - Chapter 8

The Knights of Aurora is a work of fiction set. Any resemblance to real
people, living or dead is entirely coincidental in nature, and is not meant
to accurately reflect persons in towns, cities, or governmental areas, in
which the story is set.

The Aurora series are works of homoerotic fiction and contain scenes of
sexual activity between consenting teenage boys and men. If reading or
possessing such material is prohibited by local, state, or provincial law,
or if you are not of legal age (18 or 21) to read or possess such material,
I will not tell any reader not to follow his or her interests and
instincts. I am required to warn potential readers of the content of my
works, and ask that they move on.

The series is set in 1976 Canada. As such the social mores, traditions and
practices might be offensive to the new age reader. I cannot and will not
change the past to pander to modern fancy or foible. If you are looking for
a fable filled with modern fetishes, you are asked to move on. The road is
long and filled with stories.

I also strongly remind readers that the series is set in a time and place
before AIDS. "Safe sex" in 1976 meant using a rubber so you didn't get your
girlfriend preggers. Safe sex has a much deeper meaning now, and I urge
everyone to practice it always.

The Aurora Series are copyrighted by the author and may not be downloaded
or posted on any site, except for personal enjoyment, without the author's
written permission.

Lost Trails - I have been an avid reader of Nifty for years and from time
to time I come across a well written, well thought out series. They are few
and far between, but the author has taken the time and effort to make his
or her story readable and enjoyable. What is annoying, however, that for
reasons best known to the author, the story stops abruptly! Do the authors
die? Do they become disinterested? Who knows? I am therefore starting this
"Lost Trails" note. I would like to know what happened to:

Taming of the Night (The author's e-mail address has been discontinued)

Order of the Rope

Agenais.

Agenais was not published on Nifty but it was a cracking good story and I
hope it was continued somewhere, perhaps on a different site.

If anyone has any information, I would appreciate hearing from you.

On a final note, would it be too much to ask that when an author finishes a
story he let his readers know? A little note at the end, "Finis" or "The
End" would do.

The Knights of Aurora

Chapter 8

	Daniel Bradley-Smith awoke from his nap, stretched languidly and
giggled happily. There was nothing like a bit of afternoon delight to set
the blood to singing and the spirits soaring. Being pleasured by an
anonymous stud added a hint of danger and erotica.
	Rising from his bed, Daniel stood in front of the floor-length
mirror fixed to an ornate stand in the corner of the room and admired his
figure. He was, as he admitted to himself, much to thin - skinny,
really. And much too . . . hairy! He ran his hand down his chest, feeling
the rough hair that gave him, in his opinion, a caveman appearance. He
really must shave again, and look into electrolysis. He had heard several
of the nurses on the ward talking about it and thought that if it worked
for a woman, why not a man?
	Hefting his genitals, Daniel frowned. He was really quite small, he
thought, and compared to Bogart the footman, minuscule! Thinking of the
footman, Daniel smiled. The man had been worth every penny! And the moves
he made! Giggling like a schoolgirl, Daniel all but floated into the
bathroom to shower.
	Feeling euphoric, Daniel luxuriated in the steaming spray and
wondered who his next conquest would be. He had no idea who had arranged
for the footmen, but whoever it was certainly had an eye for the boys. All
the footmen were enough to make a girl drool and wet herself.
	Then Daniel frowned. He had begun to think of the others, the
arrogant, insolent others, with their disapproving looks and sneering lips,
especially that upstart everyone called "Phantom" and that fat,
supercilious blowhard Chef! They hated him, of course, and had no respect
for a fellow knight. They needed to learn who was the boss and Daniel
thought himself the man to teach them.
	Oh, not through Michael Chan, whose days were numbered, but in
other ways. Michael might hand out specious titles from a defunct Empire,
and arrange for cosmetic commissions that had no credence or authority in
Canada, but at the end of the day he was weak, and a man who lived in the
past, puling about past glories and trying to revive a moribund Order
filled with little boys - and Daniel had some thoughts about that - and
dirty old men.
	Wrapping a towel around his waist, Daniel returned to his bedroom
and began to dress for the day. As he chose just the right colour of silk
boxer underpants, just the right shirt and complementing trousers, he
considered his relationship with General Minh. That the general was a thug
was of little consequence to Daniel. The man had power, exuded strength,
and had buckets of money to spend. Daniel liked money. It brought him
pretty clothes and pretty boys. It also brought him what he really craved,
strong, muscular men in leather who would allow him to worship their sweaty
bodies and tumescent organs, and treat him with utter contempt. He loved
the role of a slave to a strong master and as he drew his shirt over his
shoulders he shuddered with anticipated lust-filled sessions in the
brothel, where everything was permitted, and nothing denied, so long as one
had the money to pay for the services offered.
	It had been Daniel's secret, near uncontrollable urges that had
first drawn him into Minh's web. He had been in a bath house, being
serviced by a particularly well-hung piece of rough trade, demanding more,
more, rougher, harder sex, when the slut had ejaculated and withdrawn,
telling Daniel that if he wanted something rougher he should go to a
certain warehouse where he could get as much leather and pain as he wanted.
	Intrigued, Daniel had gone to the Dallas Road warehouse, and tasted
the wares offered on the lower floors and then was introduced to the
hard-core, no-holds-barred sex in the rarely spoken of rooms on the upper
floor. The services were costly, of course, and Daniel could only avail
himself of them rarely. But the cost was justified for he always came away
feeling fulfilled and satisfied. He told himself that every bruise on his
thin body added an extra spring to his step and an added incentive to life.
	At first Daniel thought little of the men who owned the
establishment. Most of the boys who lounged about the parlours were
Oriental, Chinese and Vietnamese, with an occasional black youth of
exceptional girth and staying power. Daniel considered them mere appetizers
to the main course offered upstairs. He paid willingly, because he needed
what was offered. He saw, of course, the bouncers, all large, silent men,
who scowled and cracked their knuckles, but he paid them no heed. He was
surprised when, leaving one of the upper floor rooms after a particularly
taxing session with two leather-clad brutes, he was approached and asked to
come "to office".
	In the office Daniel met Diem, who seemed to know everything about
him. Daniel suspected that his wallet had been rifled while he had been
playing and that the large, hulking Vietnamese was about to blackmail
him. This as it turned out could not have been further from the truth. Diem
was more interested in Daniel's easy access to the facilities - and sailors
- of the Esquimalt Naval facility, so much so that Diem offered an
arrangement Daniel could not refuse.
	What controls, Diem had asked Daniel, did the Navy have on the
jetties? Were there sailors who might, for a consideration, deliver a small
package to friends serving on board the warships? As a doctor, Smith had
advance knowledge of visiting foreign warships, did he not? Did the
hospital not receive advance copies of operation orders in order to assign
staff?
	Diem's questions went on and on and every so often he had paused to
offer access to the upper floors - gratis, of course - with a small payment
for services rendered.
	Having accepted Diem's offer, Daniel was soon well in over his
head. He very quickly learned that the information he supplied was used to
establish a very active drug ring with dealers in every ship and in Nelles
Block, the main junior ranks barracks. Visiting foreign warships, Aussies
and Brits and Americans were met and a dealer on board almost before the
gangway was set in place. Minh's tentacles extended to every jetty, every
barracks, and every section and part ship.
	Daniel's conscience bothered him not at all. If a matelot was
stupid enough to ingest a narcotic, or stick a needle filled with China
Gold in his arm that was his business. Daniel had other interests, and
there was also the small band of enforcers that Minh had assembled, tough,
ruthless thug-like creatures that would, and had, made every problem
disappear.
	As his bank account grew, and his visits to the warehouse brothel
increased, Daniel had learned a few things. He knew enough to keep his
mouth shut, but he also kept his eyes and ears open and was not surprised
just how high in the chain of command Minh's influence went. Daniel had
also learned that an anonymous tip to SIU made life very uncomfortable for
certain cretins and hard-liners.
	Noting that one of Michael's footmen had unpacked his toiletries
and neatly arranged them on the dressing table, Daniel reached for his
bottle of British Sterling after-shave, and slapped some on his
high-cheeked face. He should have shaved, but then he thought that a little
bit of bristle looked masculine, and sexy!
	As he completed his toilette, Daniel felt . . . unsettled. He could
not at first put his finger on his unease and then he realised what it
was. The house was quiet, too quiet. The place should have been throbbing
with the noise of twenty-odd boys. Yet it was not.
	Wondering where everyone had gone, Daniel peered out of the window,
but saw nothing but a passing patrol. Sniffing disdainfully, he wondered if
"the boys" were all in their rooms, doing what boys usually did in private,
even that snot-nosed little bastard with the green eyes. The adorable,
hunky Lieutenant Arnott was probably drilling him.
	Sighing, Daniel for a brief moment thought about inviting one of
the young men for a late night supper. There were several prime, ripe
specimens to choose from, and he wondered just what it would take to entice
the hulking boy called Harry, whom Daniel thought would look adorable in a
leather codpiece, into his lair. Or one of the Americans, perhaps? What was
the boy's name . . . Mark? Yes, Mark, was an Adonis, and although Daniel
had no way of knowing, Daniel imagined him to be hung like a bull.
	Licking his lips, Daniel winked at his reflection. "So many men, so
little time!" he told himself. Then he shook his head, dismissing such
foolish thoughts. He was not at all bothered that the young men were fellow
knights. They had balls and dicks, and that was all he was interested in.
	Daniel had learned very early on to use the information he gathered
- freely offered information - to his own advantage, particularly in his
predatory search for boy dick. His family farm was located miles outside of
Kingston and he rode the bus every morning, first to elementary school, and
then to high school. As a freshman in high school he had surveyed the
terrain and discovered an undercurrent of sexuality. Not with him, for he
was just a freshman, to be ignored by seniors, unless they deigned to
dismiss him as a "queer" or a "faggot".
	At first Daniel was hurt, and wept bitter tears. Then he realised
that sooner or later the objects of his lust would beat a path to his
door. On the bus he always sat at the back, with a gaggle of senior girls
in front, senior girls who gossiped and giggled, whispering secrets about
their boyfriends, and what they would not do with their boyfriends. As he
listened, Daniel came to understand that while the girls talked a good
fuck, almost none of them did the deed, and the furthest any of them would
go was a quick hand job in the car. Daniel's eyes gleamed with anticipation
- there was a world of sex-starved boys out there! He also learned from the
girls the length, girth and colour of half the dicks in school. He learned
who had skin, and who didn't, and which boy had tried to get his girl to
give him a blowjob.
	Being venal and amoral, Daniel decided that with so many horny guys
out there - and too few girls to help them out - he would happily take care
of their needs and they would just as happily take care of his.
	Daniel had moved carefully and slowly and it was all so
ridiculously easy. Because of his grades he was asked to tutor one of the
hunkier jocks, whom he knew to be deeply involved with one of the
cheerleaders, a cheerleader who did not put out. The boy was putty in
Daniel's hands. Daniel not only tutored the boy, he listened to him
complain about his lack of a sex life. Daniel used flattery, a most potent
weapon, opining that he could not understand any girl could fail to be
attentive to as handsome a jock such as his student was, and a very
handsome jock, who had so much to offer. Daniel also mentioned, artlessly
in passing that sometimes buddies helped each other to "get over the hump"
as it were. By their third tutoring session they were in bed.
	Daniel loved the sex! The jock, not unexpectedly, for he was a
jock, would never reciprocate, which did not bother Daniel at all. He
enjoyed oral and anal sex, always giving. He knew that there was more to
come, and from some very surprising quarters. Both boys had sworn each
other to total, uncompromising secrecy. The watch words were, "Don't talk
about it, ever." But of course the jock, who was getting constant, more
than satisfying sex for the first time, could not keep their secret. He
simply had to tell his best friend, another jock. Before Daniel knew it he
had seven "students" needing his special brand of tutoring.
	Later, as he walked across the stage in the school auditorium to
collect his diploma, Daniel's eyes scanned the crowd and saw upwards of a
hundred of his "students". High school had been very educational and
satisfying.
	During his high school years Daniel had learned about the habits of
his classmates, and had learned what turned them on, and what made them
tremble with utter terror. At first his students had been the dominant
partners, the so-called "Alpha Male", happy to fuck Daniel senseless, and
strut and preen about it afterward. What they feared was disclosure of what
actually went on during the study sessions. And this allowed Daniel to
control his partners. It was better if the student reciprocated, which many
did, including two of the jocks who, much to Daniel's surprise, were even
bigger queens than he was, at least in bed! They wanted to be fucked, and
while Daniel much preferred to be on the receiving end, he managed to keep
them happy. Once one of his students performed a "forbidden" act, Daniel
had him. He could, and did, withhold his favours, and could pick and choose
whom he would tutor.
	Daniel knew that he was playing a dangerous game, but he also knew
he had an ace in the hole - public abomination of homosexuality. Queers
were anathema, beneath contempt - and not fit to associate with "normal"
people. A queer could be beaten with impunity - it was something he
deserved just for being queer. A queer could be thrown out of school, out
of his home and ostracized. He deserved it by being a queer.
	Being basically unscrupulous, and without a conscience, Daniel
played the card. When one of his "students" stopped coming around, and
seemed to be paying a great deal of attention to one of his buddies, Daniel
had thrown a private hissy fit of jealousy, not so much because "Tom" had
stopped coming around - he was a lousy lay and had a small cock - but
because "Dick" had spurned his offers of private tutoring sessions.  Slyly,
Daniel started a whispering campaign. His opportunity had come during one
lunch hour when one of the girls remarked that "Tom" didn't seem to date
much any more. Daniel had sipped his milk, smirked and replied that "Tom"
was much too involved in his sports routine, as was "Dick", "Tom's" best
friend. After all, they spent all their time together. Not that there was
anything going on, of course. "Tom" and "Dick" were jocks, and just
interested in doing jock things.
	Daniel's deliberate doubting tone set tongues to wagging. That, as
it turned out, "Tom" and "Dick" were not doing anything other than jock
things, meant nothing. They were awfully close, were always together and,
did you know, during the away games they always slept together in the same
bed! Where there was smoke . . . Although nothing could ever be proven,
because nothing had been going on, both boys, their reputations
irredeemably smeared by the whispers, had abruptly left school. One went to
Toronto, and never returned to Kingston. The other had driven over to
Watertown and visited the US Army Recruiting Centre. There was a war in
Vietnam and he would prove his manhood. He came home, eventually, but with
an escort of one officer, six pallbearers and a delegation from the VFW to
play Taps and fire the three volleys over his grave that military protocol
entitled him to.
	Ruining two young lives had bothered Daniel not at all. He had
proved his point (at least to himself) and had put the fear of God into his
partners. If they treated him badly, he would destroy them. His partners
took the hint and Daniel was very grateful for their consideration.
	Daniel also learned something about himself. He had learned that
each boy reacted differently to his seduction. Most lay back and
enjoyed. But some had to justify what they had done. They could not allow
anyone to know that they had given in to their more prurient desires. They
had to assert their masculinity, they had to be the male and they lashed
out, with their fists, or with whatever was at hand. These boys usually
left after beating Daniel, warning that worse was to come if he opened his
mouth, and most never came back. But some did, revelling in the role of the
master, demanding sex, belittling Daniel, making him suffer for the affront
of making them want to have him suck their dick, or let them fuck him. And
Daniel loved it. His personal satisfaction was heightened when his partner
dominated him.
	After leaving Kingston, Daniel had been discreet, and avoided the
more physical partners. He could not explain away bruises, not during his
time as an Officer Cadet, or on any of his courses where he had to share a
barracks or a room with another officer. But he craved the domination,
needed to be the slave. He needed rough sex and the rougher the better.
	Leaving the mirror and his narcissistic preening, Daniel sat at the
writing table and found a sheet of heavy, cream-coloured notepaper. He
chuckled malevolently as he picked a pen. He tapped the pen against the
desk, thinking. He was an officer in the Canadian Armed Forces, a Doctor of
Medicine, and he had been ignored and insulted. He had been treated like
dirt! He was a knight of the Order, which really meant nothing to him. He
had only joined at the urging of that dippy Anglican priest at the
Cathedral back home who, when he wasn't dressing up like the Empress
Josephine, was recruiting choirboys for his circle of friends.
	Sighing, Daniel thought of those heady days and then shook his
head. He was digressing and that was then. His knighthood aside, he
returned to his original thought: he was an officer, and should have been
greeted by his fellow officers as one of them, which he thought his right,
and only his due. Yet they had all but turned up their noses at him,
ignored him, and while none had expressed it he could see the contempt in
their eyes. Oh, it had been there, that look that said that while he might
wear the lace, he was not really one of them.
	That none of the officers, not Andy or Kyle, or Commander Stockman
had done anything but greet the doctor with politeness was not the
point. They had allowed him to be treated with disrespect - the look in
that little bastard's eyes as his hand was stitched had said it all, so far
as Daniel was concerned. And Stockman had sat there, smiling like a
geriatric ninny! Hadn't said a word and allowed that obese caricature to
babble on about "Anteaters"! Daniel had seen the sneer the old fuck had
given him. Daniel knew! He always knew!
	Well, he thought, there are ways to repay a slight! The Bible might
say that vengeance was the Lord's, but when he was finished vengeance would
Daniel Dane Bradley-Smith's!

******

 	In the course of his military duties, Daniel had attended at two
suicides, and three attempted suicides, all the end result of
investigations of alleged homosexuality by the Special Investigations Unit
of the Military Police. A particularly inept organisation, which Daniel
thought incapable of finding its collective ass in a dark room, SIU
specialized in rooting out "queers". The agents spent so much time sniffing
sheets and looking under the beds in the barracks that General Minh's drug
dealers had free run of the base. Drugs were, or so it seemed,
secondary. There were queers about, and that could not be tolerated. The
merest hint of homosexuality would set the Esquimalt SIU off on a feeding
frenzy, and it did not matter if the man were guilty or not. It did not
matter if there was no evidence.
	SIU would gladly fabricate whatever was necessary, add a sentence
here, a paragraph there to the written confessions they always demanded,
and which they always got in the end. The Gestapo and KGB had nothing on
SIU when they were on a witch-hunt for queers. The agents used Medieval
intimidation, and terror tactics, which was not surprising as their
"training" manual for interrogating suspects, a gift from their
counterparts in the US Navy's NIS, was based on a book published in 1484,
the Malleus Maleficarum, and used by the Inquisition to conduct witch-hunts
and interrogations of suspected witches. Nothing was forbidden and the ends
justified the means. The agents knew that they could get away with lying,
with forgery, with terror, because nobody wanted a queer in the Armed
Forces. They were only fags, and were guilty and only getting what they
deserved anyway.
	An anonymous telephone call would do it. So would an anonymous
letter, suitably embellished of course. Daniel began to draft a letter. He
doubted that SIU could do anything about the pack of faggoty Sea
Cadets. But, Commander Frank Stockman, Sub-Lieutenant Kyle St. Vincent and
Ensign Andy Berg, they were a different kettle of fish. SIU just loved
snaring officers in their net. That they might be as innocent as cherubs
bothered Daniel not at all. Nor would it bother SIU. Where there was smoke
. . . And what made the whole thing even better was that the Americans were
more Draconian. He had heard stories about NIS, stories that made his blood
run cold. Yes, a short, concise anonymous note in the post would do the job
nicely.
	Daniel wrote for perhaps half an hour and then carefully folded the
piece of paper filled with innuendo and falsehood. He would have an
opportunity later to post it. But then he thought, no. He would wait until
he returned to Esquimalt. Let the knock on the door come when it was least
expected.
	Finished, Daniel then regarded the telephone that sat on the
bedside table. He should have reported in hours ago, but that delicious
footman had distracted him - Daniel wondered if Bogart might be available
later in the evening, or if he knew of any other of the footmen who might
like to play. Leaving the writing table he sat on the bed and lifted the
telephone receiver from its cradle, and began to dial.

******

 	"Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, fifteen-six, six is twelve and . . ."
Patrick Tsang deftly advanced the plastic peg along the cribbage board. He
grinned at Frank "The Horse" Campbell. "Cribbage!"
	Frank glowered at Patrick. "You're cheating," he accused.
	"Why Francis, are you suggesting that I am manipulating the
pasteboards to my advantage?" Patrick asked innocently as he gathered the
cards.
	"You're cheating," grumbled Frank. Then he asked, "How much do I
owe you."
	Patrick quickly totalled the score. "Five for the game and
seventeen for the points. And I take cheques."
	Ignoring Frank's dark look, Patrick began to deal the cards. He had
thought, when Michael asked him to help supervise the basement control
room, and monitor the comings and goings of the catering staff, that he
would be bored. Patrick also knew that Michael wanted him to get his hands
dirty. It was one thing to sit behind a desk and give orders; it was
another to actually see how the orders were carried out.
	The experience was doing Patrick a deal of good. He learned that
every yard of the grounds was monitored by closed circuit
television. Frank, who had been with the Security Force for almost three
years, showed Patrick the system, and pointed out areas of interest, areas
where trees overhung the wall, small, seemingly insignificant gaps in the
system. He also showed Patrick how to monitor the telephones.
	While the incoming calls came through a central switchboard,
outgoing calls could be dialled directly from the rooms. The Major had
included a monitoring system when he first designed the security protocol
for the estate, but it was little used. When Michael, and the Major, had
first learned of Captain K'ang's treachery the Major had called for the
telephone bills, which showed every call from the house. There were two
calls to Taipei recorded, not surprising given K'ang's suspected ties with
the Taiwanese CIA. Disturbing, however, were three other calls, one to Hong
Kong, two to Shanghai! Michael suspected that the Captain had been in
contact with the Triads. The telephone calls could not be ignored.
	Not knowing who was involved in K'ang's plotting, Michael had
shipped all of his Chinese guards home. The Major, blaming himself for the
security breach, had quietly ordered the telephone monitoring system
activated. A transcript of every outgoing call was sent to the Major every
evening. The only exceptions were those calls made from Michael's
seldom-used telephones. Michael rarely spoke about his business over
anything that might have a recording device attached to it.
	So far, the calls had been boring, and devoid of anything of
interest. The Maestro had called out to his suppliers, the calls filled
with threats for the most part if the needed foodstuff or wine was not
delivered within the hour. One of the footmen called out, and Frank had an
interesting half-hour as he listened to the footman trying to con his girl
friend into meeting when he got off work.
	The console that sat behind the desk had been quiet since the
guests had arrived. The catering staff, the Maestro aside, was much to busy
serving to make telephone calls. The cadets were much too busy eating and
enjoying themselves to telephone anyone.
	Patrick's presence did not bother Frank at all. He enjoyed the
young man's company during a very boring duty, and when Patrick suggested a
game of cribbage, Frank had agreed. Losing to Patrick was not as onerous
has Frank made out. And at least he did not have to worry about Patrick
putting the moves on him. Frank had never met a straighter guy, and he had
learned his lesson after the unfortunate incident with Kuang Hsu.
	Patrick had just finished examining his hand when a light on the
console blinked yellow. He looked over Frank's shoulder and said, "Someone
is calling out."
	Frank turned and flicked two switches. One activated the
reel-to-reel tape recorder and the other allowed him to listen in, using a
set of earphones. He placed one of the earphones against his ear, listened,
and then quickly handed the set to Patrick. "You'd better hear this," he
said with agitation. "It's that doctor!"
	Patrick, who had been briefed by the Major, quickly placed the
headset over his ears.

******

	"You are late in reporting," complained Diem. His voice was low,
and emotionless. He had learned a long time ago that it did not do to
antagonize a field agent, particularly a white. They were all secret
racists. As a "Saigon Cowboy", Diem had sped through the dusty, crowded
streets of Saigon, which were filled with Americans looking for what Diem
sold: drugs and prostitutes. The soldiers were all smiles and openness if
Diem had what they wanted. If not, he received a curse and a smack upside
his head. Whites could not be trusted but, as he had told his general, at
times they had their uses.
	Daniel ignored Diem's whining. "I told you that I would be arriving
late," he snapped. It was bad enough that he had to put up with the
arrogance and disrespect of the cadets and officers; he did not have to
take any crap from some Chink.
	Stifling his anger, Diem growled, "So you did. What have you seen?"
	"Not much," replied Daniel. "The place is a fortress, but then you
knew that."
	"Yes. You have the patrol schedule?"
	Nodding, Daniel said, "It's very intensive. I counted a patrol
about every three or four minutes around the perimeter. Two man patrols,
each armed with what looks like an automatic rifle.  There are four guards
at the main gate, two outside, two in the gatehouse."
	"Internal patrols?" asked Diem. "We understand that there are two
security forces, one that patrols the outside perimeter, and one that
patrols the grounds and the house."
	Without thinking, Daniel shrugged his indifference. "The house is
overrun with caterers and waiters," he sniffed. "None of them are carrying
weapons . . ." At least not the kind you'd be interested in, he
thought. "And none of them look like security guards."
	"You can hardly miss them!" snarled Diem. He felt his anger rising
at the doctor's obvious stupidity. He took a deep breath, willing himself
to calm down. "The outside force is composed of white men, Americans and
British for the most part. The inside force is exclusively Chinese," he
informed Daniel.
	Feeling a note of contempt in Diem's voice, Daniel flared. "I can
tell the difference and there are no Chinese anything around here, except
for Michael Chan and two or three others."
	Diem started. "What . . . where did they go? We were reliably
informed that all the inside force was Chinese!"
	"How would I know?" retorted Daniel. "I'm telling you that there
are no Chinese guards!"
	All but biting his tongue, Diem reluctantly apologized. "It would
seem that we were misinformed."
	Once again Daniel shrugged. "All the guards are white. I haven't
counted too many though. Most of the men are detailed to act as minders for
Chan's guests."
	"Guests? What guests?"
	Daniel sighed. Did he have to do everything? "Chan has a group of
knights - young ones - who are enjoying his hospitality. You know that he
is the Grand Master of the Order . . ."
	"A foolish affectation," interrupted Diem. "It does nothing. What
are these knights doing?"
	"Enjoying themselves," replied Daniel. He grimaced and added
silently, "And insulting their betters!" He continued on. "They hardly pose
a threat. Most of them are schoolboys. They're leaving on Saturday, early."
	Diem remained silent, thinking. Then he asked, "Can you get a count
of the guards? Will the guards accompany these 'guests' when they leave?"
	"I can't see why," replied Daniel with a yawn. "The kids are on
their way to a funeral in Québec, Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré actually."
	"You must get a count of the guards," instructed Diem. He had no
interest in schoolboys going, or coming from a funeral or a fun fair.
	Daniel thought a moment. "Well, so far I would say about 50,
perhaps a little more, certainly no more than seventy-five or so. I've seen
the same guards patrolling."
	Diem was silent. He had to consider every aspect of the planned
operation. Without the Chinese guards, the outside security force would be
brought inside - or at least a goodly portion of it. That meant that the
patrols would be sporadic and undermanned. That was good. The location,
however, was bad. The house was surrounded by acres of gardens and
lawns. Access to the estate was a relatively simple matter. But, given the
open spaces any attacking force would be spotted long before they ever hit
the house. He also had to consider the estate to the south of Michael's
house. It was filled with Chans and Chiangs, and whatnot, all kin to
Michael, and there had to be some sort of a security force there.
	"Are you still there?" Daniel asked impatiently.
	Diem frowned. "I am weighing my options - and yours!" he replied
harshly.
	"Mine?" Daniel paled. "What have I got to do with whatever plans
you have?"
	"You are part of this! Our future is your future! Remember that!"
	"Are you threatening me?" demanded Daniel as his stomach heaved.
	"Frankly, yes," retorted Diem. He wanted to slam down the telephone
receiver but that would serve no purpose, except perhaps to make him feel
better. "Now listen. Give me an exact count of the guards and, if possible,
go for a walk outside the compound and see if the area is patrolled. Also,
the house to the south is the ancestral home of the Chans. Find a way to
visit there. If there are guards I must know it. Certain events must occur
and you are the point man, you understand the term?"
	"No."
	With gritted teeth Diem repressed an urge to throw the telephone
across the room. "You are there, you must observe and report everything you
see. There is a great deal at stake. The general has invested a great deal
of time, and money, and he does not suffer fools gladly." Diem paused, and
added unthinkingly. "Nor do his business acquaintances. A pipeline has been
established, a pipeline that will bring wealth beyond counting to those who
are fortunate enough to participate in our plans." He laughed harshly. "The
Soongs can be very generous to their friends." Then he added ominously,
"And relentless to their enemies!"
	Daniel had no idea what Diem was talking about. Still, "wealth
beyond counting" intrigued him. He had never known wealth - his family
owned their farm, but little more. He had only joined the Navy's University
Training Program to take advantage of the benefits offered. His parents
were of modest means, and he had two younger brothers, both of whom needed
to be educated. Then there were the other fringe benefits, a large,
discreetly located house, the security that only money brought, the men
that would worship him if the price were right.
	"Don't worry," Daniel soothed as dollar signs danced in his eyes.
	"I must worry," returned Diem. "What else is happening?"
	Daniel thought a moment. "There is to be a dinner at Michael's
restaurant tonight. Everybody will be there."
	Shaking his head, Diem considered this option and rejected
it. There would be too many guards - the Tsangs kept order in Chinatown and
even Diem feared that particular clan. There were also too many tourists
about. There could be no "collateral damage". The general would not allow
it. "You say the guests leave on Saturday?"
	"Yes. Early in the morning as far as I know."
	"And then?"
	"I have no idea," responded Daniel truthfully. "I am going with
them."
	"And Michael, and the guards?"
	"I told you, no. So far as I have heard the minders will stay
here," said Daniel, talking off the top of his head. There were no plans
for anyone other than the cadets to leave for Quebec that he knew of.
	"Very well, keep me informed. And do not fail!"
	Diem terminated the conversation.

******

	Patrick, slightly pale, removed the headset and looked at
Frank. "Where is Michael?" he asked.
	Frank wheeled in his chair and scanned the bank of
screens. "There," he said, pointing. "He's sitting on the terrace with
Mrs. Arundel and that boy they call The Phantom."
	Rising from his chair, Patrick issued his orders. "Find the Major
and inform him. Make a copy of the tape and have it delivered to Michael's
office." As he turned to leave the small room he added, "And Frank, tell no
one."
	Frank nodded but did not reply. He had no intention of mentioning
anything to anyone. He was loyal, and swallowed the pique he felt at
Patrick's' words, and inexperience in dealing with men. "And then," Frank
thought as he began to make the copy Patrick asked for, "I do like my balls
exactly where they are!"

******

	Patrick forced himself to smile as he approached the small group
sitting on the terrace. His news was important but he could not give any
indication that anything was amiss. Michael, knowing that something had
caused Patrick to leave his post, glanced quizzically at Patrick but gave
no sign of anything but pleasure at seeing his protégé.
	"Mrs. Arundel," began Michael, "allow me to introduce the newest
member of my staff, Patrick Tsang."
	As she rose, Catherine gave Patrick a strange look. She had been
around long enough to know about the Tsangs, and this young man certainly
did not look like one of them! She smiled winningly. "How very nice to meet
you Mr. Tsang." she said, "or may I call you Patrick?"
	Patrick, much taken by the still-beautiful woman, returned her
smile, this time with purpose. "The pleasure is mine and yes, please call
me Patrick."
	Michael turned to The Phantom. "And this is Philip Lascelles, of
whom I have spoken," he said to Patrick.
	As he extended his left hand, The Phantom saw a slim, rather
handsome young man. Patrick, before he took The Phantom's hand, gave the
younger man a proper, correct neck bow. "I am honoured, Your Imperial
Highness," he murmured.
	Both The Phantom and Mrs. Arundel stared at the young Chinese, both
wondering where "Imperial Highness" had come from. Mrs. Arundel shot The
Phantom an enquiring look, but the blank stare in his eyes told her that
the young man was as much in the dark as she was.
	For his part, The Phantom recovered quickly. He was aware that
Michael had something planned but aside from the broad hints that Chef gave
him, he knew nothing about highnesses, or lownesses for that matter! He
decided not to press the matter and smiled winningly. "Please, my friends
call me 'Phantom'. Will you join us?"
	Patrick returned The Phantom's warmth as he sat down. "I am afraid
I am only able to stay a short while." He looked purposefully at
Michael. "I am afraid we must finalise the details for this evening," he
lied.
	Michael, who had already given his instructions for the dinner at
his restaurant, pretended to follow Patrick's lead. "Ah, yes. Details,
details," he said with a smile. He turned to Mrs. Arundel. "Perhaps you and
your ladies would care to join us?" he asked politely, more or less
expecting her to decline the invitation.
	"Why, Michael, how very kind of you," Catherine replied. "We would
be delighted." She turned to Patrick. "I have so little opportunity to see
my sons, and of course my husband is very busy with his new appointment
. . ." She looked pointedly at Michael. " . . .And other things."
	Michael took the hint and waited for the other shoe to
drop. Mrs. Arundel was a perceptive woman and it would seem that she had
picked up some hints of what was going on.
	Catherine, however, saw no point in bearding Michael at the
moment. She began to rise - the others, as became gentlemen, rose with her
- and said, "And if you will excuse me, I shall speak to Mabell and
Mary. They will be ever so pleased."
	As they resumed their seats Michael asked The Phantom, "And what
shall you do, my young friend? Perhaps join the swimmers?"
	Shrugging, The Phantom replied. "I think I'll just wait for Alex to
return." He sniggered boyishly. "A session with the Proctor can be very
unnerving!"
	"At least Chef doesn't treat a man as if he were a horse up for
auction!" thought Patrick with a secret grin.
	Michael, who seemed to know exactly what Patrick was thinking,
smiled knowingly. "Chef knows what to do," he said. He heard a footfall and
saw Alex coming out of the garden room. "And here is our latest candidate -
I hope."
	Alex looked pale, but his step was firm and his back was
straight. He greeted Michael and was about to step aside, to take up a
position near the windows of the house, when Michael gestured for him to
sit down. "Patrick, we must attend to your problem and I am sure that
Phantom would like to speak to young Grinchsten."
	Having been the recipient of Chef's act in his role as Proctor, The
Phantom definitely wanted to speak to Alex. As Michael and Patrick withdrew
he looked at Alex. "Well?"
	Alex smiled a crooked smile and said, "Wow!"
	Chuckling, The Phantom nodded. "There's a lot to absorb."
	"Does he, does Chef speak to all the candidates?" asked Alex.
	"No, at least not right away. He's supposed to, but we sort of
inundated him," replied The Phantom with a smile. "Of course, we also came
highly recommended by The Gunner. He's the Chancellor of the Order."
	"Yes, Chef explained that." Alex lapsed into silence and seemed
preoccupied and then blurted, "I have a problem with the 'professing'
thing."
	"You don't understand?" asked The Phantom, stalling for time. He
had no idea what Chef had said to Alex, but obviously some of what was said
did not sit well with the young American. The Phantom wanted to help Alex,
in any way he could, but he had to be very careful in how he went about
it. There could be no pressure.
	"I understand," replied Alex glumly.
	The Phantom began thinking quickly, trying to understand what was
behind Alex's reluctance. Was he gay, but could not admit it? The Phantom
could understand this. Hell and sheeit, he only had to look to Greg
Carroll, who was madly in love with Harry, and had slept with the Drum
Major, and had later, in the Ship's Office, all but written an appendix to
the Kama Sutra with Jimmy Collyer, but insisted that what he was doing was
just two guys fooling around and that he was in no way a fag!
	Could it be that Alex was not gay and resented the inference, no
matter how carefully put, that he was? The Phantom looked inward for an
answer. It had taken him a long to admit to himself the truth. He also
admitted that had anyone, before he came to Aurora, asked him if he were
gay, he would have denied, denied and denied.
	The Phantom turned and saw that Alex's pink face was blushing
pinker. All The Phantom's instincts told him that Alex was an honest,
upright guy. Blushing furiously did not seem, to The Phantom, to be
something one would expect from a decorated veteran. He wondered if there
were something else, something that had happened in Vietnam, that Alex also
would not talk about.
	Thinking carefully, and wishing to put his minder at ease, The
Phantom spoke carefully. "Chef told you that the Order is composed, for the
most part, of gay men, that its whole purpose is to help gay men and boys?"
	"Yes."
	"And knowing Chef, he also told you that there are members -
knights - who are not gay?"
	Alex nodded, "Yeah." He looked puzzled, however.
	"You cannot think why straight men might want to be associated with
us," The Phantom thought sadly. "Was this Alex's problem?"
	The Phantom nodded at the small group of ladies whispering at their
table - plotting Mrs. Arundel's campaign to convince Michael to allow them
to accompany the young knights, no doubt - and said, "Mrs. Arundel's
husband, Bertie, is a very high ranking knight. He's not gay."
	Alex seemed to relax a bit. The Phantom smiled warmly at him, and
then continued. "The Order, and your brother knights deserve, no, are
entitled to your complete honesty."
	The Phantom's eyes - two emerald gems - looked evenly at Alex as he
said, "It is a hard thing, to admit publicly, in front of witnesses,
something that you know privately to be the truth." The Phantom then added
in a low, soft voice, "As well I know."
	Alex darted an inquiring glance at the young man. Could it be that
. . .?  Seemingly thinking aloud, The Phantom continued, "Alex, the Rule of
the Order is clear. All it asks is that a candidate tell the truth." He
smiled sadly. "Sometimes the truth is hard to hear, because once it is
told, it can't be taken back. The rule on the outside is 'Don't talk about
it', so nobody does . . ."
	Alex's eyes widened slightly. He was hearing an admission,
something he had never expected something that, as The Phantom had said,
was never talked about. The Phantom, in his own way, was telling Alex a
truth that, Alex suspected, until this moment had never been revealed
aloud.
	The Phantom was musing now. "In the Order a man can be himself. On
the outside, once you say the words, once you say you're gay, you're a
marked man."  Alex's thin face tightened. He felt guilty, for The Phantom
had just related one of his deepest feelings. Yet at the same time Alex
felt a warm, strong bond developing between this strange young man and
himself. It would seem that not only the Order sought honesty. Alex
realized that in a way The Phantom was the embodiment of truth, and what
the Order sought to be.
	With an admiring glance at The Phantom - it took a hell of a man to
admit to a relative stranger that he was gay - Alex decided to unburden
himself of a part of him that had been festering for over two years, and to
assure The Phantom of one of the reasons the Order, and Michael Chan, would
never need to question the loyalty of the men of the Protection Service.
	"I am already a marked man!" Alex said flatly. "I'm a Vietnam Vet!
I killed babies. I burned peaceful, defenceless villages. I killed, without
thinking, innocent peasants. I napalmed schoolgirls on their way to
market!" His face was flush with almost uncontrolled rage. "I am all those
things!" With clenched fists Alex continued. "If it weren't for Mr. Michael
I'd probably be living under a bridge, lost in a fog of drugs or booze or
both! Guys like me, we're the forgotten generation and nobody is in a
fucking hurry to remember us. We . . ."
	The Phantom raised his hand and placed it gently against Alex's
warm face. "You are none of those things, Alex," he murmured softly. "You
have killed, yes, but that was war. I understand your feelings, and I see
in your eyes the hurt you feel. But that will change."
	"No, it won't!" insisted Alex vehemently. "I won't tell you what
happened to me when I came home because I'd just be repeating the same
story a thousand times over." He waved his arm, his gesture encompassing
the wide lawns. "Every American here, every swinging dick, is here because
Michael Chan gave us something our own people wouldn't! He gave us a job,
yes, but he also gave us back our self-respect, he gave us back our balls!"
	"And he is offering you much more," said The Phantom. "He is
offering you a purpose . . ."
	"The Order," interrupted Alex.
	"Yes." Emotionally, The Phantom took Alex's hand in his. "Your
people will, in time, recognise the sacrifice you and your brothers made."
He saw Alex about to argue and shook his head. "Oh, there will be the usual
lowlife liberals who will jump on the band wagon because they have no
choice, sort of like the Bubbas down south who will hate blacks until their
dying day but pay lip service to prevailing wind, or the anti-Semitic
hypocrites who don't dare express their hatred of Jews. Those people stay
in their cesspools, and never come out. They've been with us forever, and
will be with us forever. But I am not talking about them. I'm talking about
the average American, who is kind-hearted, and generous. Sooner or later
they'll recognise how badly you, and your brothers, were treated, and
they'll make it right."
	Alex snorted his doubt.
	"It's true, Alex. One day you'll go home with honour. One day
someone, when you least expect it, will come up and shake your hand and
tell you he's sorry for the way he acted, for the way he treated you. It
will take time, but it will happen."
	"It will take a long time, sir," responded Alex glumly. "They might
'forgive' me for doing what I thought was my duty. I just don't know if I
will be able to forgive them."
	"You will, Alex," said The Phantom. "You're a good and honourable
man."
	"I'm glad you think so," replied Alex with a shy smile.
	"The Gunner has a saying," The Phantom thought, "that says that a
real man will do the harder right and not the easier wrong." Alex would do
the right thing.
	Looking into Alex's eyes, The Phantom decided to return to the main
point. "Alex, you have been offered a knighthood. You don't have to profess
at all. You don't even have to become a knight. You can be a Companion."
	"If I accept, I will go the distance," replied Alex.
	"I know you will," replied The Phantom. "I am only concerned that
you understand that if you do join the Order you become, well, queer by
association. That is what I meant by saying that you would be 'marked'."
	"I know, Phantom, I saw it in Vietnam, and I saw it at home. I come
from a small town, a dairy farm, actually," said Alex. "I joined the
Marines to get away from the cows!"
	"You don't like cows?" asked The Phantom. "I always thought them to
be rather gentle creatures."
	"Not at four o'clock in the morning in the middle of an Iowa
winter!" grumbled Alex.
	Laughing, The Phantom continued. "At least cows don't judge you,
which is what people will do. People won't know you, won't know what you've
done, what you will do, but they will happily judge you and condemn you."
	Alex looked sad a moment. "You know, when I was in Vietnam, there
were . . . gays. Most of the guys didn't care and nobody gave their being
gay a second thought. They were our buddies, and they fought and died like
all the rest of us."
	"Which is the way it should be," responded The Phantom, his voice
taking on a deeply emotional timbre. "But that was war, that was
Vietnam. Out there . . ." he pointed toward the far wall. "Out there, no
matter what good and wonderful deeds you do, your God, my God, will condemn
us, or so the Church says He will. It will not matter that you dedicate
your life to healing, or teaching, you are marked as unfit. It does not
matter how well you champion your country, or offer your body in its
service, your country, and my country, will disgrace us. Military
regulations tell us that 'homosexuality is incompatible with military
service'. The military will cast us aside, dispose of us." A wry grin split
The Phantom's face. "Better, it would seem, to fall on one's sword, to
devour one's young, than give lie to the fiction that gays cannot serve
with honour!"
	Alex understood The Phantom's meaning. He gently punched the young
man's shoulder. "Nobody ever said that the military possessed anything as
simple as common sense."
	The Phantom reached out and gently squeezed Alex's shoulder. "We'll
go on, Alex. We'll do the harder right"
	Nodding firmly, Alex said, "Damn straight!" His eyes became
soft. "Times are changing, sir," he offered. "People are tired of being
told half-truths and lies. People are learning . . ."
	"Yes, they are," agreed The Phantom. "But not quickly enough."
	"You've told me that there is hope, that in time I will be forgiven
for being a Vietnam Marine," said Alex kindly. "Maybe, in time . . ." His
voice trailed off. Then his face brightened. "And if all else fails, I can
always go back to the cows!"
	The Phantom laughed and slapped his knee. "Hell and sheeit! I knew
there was a reason I liked you!" He stood up. "Come on."
	"Where are we going?" asked Alex as he walked beside The Phantom.
	"I thought I'd go over and see how the guys are doing," replied The
Phantom. "Maybe take a swim."
	"What about your hand?" Alex asked as he pointed to The Phantom's
bandage.
	The Phantom had no intention of going for a swim, but he had
decided to have a little fun at Alex's expense, to chuck some shit and see
how Alex reacted. After all, if Alex was about to join the ranks of the
knights he had better get used to having shit chucked at him, especially
with Harry, the Twins, and Randy and Joey around. Particularly Randy and
Joey around!
	"Well, that so-called doctor didn't say anything about me not being
able to swim."
	"He didn't say you could, either," returned Alex. "And I don't
notice you wearing a swimming suit."
	As they approached the gate that would give them access to the
estate next door, The Phantom winked at Alex. "Never been skinny dipping?"
	Alex pulled up short. "Of course I have," he said as he followed
The Phantom through the gate. "I didn't spend all my time with those
goddamned cows!"
	"Then there's no problem." The Phantom stopped and turned to
Alex. "But then again, I may have to tell Phil Thornton to tie up Randy and
Joey and put them in a corner. There's no telling what they'll do if they
see you . . . nekkid!"
	"Who said anything about me being 'nekkid'?" demanded Alex. "If you
think I'm going to strip off in front of that bunch of perverts you're
sadly mistaken and who in the hell is Phil Thornton."
	"Big, beefy guy, with dark hair," replied The Phantom as they
approached the Orangerie.
	"I thought that was Harry."
	"Well, he's also big and beefy, but he owns the Pride of the Fleet,
which he'll be very happy to show you!"
	"What in the hell is that?" demanded Alex, more confused than ever.
	The Phantom turned and grinned. "Why the Pride of the Fleet . . ."
he laughed and slapped Alex on the shoulder. "One day, if you are lucky,
you will tell your grandchildren that you saw it!"
	"Assuming I have any," returned Alex. "I may profess, you know."
	The Phantom did not quite absorb Alex's words. "Well, maybe one day
you can adopt . . ."  He stopped abruptly. "What did you say?"
	"Assuming I have any?"
	"Alex!"
	"Oh, I may profess." Alex grinned at The Phantom. "And don't look
so shocked."
	"But I thought . . ." began The Phantom.
	"I know," said Alex, still smiling. "And maybe I'll tell you why I
think I should profess." He looked toward the classical outlines of the
Orangerie. "But not right now. I feel like a swim . . ." He sniggered at
the obviously nonplussed knight. "And I just might do it . . . nekkid!"

******

	Michael listened to the recording again and then nodded his
head. He looked first at Pete, and then at Patrick. "So, now we know,"
observed Michael flatly as Major Meinertzhagen turned off the tape player.
	"And now that we know, what do we do about it?" asked Pete.
	Michael noted Pete's use of "we" and smiled slightly. "Diem works
for General Minh, who plans on eliminating me, and taking my place," he
said with a scowl. "Minh will not stop at sending me to join my ancestors."
His eyes darted toward Patrick and Pete. "Anyone associated with me is a
target. He wants complete control and will not be merciful to those
associated with me."
	Patrick looked perplexed. "What I do not understand is Diem's
reference to the Soongs! Did I not just spend five excruciating days
negotiating a marriage contract for you with them?"
	Michael did not immediately answer. He stared out of the window,
looking into the distance. Then he said, "Gold, and heroin."
	Pete and Patrick exchanged a glance.
	Not turning, Michael continued. "The highlands of the Golden
Triangle, the area where the borders of Laos, Thailand and Burma meet, are
little more than one huge poppy plantation. The sap of the opium, when it
is harvested, is a valuable commodity. It can be sold raw, or refined into
heroin.
	"The poppy fields are controlled by warlords, who maintain armies
to protect their territory. These armies must be maintained, paid, fed,
dressed, armed and so on." Michael sighed. "In order to supply their armies
the warlords sell the opium crop - for gold, or U.S. dollars."
	"The Soongs buy the crop?" asked Pete. His knowledge of the heroin
trade was minimal, but he knew what disasters it had brought to the
American army in Vietnam. He also knew from friends who were still in the
Army, that drugs, narcotics, were a huge, and seemingly unsolvable problem
that still plagued the U.S. military.
	Michael smiled wryly. "The Soongs? They would never soil their
hands with the trade. They are much too much a part of the establishment,
well respected for their good works." He shook his head. "The Soongs are
the bankers. They have connections in South Africa and India. They are
well-known gold brokers and currency traders."
	Michael returned to his seat and tapped the top of his desk
reflectively. "The warlords will sell only for cash, or gold bars. There is
no bargaining. The Soongs charge a commission to the men they lend the gold
or dollars to. The refined opium, now heroin, is smuggled through Hong Kong
and Bangkok to the United States and Canada. There it is sold through a
network of dealers. The profits, which are phenomenal, must then be
laundered."
	"Which the Soongs are happy to do as merchant bankers. They have
banks in San Francisco, New York, and here!" said Patrick.
	"Quite right. When Diem promised Bradley-Smith great rewards he was
not lying." Michael pointed a finger at Pete. "There is enough for
everyone. A kilo of Number Four Grade heroin sells for 12,000 US Dollars in
Thailand. It is approximately 70 per cent pure. The dealers 'cut' the
heroin with lactose powder, until it is perhaps five percent opium, and
then it is sold in packets for twenty dollars a gram."
	Pete let loose a long, low whistle. "Jesus," he gasped. Running the
figures quickly in his head he pronounced, "That's almost three million
dollars from just one kilo! No wonder Minh wants you out."
	"I will not be a part of the trade," responded Michael, his face
darkening. "I am aware that the profits are mind boggling. I am also aware
that all my work will be for nothing if I agree to deal narcotics. The
judges, the politicians, the police, look with tolerance on the sins of
men. Men will gamble, and drink, and chase women. That is understood and a
wise man knows that trying to halt these petty vices is like trying to push
back the sea. Because they understand they look away. But . . ." Here
Michael pounded the desk. "Drugs are the bane of man! The authorities will
never be a part of the trafficking and will do everything they can to stop
it."
	The Major, who had been sitting quietly, spoke quietly. "Pete, you
have become a very valuable member of the Firm, so to speak, and I think it
is time that you understand our enemies."
	"The Soongs?" asked Pete.
	"And the Triads," interjected Michael.
	Patrick nodded his agreement. "They have to be in this up to their
necks."
	"They are." Michael snapped. "They have a product which they wish
to sell, and there is a ready market both here and in the United
States. Minh, who was deeply involved in the trafficking of narcotics when
he was a general in Vietnam, wishes to reconstitute his power base."
	Pete looked angry a moment. "The man is . . ." For a moment he
could not find the words to express his disgust. "We were fighting for his
country and he was smuggling out tons of heroin in coffins disguised as
American war dead! He was so corrupt he gave the other corrupt generals a
bad name!"
	The Major could not help smiling at Pete's unintentional
facetiousness. "Sadly true. But what is important is that he had, or has,
and I think the latter, a distribution network in place. This network will
only grow - one has only to watch the television news to see the masses of
Vietnamese refugees clamouring for a new home. Countries are falling over
each over to provide a safe haven for them! The fools!"
	Seeing the quizzical look on Pete's face, Michael continued where
the Major had left off. "While the bulk of the refugees are poor peasants,
or ethnic Chinese, Diem is bringing over his henchmen. Through them he will
contact his friends here. Setting up the distribution network is not his
problem."
	"It's already in place, more or less," said the Major. "And there
are criminal elements lining up to take his product."
	"Yes," agreed Michael. "Neither the government agencies, nor I,
will ever stop the trade. It has been going on for decades. I am, however,
a bottleneck, a potential stoppage in the system. Minh cannot allow me to
block his shipments, which I will do. He must eliminate me. His friends in
Hong Kong and Taiwan demand it."
	"The general has no choice," agreed the Major with a firm nod of
his head. "He is the linchpin, so to speak, of the whole operation." He
regarded Pete a moment. "The Triads buy the opium, refine it, and ship it
here. Minh's organization distributes the heroin and collects the
money. This he, or his agents, gives to the Soongs, who launder it and pay
the Triads. Ideally, Vancouver would be the port of entry for these
shipments. However, we control the docks on the North Side and in North
Vancouver. We would know whenever Minh had a shipment coming in." Then he
added ominously, "And we would take steps to prevent its landing."
	"Why do the Triads not just set up shop here?" asked Patrick. "They
are here, you know."
	Michael chuckled. "They are here, yes. But they are not here in
force and thanks to the Hong Kong Police the authorities here have a Watch
List. If they are busy watching suspected members of a Triad they are not
watching Minh. The Triads would love to get rid of him - they do not trust
him - but they are not as powerful or as numerous here as the news media
would have us believe. Minh provides a smoke screen, and being as vicious
and unscrupulous, not to mention disloyal as they, he satisfies their
demands. So long as Minh keeps the profits rolling in - in collaboration
with the Soongs - he will be allowed to continue."
	Pete, in his naiveté, suggested, "Why not just drop a word in the
right ear at Justice? Hell, if the Soongs are laundering money, and there
must be millions involved, the bank regulators must have clue as to what
they're doing."
	Michael was kind in his reply. "What we know, and what can be
proved in a court of law, are two different things, Pete. Minh keeps a very
low profile, and works through a series of agents and legally registered
companies. As for the Soongs . . ." he shrugged resignedly. "They are
merely playing the game by the rules."
	"Rules? What rules?" asked Patrick, his voice registering his
surprise.
	"The rules of international banking," supplied the Major. "They are
registered gold brokers and merchant bankers based in the financial capital
of the Orient, Hong Kong. They have offices in London, in New York, in San
Francisco, in Ottawa, in Cape Town and Durban, to name only a few
places. So long as they play by the banking regulations, and keep the
bureaucrats happy, they can, and do, move hundreds of millions in gold and
currency with complete impunity."
	Seeing the strange look that came over Patrick's face, Michael
added, "The Hong Kong merchants ship goods all over the world. The
merchandise is paid for through merchant banks such as the
Soongs'. Sometimes the payment is made in gold, more often now in
U.S. dollars. The bank presents the proper papers to the regulatory agency,
and is allowed to purchase the gold, or the currency. So long as the
paperwork is in order, with all the right signatures and stamps, no one
questions them. Why should they?" Michael shrugged. "Bureaucrats live in a
world of properly stamped paper. If all is in order, and all the fees paid
- taxes, and whatever the central banks charge for the gold or currency -
the bureaucratic world is in order."
	"The Soongs make money both ways," said Pete sourly.
	"Yes." Michael frowned. "And to keep the money and the profits
flowing they will sleep with anyone, or contract a marriage that they know
will never occur, because the groom will be dead before the first ounce
dowry is paid."
	"They hope," snarled the Major. His tone suggested that the Soongs
would regret their choice of bed partners.
	Patrick caught the Major's tone. "Are you . . .?" His voice trailed
off. He knew that Michael could not allow the affront to his honour go
unpunished. Michael was being played for a fool, knew it, and that would
never be allowed.
	Michael gave Patrick a slow nod. "But first we must deal with the
14K Triad."
	Both Patrick and the Major started. "Why them?" asked Patrick.
	Michael sighed. Patrick had much to learn. "There are eight major
Triads, of which three are the most important. They all have fairly well
established spheres of trade and interest, organised along geographic and
ethnic lines. The Sun Ye On control the film industry and so far have shown
no interest in narcotics. They are the largest of the Triads but they are
also of Chao Zhou and Hakka origin and the Soongs consider them lower than
peasants. They would never deal with the Sun Ye On. The Wo Hop To control
the Hong Kong entertainment industry, prostitution, gambling and the like."
	"Which leaves the 14K," said the Major. "Not only do they have
branches world-wide, they are aligned with the Tian Do Man Triad in
Taiwan."
	"Which explains who was actually paying Captain K'ang," observed
Patrick.
	"And which explains why there has not been a massive explosion of
rage in Hong Kong in our sending the Chinese guards home," said the
Major. "The Hong Kong lads can blame the Taiwanese for bungling the
operation and thus not risk rousing your suspicions about them, Michael."
	Michael rose from his desk and returned to looking out of the
window. He knew what must be done. "Major, you and Patrick will go to Hong
Kong. Cousin Tommy will accompany you. He knows whom to contact."
	Neither Patrick nor the Major made a comment. They knew what
Michael wanted done. It would take time, but the Soongs and their allies
would learn that Michael Chan never forgot an insult or forgave an injury.
	"There is still Minh," said Pete. "He won't rest until you're
dead."
	Michael shrugged his agreement, but said nothing.  "We have to hit
him before he hits you, or us," countered Pete.
	Once again, Michael nodded. Then held up a finger. "Pete, the
general never moves without massive security. He has enemies, men from the
old Saigon regime. The Italians would love to encase him in concrete and
dump him off Royal Roads. The list is long, my friends."
	"Then what do we do?" asked Patrick. "We know where he lives, we
know where he keeps his office." He shrugged. "The Tsangs can . . ."
	Michael's face grew hard. "We do not make war on women and
children," he said coldly. "And Minh's office is a fortress, his house in
Richmond a citadel!" He shook his head. "No, we must draw him out and
present him with a situation so tempting that he will lap at the bait."
	"Easier said than done," observed Pete dryly. "Minh is no fool, and
if he so much as smells a rat, he will . . ."
	Michael frowned. "I cannot act until the young gentlemen knights
have left. I also cannot wage all out war with Minh! You are right, Pete,
Minh must be eliminated. But we cannot have Chinatown, or the docks,
littered with bodies! Minh has no scruples and will retaliate in kind. I do
not want to draw any more attention to the Order than is necessary. If
there is an all out war, Minh will be ruthless and that I cannot risk."
	"Then Minh must be dealt with carefully. With him eliminated his
whole organisation falls apart." Pete, who had some experience with
ambushes, added, "Minh, and Diem, have to be drawn in."  "Diem most of
all," interjected the Major. He looked at Patrick. "Diem is a sly, cunning
creature. He is Minh's enforcer, and a key player in all of the general's
little games. More importantly, while Minh, like all generals of my
acquaintance, is too busy studying 'The Big Picture', Diem, on the other
hand, is a muck and mire man. He's been in the trenches and will spot a
fiddle a mile away. We must come up with a scenario that Diem cannot
resist."
	The Major then looked purposefully at Michael. "It would mean
setting you up, I'm afraid. Minh won't stir from his fortress unless he can
be assured that he'll have you in his sights."
	"And just how would you go about assuring General Minh that he has
been issued with a hunting license?" asked Michael with a tone of
scepticism.
	Pete jerked his thumb upward, toward the ceiling. "The conduit is
resting after his tryst."
	"Actually, he is taking the walk Diem suggested," said Michael
toward the window. He could see Doctor Bradley-Smith strolling nonchalantly
down the driveway toward the gatehouse.
	"Checking out the outside patrols," said Pete. "Which is good."
	"How can his reconnoitring the grounds, and the outside, be good?"
queried Patrick.
	Pete smiled. "Diem will not attack the compound if he knows that
the security force has been strengthened. He will want to do the dirty deed
away from all the security."
	Michael thought a moment. "He will need to know that the new men
are completely loyal to me."
	"I think I see it, " said Patrick. "If we present him with a
tempting scenario, away from all the guns and men here, Diem will jump at
the chance. Killing you will not only increase his stature in Minh's
organization, it will give him even more influence than he already has,
more power."
	"Rather," drawled the Major. He was beginning to reassess his
opinion of young Patrick Tsang. Perhaps the boy just might be a candidate
for the Derby after all! "We would also, I think, need to tell the traitor
that there are new men coming," conceded the Major. "He's been ordered to
observe and while I know that Pete will take every precaution, I am also
worried that Minh, in his eagerness to eliminate Michael, just might
overrule Diem and decide that with half our security force shipped back to
Hong Kong now might be the right time to strike." He shrugged. "The
question arises, how? Whatever we do, we must be very careful to arouse no
suspicions in either the doctor, or Diem."
	Pete squirmed, and looked embarrassed. Then he said slowly, "There
is a way."
	Michael turned slowly. He saw the look in Pete's eyes. "You cannot
mean . . ."
	"I can, and I do. We can use his weakness to our advantage."
	"There is no one!" growled Michael firmly.
	"Yes, there is." Pete looked evenly at his employer. "Me."
	"I will not ask that of you!" snapped Michael. "Do not even think
it!"
	"And I am not asking you! There is no one else!" replied Pete
calmly.
	"Really, Pete, Michael is right," began Patrick. "It is too much to
ask! Think of what you are suggesting. Think . . ."
	Pete rose slowly. "I owe you, Michael. And I know what I am doing."
	Seeing the determination in Pete's face, Michael nodded
reluctantly. "We will not argue over what you do not owe, Pete." His face
grew sad. "But I do understand why you wish to debase yourself."
	"Every man in the Security Force would do it," replied Pete without
emotion. "We all owe you. I won't ask them to do something I would not do
myself." He looked at the Major and Patrick in turn. "It will work, given
the right scenario. There is no danger."
	"I hope you're right," muttered the Major.
	"I am. All he's interested in is sex and money. He's a coward and
will lap up whatever I tell him."
	"I admire your determination," said Patrick. "I do not think that I
could do . . ." His voice trailed away.
	"It must be done," replied Pete. He regarded the Major. "Perhaps
you could lend your expertise in baiting the trap?"
	Unwillingly, the Major nodded. "Let us start, then."