Aurora Crusade

On this, the eve of Memorial Day, I offer the sincere hope that all my readers will pause tomorrow and think of those who have given the ultimate sacrifice in the service of their country. They gave the last, full measure of devotion so that the Sheehanites, the Phelps, the politicians, both Democrats and Republicans, may stand and sneer, and the media shed great crocodile tears and then undermines the service of true heroes: those who put in the uniform of their country and defend the right.

To those who once stood the Colours, as I did once so long ago, remember, always remember "The Boys", those who now lie in a forgotten corner of a foreign field. Remember, always remember them.

FOR THE BOYS:

THE MANSIONS OF THE LORD

(From the movie "We Were Soldiers")

To fallen soldiers let us sing Where no rockets fly nor bullets wing Our broken brothers let us bring To the Mansions of the Lord

No more bleeding, no more fight No prayers pleading through the night Just divine embrace, eternal light In the Mansions of the Lord

Where no mothers cry and no children weep We will stand and guard though the angels sleep While through the ages safely keep The Mansions of the Lord

In Flanders Fields By LCol John McCrae, Royal Canadian Army Medical Corps

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

St. Paul's Epistle to the Ephesians, Chapter 6, Verses 11 - 17

1. Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.

2. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.

3. Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.

4. Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness.

5. And your feet shod with the preparation with the gospel of peace.

6. Above all, taking the shield faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked.

7. And take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.

And finally, from a letter written Captain James P. Spruill (USMA '54) shortly before his death in Vietnam.

"Please don't let them back where you are sell me down the river with talk of despair and defeat. There is no backing out of Vietnam, for it will follow us everywhere we go."

Aurora Crusade

By J.R. Ellison

Chapter One

Some airplane passengers found the steady drone of the jet engines soothing and sleep-inducing. Chef did not! He loathed flying, deeming this mode of transport inconvenient and uncomfortable. He much preferred the comfort of rail, the steady clack-clack-clack of iron wheels on iron rails always setting his eyes to closing before the carriage had gone more than a few miles. And the food! How, Chef often wondered, could a railway chef cook such delicious foods in what was almost a closet? The airline chefs, with acres of kitchens and ready access to the freshest of ingredients could not, in Chef's opinion, parboil shit! No matter how the dish was garnished, or served on fine china with silver, the food ended up as tasteless as cardboard.

Chef's tummy rumbled so loudly that the purser, who had been dozing forward, woke with a start. Colin Arnott, who was sitting behind Chef, wondered aloud if they'd flown into a thunderstorm. The Phantom sniggered and signalled for the steward to bring some food for the old gentleman to eat. Then he sat down beside Chef.

"Ah, Phantom darlin'," said Chef with a smile. "I apologise."

"What for?"

"Why, for the rumbling of me tummy," Chef exclaimed. "Sure and I'm that starved!"

The Phantom laughed quietly, not wanting to wake those passengers still asleep. "Well, I'm sure that there's something on board to satisfy your discriminating palate."

Chef ignored the young man's veiled sarcasm and beamed when the steward wheeled a large serving cart down the aisle. Stopping beside Chef he asked, "Would sir care for something?" with a wave of his hand he indicated the dishes and bowls containing small sandwiches, hors d'oeurvres, plates of smoked salmon and a tin of caviar resting in a large bowl of crushed ice.

"Ah, Phantom faith and it pays to fly charter!" Chef exclaimed as he pointed to a small tray containing a fine truffle pâté. The steward offered first a crisply starched linen napkin, and then a small plate piled high with the pâté and small crackers.

After looking inquiringly at The Phantom, who refused the offered food, the steward asked almost obsequiously, "Would sir care for anything else?" He had no idea just who the passengers were, but Head Office had given strict instructions as to their care and feeding. Only the best had been taken on board for the galley to use and the cabin staff had been cautioned that there were to be no complaints about service.

"Leave the cart," Chef muttered as he savoured the tasty canapé. "And a bottle of something bubbly would be nice." He heard The Phantom snigger and glared. "In time, Phantom darlin', you will learn that you pee when you can, sleep when you can and eat anything that doesn't eat you first!" He sighed happily. "It will be beans on toast soon enough, Phantom darlin'."

Somehow the thought of Chef being forced to eat beans on toast did not quite form in The Phantom's mind. The old man was too upholstered! He had been eating well for years, and The Phantom knew Chef well enough to know that he would be eating well for many years to come.

"Beans on toast are a very slimming diet," The Phantom teased.

"If memory serves," said Chef as he reached for some of the smoked salmon, "the last time your lot tried beans in quantity, half of them ended up with chronic flatulence and the rest had to be dosed by Matron!"

The Phantom chuckled, remembering how the Sea Puppies had schemed to honour Harry, who was their Sea Daddy. Someone had suggested a twenty-one-fart salute and beans had been suggested as a natural and logical way to produce it. Unfortunately, the Sea Puppies misjudged and Matron, the nurse at HMCS Aurora had dispensed castor oil by the cupful.

Grazing happily, Chef regarded The Phantom. "You should be asleep, Phantom."

"I know, it's just that . . . I don't . . . I can't sleep," replied The Phantom. He looked through the small window beside him, staring into the darkness of the night. "I feel, restless."

"A natural feeling," responded Chef. He paused as the steward returned with the champagne, poured both Chef and The Phantom a glass, and departed.

"Is it worried you are, then?" Chef asked as he sipped the champagne.

"What if . . ." began The Phantom with hesitation, " . . . What if it's all for nothing? What if my dream was just a dream?" He slumped in his seat. "All the expense, all the . . . expectation." His emerald eyes bore into Chef, seeking reassurance. "What if I am wrong?"

Chef returned The Phantom's gaze. "Then you are wrong, and we have all had an opportunity to say goodbye to young Sylvain - God rest his soul." Chef sipped reflectively. "But I do not think you are wrong. We know that something is going on, yes?"

The Phantom nodded. "But we don't know if what is going on, the trading of boys, has anything to do with Sylvain." He looked pleadingly at Chef as if seeking reassurance that what he had started had been the right thing to do.

Chef understood the younger man's self-doubts. He also felt deep within his bones that The Phantom believed in what he had seen in his dream, and believed that Sylvain was, somehow, involved and was trying to come "home", to tell the only person he truly trusted - The Phantom - what he knew.

Putting aside his empty plate, Chef scratched his chin and then said, "Phantom, what is to come, will come. I cannot say it any other way. I understand that you might have second thoughts but . . ." he held up one pudgy finger, forestalling any comment from The Phantom. "For some reason, and again I cannot explain it, you have been called to a purpose. Is it to expose a danger? Is it to avenge, in some small way, Sylvain? Is it to discover some secret?" He shrugged. "It does not matter. You have been called, accept it."

"Or is it to open Pandora's box?" asked The Phantom bitterly.

"That has already been opened," Chef pointed out flatly. He stared into The Phantom's green eyes. "Pray that you do not come to know the contents - as The Gunner has."

The first dim light of dawn appeared in the east as The Gunner sat on the balcony carefully sipping a drink. Beside him, silent, was Ace Grimes. Through the open door leading to the living room came the muted snores of the Rangers, the six young men whom Ace had recruited to help in the suppression of the paedophile ring that flourished in the country.

They were all very tired, eating irregularly, and sleeping fitfully. The Gunner had not realized what a drudge it was to just watch other people, what it was to exercise one's brain, planning, scheming, trying to think of anything that might cause the whole operation to come crashing down. On the one hand he had no doubt that he, and the young men he had gathered, would succeed. On the other, he wondered if perhaps he was taking too long in bringing all the plans to fruition. The longer they delayed, the more the chance that what they were doing would be discovered. Or so The Gunner thought.

Ace, who had had as little sleep as The Gunner, tried to be as supportive as he could. He shared some of his lover's doubts, and asked the same questions. He too felt that they would succeed, and told The Gunner so.

"Look, Steve, it's done, and everything is in place," Ace remonstrated gently. "Terry Hsiang's men are ready, we have the vehicles. Sophie has worked wonders with the hotel in Kensington. It's ready, or close to it."

The Gunner smiled gently. "Poor Sophie," he sighed.

"Why 'Poor Sophie'?" Ace asked, confused. The old woman was as strong as a bull!

"Ace, she's fallen in love with that German boy we rescued . . . Eugen?" The Gunner shook his head sadly. "I think she sees in him the son she never had."

Thinking of the innocent-looking young German boy lying gravely ill in hospital made Ace slump in his chair. "I wish there were something we could do for her."

"What?" The Gunner demanded. "Promise her that the boy won't die, because to be honest, Ace, it's a distinct possibility. That German bastard, Stennes, and his boys, did a number on Eugen. Did you know that his liver is lacerated, his bowels so badly bruised that he might have to wear a bag for the rest of his life?" The Gunner's voice was bitter, his words venomous. "The doctors had to remove one testicle because it was so badly crushed, and circumcise him, because his foreskin was half ripped from his dick!"

Standing abruptly, The Gunner walked to the balcony and his hands gripped the metal guardrail tightly, trying to contain his anger. "I want Stennes! I want him before a Bar of Justice!"

"Stennes is not a Knight!" snapped Ace. "He is a thug, a pervert, a sadist, and a few other things I can think of! He is not a Knight!"

"It does not matter," growled The Gunner heavily. "Because of his perversions a boy lies dying! Because of his vices, two boys crossed over to his world and beat one of their own half to death! Because of him little boys are being raped even as we speak! God Damn him!"

"Steve, don't let your desire for vengeance . . ."

"It is not a desire for vengeance!" The Gunner turned and looked at Ace, his eyes level, and very hard. "It is a desire for justice!"

Ace returned The Gunner's look, unperturbed, and prepared to let the man vent his anger at him. "Stennes will be found," Ace said thoughtfully. "He has too much invested not to want seek some form of retribution when he learns that his empire has been destroyed. He'll come out of the shadows and . . ."

"And when he does, I'll be waiting!" finished The Gunner. He returned to his seat and ran his hand over his face. Breathing deeply, he continued, "Sometimes, Ace, I just cannot get the vision of that poor boy Eugen out of my head. I see him lying there, with tubes coming out of every orifice, his head so bandaged that he looks like a fucking mummy . . . I hear the machines hissing and beeping, and I see the nurses coming in and going out, and I . . . I want to kill, Ace!"

"Stennes, and all of his ilk, deserve to be punished," emphasized Ace. "But only after a proper court of justice. Stennes will be punished, of that I have no doubt." Leaning forward, Ace looked at his lover. "You are the leader, Steve. You must be cold, calm, and logical. Anger, and vengeance, cannot have any place in your character."

"Quite the philosopher, aren't you?" sniped The Gunner acidly.

"Not at all," replied Ace equably. "I understand your anger, and your need to right a wrong. However . . ." his voiced trailed off and he shrugged.

"However what?" asked The Gunner testily.

With a heaving sigh, Ace plunged ahead. "Steve, you're the leader. As the leader you have to suppress your natural instincts and think of the greater good! You can't arbitrarily condemn or condone - you have to consider what reaction there will be to your action. As a leader you are not allowed to have emotions. Period."

The Gunner coldly mulled Ace's words over in his mind. Ace was right, as he so often was. But . . . "Just once I'd like to throw a screaming, furniture-smashing fit!" he blurted.

"Mild temper tantrums are allowed, such as grabbing Lester by the balls and telling him that he's a man, and to start acting like it. Throwing the Philco into the refrigerator is not," replied Ace with a slight grin. He leaned forward in his seat. "Look, Steve, I understand your frustration. Yes, you're angry, and with reason. But anger brings errors in judgement. You've worked too hard to fuck things up now!"

"You've worked hard," countered The Gunner. "And so has Lester, and Ames, and Teddy and . . ."

"Yes, we have," agreed Ace with a deprecating wave of his hand. "But the difference is that for the first time in our lives we're working for a purpose! If you hadn't come along and yelled, 'Cry Havoc, and let slip the dogs of war!' I'd be idling my days away in some dismal solicitor's office and my nights in a bathhouse looking for some fresh dick!"

"Now, Ace," began The Gunner.

"No, hear me out," demanded Ace. "Look at the changes you've caused in all of us! Teddy, Shane, Max, Gil, Jeff, Sam, they'd be wandering off to whatever clerkish warren they work in, or trying to seduce the office boy! They'd be going to the bars and drinking too much, and then trolling for someone to take home for a quick roll in the hay. They don't do that any more, and Teddy told me that he hasn't had sex, or felt the need for sex, since we started this little evolution!"

"Or molesting Mormon missionaries?" asked The Gunner waggishly.

"That was Shane and Max," responded Ace with a low, lewd chuckle. "They haven't been home long enough to do more than shower and change their undies, let alone seduce Mormon boys." He looked thoughtful. "They have a purpose, Steve. You gave them that, just as you gave Sophie a purpose."

"Sophie was pretty clewed in before I came along," remonstrated The Gunner.

"Yes, she was," agreed Ace. "But she was also feckless, bone idle, and her biggest worry was how much her latest 'companion' would take her for. Now look at her! She's used her contacts to brow beat the suppliers to deliver everything we need to the hospital in record time. She's already got a doctor and two nurses setting up a psychiatric ward in her house for the boys who need that kind of care. She has a purpose, now. She's finally discovered her maternal instincts. Look at how she's acted since Eugen . . ."

"Now, Ace, I can't take credit for finding Eugen," interrupted The Gunner.

"No, not directly, but if those German bastards hadn't beaten him near to death, and Troubridge hadn't contacted you . . ." He paused and shook his head. "God, I hope the kid doesn't buy the farm. Sophie will . . ."

"Mourn and get on with life," murmured The Gunner. "She has bottom, does Sophie."

"Yeah," nodded Ace. He thought a moment and returned to his original argument. "The point I am trying to make, Steve, is that none of us, not one of us, would have done a damned thing without you prodding us. Look at Lester. He was just another skinny faggot tittupping through life, spending half his time jumping every bone in sight and the other half worrying about when Ames would go home to his wife!"

The Gunner frowned slightly at this. Ames Cale was a fine, handsome young policeman whom Lester claimed had the biggest and thickest dick in the downtown 52 Division - how Lester would know, The Gunner had never dared to ask. Ames also had a wife and two sons in Agincourt. The Gunner had a gut feeling that sooner or later Ames would have to make a decision, choose between Lester and his family, and that Lester would lose. It was always that way when one had a married lover.

"I know, I know," muttered Ace as he saw the look that came over The Gunner's face. "I think the same thing, and when it happens we'll be there for Lester."

"Yes," sighed The Gunner, who was not looking forward to that scene.

"But right now, Lester is proving to be something he never contemplated he could be," continued Ace. He tapped his temple with his finger. "Lester has discovered that he's got a brain! God, Steve, look at how he's organized everything! The man is better than a computer. He knows exactly where every boy is located, has maps showing the locations, knows which one of Terry Hsiang's men is where, and what role the man is playing. He can name every subject we're interested in, where he lives, how much he makes, how many boys he's 'protecting'. Lester is organization personified and until you came along, well, sex was the biggest part of his life! Now! Hell, Steve, Lester has found his calling, and he's doing everything but hand springs to please you, to prove to you that he's a man!" Ace sniggered. "And believe me, for Lester that is a monumental first!"

"Lester is a good man," opined The Gunner. "He just didn't know it."

"They are all good men," returned Ace. "And one good woman! Let them do their jobs, Steve, and stop worrying!"

"As you've pointed out, I'm the leader," observed The Gunner.

"Yes, so lead. Stop looking for needles in haystacks, stop looking for trouble!"

"Ace, I have never found it necessary to go looking for trouble," The Gunner said dryly. "However, I do admit, I worry because . . ." He looked directly at Ace. "Have you ever heard of Murphy's Law?"

"Of course I have," replied Ace without rancour. "And on more than one occasion I have been the victim of it." He shrugged. "Shit happens. When it does, you deal with it and move on."

"Ace, I know that everything is in place. I also know that Stennes might still be around. He won't have taken it kindly once he found out that Percy Simpson is dead, that Troubridge has flown the coop, and that three items of what he considers his property have gone missing."

"Eugen is in hospital, with Sophie standing guard," replied Ace. "Jim Edgar is with her, as is Aaron Mark I, when he isn't with Aaron Mark II, who is helping with the hospital and keeping the rabbis happy. All the subjects are under observation. Lester is snuggled in the spare bedroom with Ames, the Rangers are sprawled all over my living room and . . ." He looked at his wrist and then remembered that he wasn't wearing his wristwatch. "Sepp and Gottfried, dear little lads that they are, are safely stashed in Chinatown, with two of Terry Hsiang's best men to keep an eye on them and . . ."

"God, I hope Terry's men are safe!" laughed The Gunner. "Sepp and Gottfried will seduce them!" he exclaimed.

"Naw," replied Ace with a shake of his head. "First of all, Terry warned his people that if either of those German brats tried anything, and they succumbed, he would cut off their dicks at the roots! And second of all they're in separate rooms with a radio, a television and their good right hands, and they'll stay that way until you decide what to do with them."

The Gunner nodded and thought a moment. "Send them home, I think. They can't be rehabilitated, although I might try. I don't like to think of what might happen to them, but what else can I do?"

"Stennes kept his secrets . . . secret, Steve. Sepp and Gottfried know nothing, other than who bought them, who they serviced. That information alone is worth something." He rose and walked to the balcony railing. "But you're right. They can't be rehabilitated. When Teddy Vian was taking them to the safe house both of them tried to put the moves on him."

"I hope that Teddy didn't hurt them too much," said The Gunner with a wry smile.

"They won't have any scars," returned Ace. "And when we find Stennes, which we will, he won't live long enough to form any," he finished grimly.

"Gott Verdammnt!" snarled Edmund Stennes as he watched the private security guard making the rounds of Percy Simpson's avant-garde house. Stennes knew that Percy was dead as yesterday's fish, but had come to the house anyway in the hope of finding his boys. Obviously they were not there. The house looked bleak and empty and Stennes was not pleased at all.

Stennes had read of Percy's death in the newspapers. The fat old man might have been a venal, corrupt boy lover in secret, but in public life he, and his bank, had been a power on Bay Street. Stennes had also read that Percy had dropped dead from a heart attack, which was convenient in that there would be no coroner's inquest, just a police report and, according to the newspapers, a very quick disposal of the remains - in Percy's case, cremation.

What was inconvenient to Stennes was that Percy's bank had been a very important part of the financial operation of Stennes' business. Using the bank's facilities, Stennes could transfer funds, with little or no questions asked, at will. Percy, for all his faults and venality had kept a very close eye on things, making sure that every "i" was dotted, and every "t" crossed. Percy never missed a thing and made sure that there was nothing that would attract the attention of the bank's auditors.

Swearing, Stennes pulled away from the house, the headlights of his rental car breaking the night. The loss of the bank's facilities would hurt. He would have to find a new financial house, which was annoying. Fortunately there was very little to worry about. In fact, Percy's death had relieved Stennes of a financial obligation. Percy always demanded his cut, and Stennes owed him for the last transaction, but there was nothing on paper and Percy's heirs - several nephews and nieces, if Stennes remembered correctly - did not know of his secret life, and even less of his secret business dealings. At least Stennes hoped they didn't.

But then, Stennes reasoned as he wove in and out of the traffic crowding Yonge Street, even if Percy's heirs knew that the old fool had a been a paedophile, and always had been, they would hardly trumpet the fact. That was one family secret that no one wanted let out of the bag.

At Grosvenor Street, Stennes braked to allow a long, dark, stretch limousine turn into the side street without signalling. Stennes smiled ruefully. The tinted windows of the limo hid the occupants of the car, but not the purpose for its being here. In the local parlance, Grosvenor Street was "Boystown", a long meat market stretching from Yonge to the Provincial Legislature where small clumps of boys, of all colours gathered. Each had a price.

Stennes had no idea who was in the limo, not that it mattered. He had long ago realized that amongst the very rich, the people of prominence, the movers and shakers as they called themselves, anything and everything was permitted, so long as it was not spoken about. It was the same everywhere. It really didn't matter if everyone knew about one's little peccadilloes, or that one gambled or drank, or preferred the company of underage girls, or in this case, rent boys. Everyone had their dirty little secrets - which Stennes had used to his advantage on more than one occasion - and no one wanted their dirty laundry aired in the light of day. So long as it was not spoken about, it did not happen.

Snorting at the hypocrisy of it all, Stennes continued on south and then turned his rental car west along Dundas Street, thinking that while he might be a pimp, he was at least an honest pimp. Turning down Huron Street, Stennes glanced at the decrepit building that was the Grange Hotel. He saw that the yellow police tapes were gone. Nodding, he told himself that there was nothing to worry about there. The building looked as it always did, day or night: deserted, but Stennes knew that half the rooms would be occupied, if only for the time it took to conclude transactions conducted by those plying the world's oldest profession. With the police gone, it was business as usual.

Passing the hotel, Stennes nodded. He had read in the papers that a man had been shot there. A tourist of sorts. The police were investigating, and robbery was suspected. The presence of drugs suggested a deal gone bad, and the police were actively pursuing that angle.

Stennes laughed to himself and turned the car onto Sullivan Street. A drug deal gone bad indeed! The police were grasping at a very insubstantial straw.

Ignoring the hordes of shoppers that crowded the sidewalks of Spadina Avenue, Stennes continued to smile. The police would never know that Noel Aubery, formerly of Scotland and Vancouver, had died because he was a fool. Noel had tried to extort money from Stennes, lied about his activities in Vancouver, and paid the price. The police would find nothing and the people who frequented the hotel would say nothing. In this area no one ever saw anything, heard anything, said anything, especially to the police.

Thinking of the manner in which the Scotsman had died, Stennes again nodded. God, he had chosen well. Paul Greene, his protégé had been so calm, so cold, when he had fixed his slate grey eyes on Aubery and pulled the trigger.

"He lied," Paul had said emotionlessly.

Of course Noel had lied, Stennes agreed mentally. He had to, for he had long since outlived his usefulness. Noel had spied on the old Grand Master of a defunct order of so-called knights. With the old grand master as dead as Percy Simpson, Noel had been transferred to the house of the younger, new Grand Master, a man named Michael Chan, who had succeeded to the title. The Chinaman did not, it seemed, indulge in playing with boys. With nothing to report, Noel had had to do something to earn his stipend. So he had lied.

Braking suddenly to avoid hitting a gaggle of small Chinese boys - did these people or their whelps never sleep, he wondered - Stennes cursed and then navigated the rental into Glasgow Street, where his safe house was located. Parking, he turned off the car's engine and sat, thinking, letting his mind wander a bit. His main thought was of Paul Greene, the boy he had chosen to succeed him. The boy had his faults, as all boys did, but Verdammnt! "Der Junge ist wirklich ein Eisenmann!"

As he exited the car, Stennes repeated the thought. "The boy is truly a man of iron!"

Paul Greene had no soul, of course. He was totally committed to a bankrupt ideology, which caused Stennes to smile. Paul was every bit as venal as Stennes himself was. The boy was also the product of a dysfunctional family, and the progeny of a mad father expounding on the glories of an all white world, free of Jews, of Niggers, of the mud people.

Stennes wished for a world very much as Paul wished for, and dreamed of the days of his youth. Unlike Paul, however, Stennes was a realist. The world of his youth, of brown shirts and silver and black uniforms, of power and strength, was gone, never to return.

Sighing, Stennes pushed open the front door of the Victorian mansion. Paul was, truth be told, also a realist, but in a different way. Paul hungered for power, which he could, and no doubt would, achieve. To gain his own ends, Paul would use whatever was at his disposal, his brain, or his body; it didn't matter, so long as he won out. Paul knew that every man who had ever walked the earth was a prostitute of one kind or another. The only thing that differed between men was the price. Every man wanted something, and every man would ask a price. Some would pay it, others not. Paul was a pragmatist and would pay the price demanded, but only if it was to his advantage, to gain his particular end.

That his young protégé was without morals bothered Stennes not at all. Morals only muddied life's waters. Paul was without scruples, and would use anyone he needed to use, to gain his particular end. Paul trusted only one person: Paul Greene. All others were suspect - even, Stennes realized, himself. Because he trusted no one, Paul kept his own counsel, and revealed his true feelings and plans only when he was ready to strike. And when he struck, he struck with the deadly intent of a cobra. There were no greys in Paul's world, only blacks and whites. Which was exactly what Stennes wanted.

There was no place in Stennes' life for weakness of character. There was no place in Stennes world for "principles". All they ever got you was a bullet in the back of the head, and knowing the people he dealt with, Stennes had long ago jettisoned his principles.

In his room, Stennes sat on the bed and one again muttered, ""Der Junge ist wirklich ein Eisenmann!" And because Paul was a man of iron, Stennes would keep an eye on him. He doubted very much that the young man would betray him. And therein lay the difference between them. Stennes would betray Paul, if it were necessary, and do so without blinking an eye. Stennes had lived too long in a world of intrigue and betrayal to doubt that just as Paul had executed Noel, he would stand and point a pistol at anyone who would betray him. Stennes would do the same, for there was only one punishment for treason.

The low, steady thrum of the air conditioner was the only sound breaking the silence of the room. The cold, bright light from the overhead fixture filled the room, illuminating the shivering man who sat on the metal chair. From time to time he raised his head to stare at the blank, metal door, his eyes filled alternately with fear and hatred. His short-cropped hair from his sweat was dishevelled. From time to time he squirmed uneasily - the metal chair chafed him - and he wrinkled his nose at the smell. The room stank of fear, and sweat and piss, for he had soiled himself again almost immediately after being gently pushed into the dank chamber. On the floor near the door lay a metal tray on which rested a plate of food, long since grown cold. The man had not eaten since lunchtime, yet he had no appetite, any hunger replaced by a dread. His stomach was in knots, his head ached, and he longed to void his bladder again.

The man shivered. He tried to tell himself that the air conditioner was set too low, making the room feel like the inside of an ice box, and all he had on was a pair of cotton boxer shorts.

"They could at least have given me some trousers," the man thought petulantly as he looked around and saw nothing but blank walls.

When they had come for him, and taken him down into the bowels of the mansion, the man had at first thought that he had been thrust into a torture chamber. The floor was tiled, and there was a drain in the centre. But nothing had happened. The door had slammed shut with a loud clang and then . . . nothing.

He had not been mistreated, and he had not been beaten. He had been left strictly alone and except for the large, hulking Chinese who had delivered the tray of food, the man had seen no one, spoken to no one. The man had been left alone with his fears and to wonder what fate held in store for him.

As the hours passed and his terror grew, the man did something that he had not done honestly for a long time. He prayed, he asked God to help him. The religion of his childhood told him that if he prayed earnestly, in good conscience, that God would come to his aid. All he had to do was ask for help.

As he prayed the man's resolve stiffened. What would they do to him? Very little, he convinced himself. They might still lay a beating on him, but he doubted they would. They could hardly kill him. They could ruin him, of course, with a whisper to the right people. He would be disgraced, but that was something he had always expected would happen to him. His secret life would be revealed, and for a while he might be forced to live alone, shunned by his family. There was more than one way to destroy a man, ways that did not include a bullet in the head. In time, people forgot, in time a new identity could be forged, a new life built from the ashes of ignominy and shame.

What the man forgot was that while he prayed to God for salvation, he would soon answer to an earthly authority that never forgot a slight, and never forgave an insult.

Michael Chan had stood at the bottom of the steps, watching silently as the lights of the last vehicle in the convoy carrying the young Knights to the airport blinked redly in dark, turned and disappeared into the warm, humid night. The Phantom's crusade, as Chef called it, had begun. Michael permitted a small smile to form on his handsome face. The Phantom certainly had enough people with him! Not only did all the new Knights accompany him; The Phantom had with him enough security to protect the President of the United States! Michael had sent as minders Alex Grinchsten, Bill Estes, Dino Antonelli, Logan Hartsfield and a contrite, but determined Ned Hadfield. If additional firepower should be needed the "Travelling Yeomen", Jake Guildenhall and Rusty Smith, were every bit as experienced as the other minders.

Michael had also had a long telephone conversation with Ru Yee Chiang, his Viceroy in Montreal. "Cousin Roy" would personally meet the plane in Quebec City and had sent an advance team to Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré, although what the priests would make of the sudden upsurge of piety amongst Quebec's small Chinese population Michael could only guess.

To make sure that the Boys of Aurora, and assorted Companions, did not get into too much trouble, their Commanding Officer, Commander Frank Stockman, Andy Berg, an American Sea Cadet Ensign on secondment to the Canadian Sea Cadets, and Sub-Lieutenant Kyle St. Vincent, were travelling with them.

There was also Chef, the bane of the cadets' existence most of the time, but a man with a heart of gold. Michael wondered idly if the old man had packed his wooden spoon. Not that Chef would use it. The young Knights had almost from the beginning learned that while Chef might threaten their "wee pink bottoms" with the implement, he had never used it, and his bark was far worse than his bite.

Michael also thought of the past few days. He was very pleased with the young Knights. They had acquitted themselves well in the mock war games with his security force, and discovered several truths about themselves: they might be young, but their experience and training, used properly, as they had done, would see them through. They were also without prejudice, and had welcomed the horde of young Chan cousins into their circle. This had pleased Michael greatly. He now knew what his young relatives were capable of and even more pleased to know that they could hold their own with their much more experienced Sea Cadet peers, especially the younger cousins who had been taken under the wings of the younger Sea Cadets, Calvin Hobbes, Joey Pelham, Randy Lowndes and Simon Keppel. Michael allowed a small chuckle as he recalled Calvin and Randy, who were redheads, taking Pete Sheppard's advice to heart and plastering their hair with mud, so much so that they ended up resembling Watusis!

Mind, Michael could have done without the knowledge, and the sound, of Arden's newly revealed expertise in primal screaming. The boy's howling was enough to send chills down the spine of the bravest man, and Michael had no doubt that not a few of the younger cadets would have nightmares after hearing Arden ululating like a demented chimpanzee on heat!

What pleased Michael even more was that during the forest exercise his Security Force had discovered that they were not quite as good as they thought they were. They had, in fact, allowed complacency to creep into their thinking, and cloud their judgement. Ned Hadfield had been the most affected. He had bragged about his prowess, and his combat experience, and had ended up making a complete ass of himself. This was good. Ned was destined for better things, although he did not know it just yet. He was also capable of learning from his mistakes. Michael was content.

Michael was also pleased that accompanying the young knights were three ladies: Mrs. Arundel, Mrs. Randolph, and Mrs. Airlie. The ladies were all mothers, and knew that while sometimes a young man needed a manly shoulder to lean on, at other times a boy needed a motherly shoulder to cry on. Mrs. Arundel's presence also ensured that her twin sons, Cory and Todd, the Peck's Bad Boys of the group, would more or less behave themselves.

The feelings of contentment drained from Michael as he turned and saw Major Meinertzhagen waiting on the steps. He knew what the Major was waiting for.

"There is time yet," Michael said quietly as he slowly ascended the steps.

The man tried to sleep, but could not. The overhead light burned too brightly for sleep. The silence of the small, sterile chamber was too deafening to sleep. The unknown future terrorized him, forced him to cavil and snivel and weep. His doubts had returned and he wondered what form his destruction would take. He had convinced himself that death was not in his future. Nobody, not even Michael Chan, had the power to simply make a man disappear with no questions asked. Again and again the man wracked his brains for answers to questions that set his mind to reeling.

In the end, he had convinced himself that there were fates worse than death. His secret life, his fetish for strong, hard men clad in leather codpieces and masks, wielding whips, would be disclosed . . . to whom? The man thought a moment and then nodded. They would ruin his good name, for a start. An anonymous letter, perhaps, would be sent to . . . his parents? No. He was estranged from them, and had been for years. Neither his mother nor his father had ever questioned him about his sexuality, but they suspected, and his father had taken him aside during his last visit home and suggested that it might be better for all concerned if he stayed in the west. His father had never come out and accused him of being gay, but the haunted look in his mother's eyes told him of their suspicions and the shame and anger that flushed his father's face told him that no one wanted a queer in the family. His family was already lost to the man and he decided that exposing him, exposing all of his quirks to them, would serve no purpose.

The man's eyes narrowed. The military. That had to be it. The Base Surgeon, a man named McDonald, was a notorious homophobe who considered it his bounden duty to root out fags and denounce them to the Military Police. The man had walked carefully when in the presence of the Base Surgeon.

That had to be it. Denunciation to the Base Surgeon would bring a superficial investigation by the Special Investigations Unit and, while they would find nothing, for the man had confined his activities, mostly, to the bath houses, where no names were ever asked or given, or the Dallas Street brothel, which the man doubted SIU knew existed. And if they did, they would be told nothing if they inquired about the clients. Diem, the Vietnamese manager of the brothel, was even more venal than any SIU investigator might dream of being. But still . . .

The Navy would court martial him. They always did when it came to officers. Ratings, the Lower Deck trash that the man had so often maligned and sneered at, they were given immediate, no-nonsense discharges when caught in the wrong bed. Officers, however, were bigger fish, and the SIU flatfoots considered it a special notch in their belts when they caught one hanging from a dick.

The man nodded to himself. That was what would happen. He would be denounced, court martialed, and dismissed with ignominy from the Queen's Service. The Navy might try for a stretch in Edmonton, but a good lawyer and a word to the media would put paid to that thought. The Navy hated publicity of any kind and a newspaper railing about unfair judicial process, and persecution of a man simply because he was homosexual would send the admirals scuttling for the closest exit. The man permitted a small, satisfied smile to form on his lips.

He considered the Royal College of Physicians. Moral turpitude could be a weapon against him. The College was every bit as hidebound and reactionary as the Military. But again, a good lawyer and the media would help fight any attempt by the College to revoke his privileges. And if they tried he would appeal to the Order. The Order was required to help him. Granted, Michael Chan was the Grand Master, but the man had done nothing - or so he thought - to invoke the wrath of the Grand Master and therein lay the subtle difference.

The man's smile grew wider.

Michael Chan might be the "Emperor of Chinatown". He might be a crime lord of worldwide reputation with tentacles stretching to Taiwan, and China, and south and west, a man feared and respected by many, but he was also the Grand Master!

And the man was Knight. He had done everything the Order had asked of him, he had not molested boys and he had kept his private life secret so that no shame was brought to the Order. He had not broken the Rule, or so he convinced himself. Michael Chan the gangster might send him to Hell in the blink of an eye and never give it another thought. But Michael Chan the Grand Master could not do that. He was sworn to protect his Knights, to succour them, to aid them in their distress.

Chuckling and straightening, the man's smile grew even wider. He would demand the protection of the Order as a Knight! Michael Chan the Grand Master would, unwillingly no doubt, be required to respect the status of a Knight. He had no choice.

In his office, Michael Chan sat at his desk, carefully reading the document that Major Meinertzhagen had placed before him. As his eyes scanned the flowing, almost dainty hand written words, he occasionally looked up. The Major, as always calm, sat quietly. Beside the Major, his eyes bright with trepidation and not a little fear, sat Alistair Chan, Michael's cousin and soon to be designated heir. Alistair was about to enter Michael's world and the concept of that world caused his body to turn cold.

Beside Alistair sat Pete Sheppard, the head of security. The man's face was blank and his sharp eyes studied his employer, waiting for Michael give the signal. Pete knew his employer well enough to know that Michael Chan would not flinch. Michael Chan never flinched. When Captain K'ang, the former head of security was discovered to be an agent of the Taiwanese Triads, Michael had determined the extent of his treachery, and then acted - coldly and dispassionately. It wasn't personal, it was business. Just as the coming war with General Minh, who aspired to be the Vietnamese Emperor, was not personal, although it could have been. Michael despised the general, who still clung to his rank even though he had fled his homeland long before the North Vietnamese barbarians had ground it into historical dust. Minh was a danger, a threat, and would be dealt with, because it was business, and not personal.

Watching Michael, Pete's eyes drifted over to Alistair, who was sitting nervously, his hands shaking slightly. Alistair knew, as Pete knew, that the fate of the man sequestered in the storeroom downstairs was already sealed. Pete's interest in Alistair was personal, and because it was personal he worried that the young Chinese might not understand the difference. Pete hoped he did, for their lives were intertwined, and hopefully their futures were joined.

Michael's calm, quiet voice broke the silence of the room. "A letter of resignation," Michael observed as he pushed the paper away. "Not addressed."

"So far as the authorities in Esquimalt are concerned he is seconded to Special Branch," observed the Major. "He may have been unsure as to whom he should address the letter to."

Michael grunted quietly. "No matter. It will help when the time comes to make him disappear."

At those words a chill ran down Alistair's spine. "So," he thought. "The matter is settled." The word "disappear" was foreboding, and had a ring of finality. The calmness with which Michael had said the word did not surprise Alistair. He was a son of the House of Chan, and while he had led a somewhat sheltered life, the Elders whispered, sometimes within hearing of the younger princes. Sometimes the whispers were filled with shock, and accompanied by much clucking shaking of heads. For some reason, perhaps instinctively, the younger members of the House learned never to ask questions, including Alistair's younger brother, Arden, who was as curious as a catbird, and otherwise asked questions about everything. Silence, as the saying went, was golden. The young Chans might be blissful in their imagined innocence, but they knew enough not to question the activities of the Serenity.

"He will disappear," the Major said firmly. "I have a plan that will ensure that no one will come looking for him." He chuckled and shook his head. "It is somewhat ironic in that the traitor's memory will live on as he goes about doing good works."

Pete and Alistair stared at the Major. Michael's eyes flickered for a moment. "I beg your pardon?" Pete asked.

The Major smiled. "At the moment he is on his way to Quebec City. From there he will post his letter of resignation - it is not signed but our man in Chinatown will take care of that."

Michael nodded his understanding. "Our man in Chinatown" was a forger of exceptional talent and expertise. He was also very expensive but . . . such expenses were sometimes the cost of doing business.

"The treacherous poltroon will also write that he has decided that the Navy is not challenging enough for his medical talents." The Major snorted disdainfully. "After his performance yesterday during the physical examinations I can imagine where those talents lie!"

"Well, he did make some of the recruits very happy," interjected Pete with a sly grin. He turned and winked at Alistair, who blushed. "Longest short arm inspection in history!"

Michael coughed angrily. He was notoriously straight-laced and such an abomination as yesterday's examinations was not to be mentioned.

The Major, knowing how Michael felt about open discussions of sex, or sexual matters, hurried on. "The traitor will announce that he has found God, and has decided to become a medical missionary."

Michael raised his eyebrows at that, but said nothing.

"When whoever comes to clean out the man's quarters they will find letters, correspondence from various organizations, churches and such, that will give credence to the man's sudden of resurgence of religious fervour. It will take a little time, but that is of no matter. He will be out of sight, out of mind, and so long as the proper procedures are followed I doubt anyone will give him a second thought. His possessions, such as they are, will be bundled up and forwarded to an address in Peru."

"Peru?" Pete gasped.

"Peru," repeated the Major. "An isolated country filled with anonymous little villages deep in the Andes."

Rolling his eyes - he was a natural sceptic - Pete observed, "He has a family. What about them?"

The Major waived away Pete's question. "If they make inquiries, which I doubt they will, Special Branch will tell them that he has left the service and gone out of country."

"And just why do you doubt that his family will inquire?" asked Michael, who was every bit a sceptic as Pete.

"Because he has had no contact with them in several years, no letters, no telephone calls. I suspect that they do not approve of him. When he joined the Navy he was investigated for possible subversive connections, and the investigation included his family. They are simple farm folk, very religious, and very well thought of in their community. I spoke with Rick Maslen who is . . ." He saw the quizzical look on Alistair's face and explained, "Rick Maslen is the head of Special Branch, Naval Intelligence, actually."

"Oh," replied Alistair lamely. There was so much he did not know, and so much to learn!

"In the event, Rick agrees with my assessment," the Major went on, turning his attention to Michael. "They are simple people and would not, because of their religious convictions, want a homosexual in the family. The father was quite indignant in his interview with the investigator and said quite plainly that not only was his son not homosexual - he might not have known it at the time, but again, no matter - and that if his son were, he would disown him."

"Sounds a pleasant fellow," observed Michael acidly.

"It sounds loopy, but it might work," Alistair said. He sniggered. "This is like something out of a bad spy novel."

Michael glared at his heir. "You will do well to remember, Alistair, that at times the most far-fetched and 'loopy' happenings are the only ones that work. Sometimes the most far-fetched are the only ones believed."

"Who killed Kennedy?" asked the Major airily.

Alistair frowned, and then had to shake his head. Kennedy had been dead and buried since 1963, and since 1963 the conspiracy buffs had been postulating, accusing everyone from the CIA to the Mafia to the KGB for the popular president's assassination. It was the stuff of life for the supermarket tabloids and millions believed one theory, or another. About the only thing everyone agreed on was that Lee Harvey Oswald had not acted alone - if he acted at all.

Admitting defeat, Alistair said, "I bow to experience. It will work, I think."

"It will work," put in Michael. He glanced at his watch. "The caterers are gone?"

"Yes," replied Pete. "The house is empty except for security people." He shuddered slightly. "And the Tsangs."

Making no reply, Michael reached down and pulled open the side drawer of his desk. He withdrew a holstered Browning automatic pistol. He looked at each man in turn, heaved a sigh, and then spoke softly, "It is time, then."

He heard the slight click as the tumbler of the lock on the door turned. The door opened and three men entered. Two, obviously guards, were wearing black; black jumpsuits, black bulletproof vests, black, dull boots. One, tall and well muscled, was blond, with a craggy, no-nonsense face. The other, sleeker, thinner, with hair as black as the clothes he wore, had the face of an angel. The man's heart skipped a beat at the sight of this Adonis, but the cold, grey eyes that stared impassively at him drove any libidinous thoughts from his mind. This, the man thought wildly, was the execution squad.

The man shrank back in his chair, his hands claws, clutching the metal seat of the chair.

"No!" the man wailed. "No!"

The black haired man's lips curled in a sneer. He said nothing and stepped to one side, revealing the presence of two more men. The man knew both of them. The white man, wearing a smartly cut grey suit, was Laurence Howard, an Englishman, a former Royal Marine Commando, an officer and a gentleman. The man's hopes rose as he looked at Laurence, telling himself that officers always supported one another, always respected one another. The man forgot that Laurence was also the protégé and assistant to Major Meinertzhagen, Michael Chan's chief aide and counsellor.

Beside Laurence stood another man, a Chinese man, young, almost pretty, his slim, sculptured body accented by a black, English built suit. The Chinese man's black, button eyes were devoid of emotion as he looked calmly down at the cowering wreck sitting on the metal chair in a fresh puddle of piss. The man knew him as Patrick Tsang, newly appointed secretary to the Grand Master of the Order. The man had his doubts about Patrick's true role but was smart enough not to say anything.

For what seemed to the man to be long minutes the room remained as silent as death. Then Laurence gestured slightly. "Come," he said, his voice cold.

"NO!" yelled the man, "You're going to kill me!" He flung himself from the chair and backed into the corner, hugging himself, his eyes wide with terror. "You're going to kill me!"

Laurence shook his head. "I will do you no harm," he said quietly. "Now, be a man!"

Confused, and shaking uncontrollably, the man sank to the tiled floor. "You're a liar! You're going to kill me!" He began weeping. "How can you? I'm an officer! We swore the same oath! I'm a Knight - you cannot, you cannot . . ." The man's voice trailed into nothingness.

Sighing, Laurence gestured to the guards, who advanced slowly and pulled the quivering man to his feet. Laurence looked at him and then held out his hand to show the man the wreckage of what had once been a ring.

The frame of the ring was bent, the centre oval empty. Clustered around the battered gold were small shards of blood red crystals, the shattered remnants of a gemstone.

The man's eyes widened. His ring! He had left it in his room and now it was . . . He started to sink to his knees, his long, keening wail filling the room. He understood the symbolism of the shattered ring.

Laurence ignored the wailing man. "You are declared anathema. Your name will be expunged from the Roll of Knights and never again will your name be spoken by a True Knight."

The man began to beg wildly. "Please, I have money. I can . . . please, you can't! I'll go away . . ." His eyes brightened a bit. "I can tell you things. I know about the Vietnamese drug dealers, I know things, I know about the dealers who supply the base . . ."

On and on the man babbled, promising to do anything to spare his life, betraying friends and co-workers, promising to tell everything he knew about General Minh's business activities, about the brothel, about the boys, about drugs and smuggled immigrants.

Laurence remained impassive as he listened to the man's litany of a treachery and betrayal. When, finally, the man stopped speaking, he gestured impatiently.

They led him out of the room and into the room opposite, a shower room used by the cooks and kitchen staff. On the vanity the man saw a small pile of clothes, his clothes, his boxer underpants, his white, short-sleeved shirt, his green uniform trousers.

"You will clean yourself," ordered Laurence.

The craggy faced guard turned on the shower and slowly pushed the man under the pulsing, near scalding water. The man, barely able to function, pushed down his soiled underpants and pushed them into a corner of the shower stall. He felt the boiling waters, and slowly came to realize that these men, who never took their sharp, cold eyes from his body, watching him closely, these men would not be his executioners. As he scrubbed and rinsed away the evidence of his cowardice the man asked himself why would they have him shower and then shoot him, or slit his throat? Perhaps, just perhaps, they would set him free.

Turning off the water, the man looked at Laurence. "I have done nothing against you, against the Order."

Laurence did not reply. He handed the man a towel. "You are finished with the Order. You were asked to perform a service, and you did it. There will be no Bar of Justice," Laurence said quietly.

Once again hope rose in the man's consciousness. "There will be no Bar of Justice?" he asked, as if seeking reassurance.

"You are finished with the Order," repeated Laurence. He did not add, "But you are not finished with Michael Chan."

They led him from the house and into one of the nondescript cars. The gates leading to the roadway were open, the Guardhouse dark, the windows shuttered. The car turned left at the gate, and the man knew they were heading into the deep forests that surrounded the estate.

"Where . . . where are we going?" his asked, his voice quavering.

From the front seat came Laurence's cold voice. "Michael Chan sends his compliments."

The man recognized the words for what they were: his Death Sentence.

On either side of the man the two guards held him down as he began to shriek and struggle violently. He thrashed and tried to pull away but they were too strong for him. Patrick Tsang, who was driving, looked into the rear-view mirror and nodded slightly. The man felt a strong hand on his shoulder, pressing him against the back of the seat.

"Be a man," hissed the blond-haired guard. He pressed harder, hissing into the man's ear, "You claim to be an officer. Try acting like it. We're not going to kill you."

"You lie!" shrieked the man. "You're a liar!" He began thrashing about again, convulsed with the knowledge of approaching death.

The black-haired guard looked with disgust at the man and then slapped him - hard. "Shut up!" he snarled. "Shut up or you will die here!" he promised.

Stunned by the force of the blow, the man lapsed into silence, weeping loudly.

They drove deeper and deeper into the dark, surrounding forests until finally they came to a clearing. The car stopped and the man was hauled physically from the back seat, and pulled forward. The man saw . . . Michael Chan standing alone.

The man saw only Michael Chan. He did not see Laurence and Patrick move to one side to take up positions near a small, enclosed, black van. He did not see Alistair Chan, his hands shaking, his eyes wide with the knowledge of what he knew was to come. The man did not see the two Sick Bay Attendants, Jude and Thad, as they stood, arms crossed, beside the van. The man did not see the blanket-covered stretcher that rested on the ground beside them.

"You are frightened," Michael Chan said, his voice calming. His eyes were devoid of emotion as he stared at the man.

"You're going to kill me," whispered the man desperately.

"We are going to take a short walk," replied Michael. He motioned for the two guards to step back. "You will tell me all about your dealings with General Minh, and his man Diem." Michael reached out his left hand grasped the man's arm. "Be calm."

Surprised, the man nodded, and allowed himself to be led down a narrow path that led into the towering stand of Redwoods. In his confusion he did not realize that Michael had not replied to his assertion, nor did he notice that Michael's right hand was firmly in the pocket of his suit coat.

The others waited until Michael and the man disappeared into the woods. Alistair relaxed slightly. He turned and looked at Laurence, who was standing beside him. Laurence saw the look in the young man's eyes. "He did not betray the Order, he betrayed Michael Chan," Laurence said simply. "He forgot that." Laurence raised his head slightly, listening, hearing nothing but the soft sighing of the trees. "You understand?" he asked.

Alistair nodded. "The Serenity must always be prepared to deal with such matters himself?"

"One day you will do it," prophesied Laurence. "You will do what you cannot ask other men to do. It may be a valued retainer, it may be a cousin, but you will do it. If you do not, you will not be worthy of your name . . . The Serenity."

Swallowing, and steeling himself, Alistair nodded silently. He recognized the veiled references to men being punished for their sins. Laurence was right. One day Alistair knew it would come. One day he would take a man into the forests and . . .

They barely heard the muffled crack of the pistol carried by the softly blowing night breeze. Jude reached down and hefted the stretcher, waiting. Presently Michael Chan, alone, emerged from the woods. He walked purposefully toward the waiting car.

Deep in the basement of the main building of the Tsang compound, Cousin Tommy Chan watched as the attendant, a sweating, middle-aged Chinese, slowly passed the rake across the glowing bed of embers that filled the length and breadth of the firebox. Beside him Tsang Su Shun, Elder Brother of the Tsang Clan, stood impassively.

"This is the only coal-fired boiler left in the city," Shun said presently. "It is old, but very efficient."

"There must be nothing left," reminded Cousin Tommy. He stood back. "And the ashes must be disposed of in the sea."

Shun waited as the attendant slammed the iron door to the firebox closed with a loud, metallic clang. Then he said, "It will be done."

"Remember, nothing must be left," reminded Cousin Tommy. The heat from the boiler was oppressive and he wiped his sweating brow with the sleeve of his suit jacket. He glanced at the attendant who was standing to one side, his head bowed, his eyes averted. "Does he speak English?"

Shun bristled at the veiled implication. "Wang is one of us, a Tsang. He sees nothing, and no, he does not speak English."

"Good," returned Cousin Tommy. He regarded Shun a moment and nodded. "You are a true servant. The Serenity will be pleased."

Shun smiled wanly. "It is my destiny to serve the Serenity, as it is the destiny of all Tsangs." So far as Shun was concerned the matter would be taken care of as all such matters were taken care of: quietly, without fuss, and known only to a few. His hand moved slowly toward a closed door. "Come, there is time yet before we do what is necessary. It is much too warm in here. A cooling drink?" he offered.

Cousin Tommy's head bobbed. "Yes. I could use some ice water."

Nodding, Shun led Cousin Tommy into the small office adjoining the boiler room where the attendant kept a large supply of ice and water. As he poured the drinks Shun asked, almost as an afterthought, "Shall he go to his ancestors nameless?"

Reaching for the cooling water, Cousin Tommy growled, "He betrayed the trust of the Serenity. He deserves nothing." Then he added, "But if you wish to know, his name is Bradley-Smith. He was a physician, a man of healing, who let greed lead him down the path of treason."

Shun recognized the name. He did not quite disbelieve the religion of his people, but he could not help saying, "He shall arrive at the Gates to the Celestial Plain nameless, for the fires that consume his dishonour, will consume his name. Doctor Daniel Dane Bradley-Smith will be nothing but a wisp of smoke and the gods will know of his treachery."