Aurora Tapestry

Aurora Tapestry is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental, and reflects the traditions, customs and mores of the times (Canada, 1976).

Copyright 2004. All rights reserved by the author. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior, written consent of the author.

As this work contains scenes of homosexual sex between consenting youths and/or adults, if possession, downloading, reading material of this genre is forbidden by law in your locale (province, state, city, town, village, crossroads) or if you are not of legal age (18/21), please move on.

Given the on-going increase in incidents of sexually transmitted diseases, the author urges all readers to always practice safe sex.

WARNING

This chapter contains scenes of violence and sexual perversion that some readers might find disturbing. Discretion is advised.

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 25

"A wall! Topped with glass shards! A closed-circuit television network! Locked gates!" Michael seethed with barely controlled rage. "A full company, 100 men, on the outside, a half-company, 50 men on the inside, all of them armed to the teeth with the finest weaponry available and still intruders infiltrate and cause havoc!"

Actually, Michael's last words were a bit of an over statement. Aside from the smoke, there had been little damage except to the nerves and tempers of the guards and Joel. Joel had gone into a full-blown drama queen mode, howling imprecations, curses and threats - castration being the least of them - in English, Cantonese, Mandarin, Hakka and panic. Nothing Michael, or Cousin Tommy Chan could say or do could calm their irate cousin, who was now muttering and grumbling away in the bowels of the mansion, running a diagnostic of his baby.

"Well," demanded Michael with coolness.

Lieutenant Peter Sheppard, who looked taller than his 5 feet six inches, was staring straight ahead, his brown eyes clear and staring beyond his employer's shoulder. His youthful, unlined face was flushed, and his smooth-muscled chest under the starched white shirt he wore with black uniform trousers seemed tighter.

K'ang, every bit the professional soldier that Lieutenant Sheppard was, stood as stiffly as his American counterpart. His eyes, however, betrayed his tightly controlled rage at the stupidity and inefficiency of his men. Michael's eyes flickered briefly over the Taiwanese officer and returned to the American. "Well?" he asked again.

"We fucked up," replied Pete slowly. He was a Marine, would die a Marine and never offer an excuse for not doing his duty. He was the man in charge and . . . "I take full responsibility for the failings of my men."

"Mistakes were made," offered K'ang. "The men were derelict in their duty." His voice turned cold. "Kuang Hsu will be disciplined." His words contained a wealth of meaning and hidden promise of retribution.

"Private Campbell will be disciplined," said Pete slowly. "After an investigation and a court martial." His voice was warmer than K'ang's, and not near as threatening.

Michael noticed that K'ang had taken no responsibility for this fiasco. The man was prepared to 'discipline' everyone in his command, and lay the blame for the breach of security on his subordinates. Michael's eyes narrowed.

"Gentlemen, I have no desire to punish," Michael said softly. This, both officers knew, was a very bad sign. Michael soft was Michael angry. "Kuang was being returned to Hong Kong. This was not done." His eyes bore into K'ang. "Why?"

"We were short of men," explained K'ang logically. "Kuang would have been returned as soon as a replacement had been sent out."

Michael recognized the logic of K'ang's statement and nodded. "Then we must establish a waiting list of young men. I realize that our standards are high, and they will go higher but . . ." He raised one finger. "When and if it is necessary to replace one of your men, you will have his replacement in place in 24 hours or less!" He glowered at the Taiwanese and said cuttingly, "You are provided with a budget for training. Your facility in Taipei is supposedly the finest in the country and underused!"

K'ang paled. Michael knew about the facility, and knew that the men recruited in Hong Kong had been suborned by the Taiwanese CIA. "I . . . " he started to say.

"DO NOT LIE TO ME!" thundered Michael. "Do you take me for a fool?"

Pete Sheppard had stared at K'ang, and then quickly looked away. He had no idea what was going on. He had been hired as a supervisor of security, nothing more. Hired for his expertise as an ex-Marine, his experience and status as an ex-Marine. "Perhaps I should leave," he blurted out quickly.

"You will stay!" Michael's tone was slashing. He returned to Captain K'ang. "My main requirement for any of my employees has been at least the illusion of their loyalty!" Michael suddenly pulled open the centre drawer of his desk and withdrew a file folder. He tossed it on the bare surface of the desk, sending errant papers skittering across the polished surface. "Your reports to your masters, I believe?" he asked scathingly.

K'ang reached down quickly, his fingers fumbling with the holster slung at his waist. Pete Sheppard was quicker. He pressed the barrel of his Browning automatic against the back of K'ang's neck. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said menacingly.

Michael had not flinched and his eyes remained steady. As he stared at K'ang the office door opened and Cousin Tommy Chan entered. He quickly relieved the Captain of his weapon. Tommy's face was impassive as he deftly handcuffed the hapless officer.

No words were exchanged as Cousin Tommy led K'ang away. Pete was unafraid, but nervous. He had never expected . . . this!

"I have many enemies, Lieutenant," said Michael as he gathered the incriminating papers together. "It is a cost of doing my business." He looked searchingly at Pete. "I allowed my enemies to send their spies because it is better to know your enemy than to suspect." Sighing, Michael returned the file folder. "Come, we will walk."

They crossed the smooth rolled lawns and stopped at the heretofore hidden sally port. "Did you know that this was here?" Michael asked quietly.

"I knew it was there," Pete replied. "The lock was covered in rust and it looked as if it hadn't been used in years." He squatted down and ran his finger along the key slot. "Oil," he pointed out needlessly. He pulled the small door open and stuck his head out. After looking up and down the road, he nodded. "Clear."

"Then let us take a walk down a country lane," said Michael with a small smile. A small weight had fallen from his shoulders. He had often expressed his doubts about the loyalty of his security forces to Major Meinertzhagen, who had bristled. He had chosen every man on the outside force and remonstrated that the inside force, commanded by K'ang, and exclusively Chinese, had been forced on Michael by his business associates.

In a way, Michael was delighted in having been proven wrong. He had never trusted K'ang, a man who had been foisted on him and a man who had come too highly recommended. If K'ang were such a paragon why had he accepted employment here in a strange country? Michael had often thought that K'ang would have been much better paid if he had entered the service of one of the Tai Pans who ruled Hong Kong.

It had not taken the Major, who trusted no one, black, white, yellow, or any colour in between, to discover that K'ang made frequent visits to a certain house in Chinatown, a house that was the residence of the unofficial "representative" of the Republic of China. This knowledge enabled both Michael and the Major to feed the mole quite useless titbits of seemingly important information. That K'ang's misinformation to his masters in Taipei would almost certainly lead to his eventual recall, and "disciplining" was of no interest to either Michael or the Major. "Sic semper insidiator!" as the Major had sniffed contemptuously.

Any lingering doubts that Michael had about the mixed bag of Americans and Englishmen who made up his outside security force had been dispelled by K'ang's treachery. K'ang had shown his true colours in his attempt to draw his weapon against his employer. And young Peter Sheppard had raised his colours higher when he had, without hesitation and without pausing to consider the consequences - or possible benefits - disarmed K'ang before he could follow through with his desperate attempt at assassination. Having proved his loyalty to Michael, Peter Mark Sheppard, would now be destined for better things. What intrigued Michael, however, was why Peter had acted the way he had, and what was the true depth of his loyalty. As they walked Michael decided to probe deeper and was direct with his comments, or as direct as he could ever be with the still unknown quantity that was Lieutenant Peter Sheppard. "You are aware of my business interests?"

"Yes."

"You know that K'ang will never see Taiwan again?"

Pete did not react to the telling revelation. "He took your money, then he betrayed your trust."

"Which you did not. Nor did any of your men. Why?"

Recognizing the seriousness of Michael's question, Pete answered truthfully. "You gave me, and my men, a job, and restored some of the honor we lost in Vietnam. With respect, you might not understand what that means, not being a military man."

"Ah, but I do," replied Michael warmly. "I understand the bond that soldiers, sailors, airmen form each with the other, and the loyalty to each other that their training and experiences generate. Your character was formed in the cauldron of Vietnam. At the moment there is a group of young men undergoing the same transformation. Even as we speak they are seeking the truth about each other, learning to understand each other and learning the true meaning of loyalty and brotherhood."

"You place a great deal of emphasis on brotherhood," observed Pete.

"As do you," Michael replied. "When you were in combat you very quickly learned whom you could rely on, who would not cut and run, who would stay at your side and never leave it. Later, when in camp, or on guard, you kept your brothers close, did you not?"

Pete thought of the dark nights in the rain-drenched jungles of Vietnam, of the nights he and his buddies had huddled together, frightened near to madness, holding each other close. "Yes," came Pete's whispered reply.

"Then I know that you would never betray them." He placed his hand on Pete's shoulder. "K'ang was a paid mercenary. He had no loyalty except to the man, or men, who paid the highest price. You, none of your men, not even the unfortunate Mr. Campbell - who really should learn to control his reproductive impulses, or at least finish the job - are mercenaries." Michael's hand squeezed Peter's shoulder gently. "Oh, I know that I pay you, but unlike the treacherous K'ang and his men I saw a, shall I call it a coming together? Yes, I think that is what it was. K'ang has seen war, but none of his men have. You and your colleagues have all seen war, and been rejected by your countrymen."

"So you do understand," said Pete, his voice a whisper. He was genuinely surprised at his employer's perspicacity. Or was it Michael's empathy? Pete didn't think it was sympathy - far from it. But Michael understood, and that was all that mattered and what led Pete to do a most un-Marine-like thing. He placed his hand over Michael's and returned the squeeze. "Thank you for understanding who we are, what we were."

Then, thinking of poor Frank Campbell, bent over with his pants down around his ankles and his raging dick spewing spunk all over the place - and, although Pete would not admit it, embarrassed at his familiarity with Michael - Pete dropped his hand to clutch his stomach, trying to control his laughter. Michael drew back but said nothing. "I'm sorry," began Pete as he regained control, "But you must admit that it was funny, and to be fair, I doubt he expected a bomb to come sailing into the room to interrupt him." He wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes.

Michael smiled. "While I see the humour in the situation, I must point out that Mr. Campbell was supposed to be guarding a very important facility."

Pete sobered. "Yes, he was. If you'll let me, I'll take care of Frank."

"You command the company," Michael pointed out. "You are responsible for the discipline of your men."

"Yes, I am," returned Pete firmly. He stopped walking and looked at his employer. "My men are loyal. They signed a contract and they won't betray your trust. You said you understood the bond that forms between soldiers. What you don't know is that by hiring us you did something more that just understand us. You gave us back our self-respect. You gave us your trust. Back home we're baby killers and rapists." He waved an arm expansively. "At least here we're men, men who fought in a war that was not of their making, but men who answered the call to the Colors, and did their best. We made mistakes, but we never betrayed our country. Frank Campbell made a mistake. I don't intend to make an excuse for what he did. I helped recruit him and I bear some of the responsibility for his actions. I also owe him my loyalty and understanding. As his commanding officer it is my duty to discipline Frank, which I will do, but in a proper military manner. He'll be punished, yes, but I will do it, not Cousin Tommy!"

Michael's calmness was alarming. He did not lash out at Pete's unspoken warning. "You know, you remind me so much of a certain young man I am hoping to meet soon. He is, like you, young. He lacks your professionalism, and your training, but you are very alike. There is another young man, whom I have yet to meet, who is also like you. He is trained to a certain degree, but he understands loyalty and respect of others."

"Marines?" asked Pete, wondering who these two paragons were.

"No," replied Michael, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "One is a Sea Cadet, the other a Naval officer."

"Jesus! Squids!" growled Pete.

Michael, who understood the ancient and honourable rivalry between the services, laughed quietly. "I imagine they will say much the same thing when they meet you. I can hear young Phantom now, 'Hell and sheeit, a Bootneck!'"

Pete rightly assumed that he would hear more of this "Phantom". He chose, however to wait until that happened. "Speaking of Bootnecks, you do know that it was Laurence and his whelp that did the number on us!"

"I understand that being infiltrated by a Royal Marine and a barely trained civilian might be galling to you, Lieutenant, but . . ."

"You're right," agreed Pete quickly. "I shouldn't prejudge, but dammit, sir, they waltzed in there and damn near blew the place apart! They got through my cordon of trained professionals and K'ang's trained professionals!"

"And now you and I must see to it that such a thing never happens again," replied Michael without regret or rancour. "Perhaps you, as a leader, might reach out to Laurence? He has much to show you, I am sure, and a good leader is always willing to learn, don't you think?"

"Well, he is a Royal Marine," admitted Pete grudgingly, although he knew of the long-standing bonds of respect, of fellowship and shared hardships that existed between the Royal and United States Marines. "They're good, I admit, and yes, I would like to talk to him." He looked around the silent forests. "But where is he?"

"Perhaps lurking around this bend in the road," said Michael, indicating the curving roadway. "When I agreed to his taking young Logan into the woods I never dreamed that he would use his expertise in such a way!"

"He damned near gave Joel a heart attack." Pete stopped and grinned. "Me too."

"I was much closer than you," replied Michael, "and I admit to a certain, shall we say 'trepidation'." He gestured for Pete to walk on. "I am grateful that Laurence has pointed out the inadequacies of our security. I am thinking that you will learn by the experience."

"I plan on an extensive retraining program," promised Pete.

"Good. There is one other thing."

"Sir?"

"K'ang is, I think, the tip of the iceberg. He was sending reports back to Taiwan; reports that I believe were forwarded on to Hong Kong. I must now consider just what else he sent back."

Pete Sheppard was not a stupid grunt. Far from it. He had learned his trade from experts at Parris Island and honed his skills on patrol in the jungles and paddies around Khe Sahn. His repeated displays of initiative and leadership skills had been noticed by his superiors and led to a commission in the Marine Corps.

As a careful, cautious observer, Pete Sheppard knew of Michael Chan's "business" interests. After he had been recruited by that pompous ass of a Brit Major, Pete had barely stowed his skivvies before his housemate, a grizzled ex-SAS Company Sergeant Major, warned him: What you see here, what you do here, what is said here, stays here! No gossiping in town, and if approached by an Oriental of any nationality, report it immediately.

It had not taken Pete long to connect the dots. Michael Chan had deep ties with the Chinese underworld, and connections to the Vietnamese gangs that infested Little Saigon. Michael also had intermittent dealings with certain men of consequence who frequented a social club in what passed for Vancouver's Little Italy, men who had connections to the LA Mob.

Pete's employer had a finger in any number of illegal pies, but never drugs. On more than one occasion Pete had heard a whisper that Cousin Tommy Chan had visited a budding entrepreneur from Little Saigon or Chinatown to "discuss" the burgeoning trade in illicit narcotics. Michael Chan had his faults, but dealing in drugs was not one of them, and for this reason alone Michael would have enemies.

Then, too, there was Michael's increasing involvement in something called the Order. Once again rumour and innuendo had drifted down from the big house to the small villages that housed the Outside Security Force, buttressed by the reports made by the small force of Security Guards that had been sent to the Four Seasons Hotel not so long before, and stories about a coup of some sorts in the ranks of the "Knights", of a "conclave" and Michael being elected as Grand Master of the Order, whatever it was. Here again Pete had connected some of the dots.

The men who had provided security at the Conclave had returned to the village and, a little under the weather with a bad case of Jim Beam, one of the men had let slip that they had heard snippets of conversations, and observed that the fey young men at least three of the "knights" had brought with them as "secretaries" slept in the same rooms as their so-called employers.

His mates had quickly silenced the indiscreet young man but speculation about the true nature of the Order was rife. Were the knights queers? There had been no outward sign at all that Pete had seen. And was not Major Meinertzhagen off in Hong Kong finalizing Michael's wedding arrangements? Granted, there was always speculation about the Household Staff - all young, all extremely fit, and most of them very good looking. But until today, when Frank Campbell had dipped his wick in the wrong hole at the wrong time, the jerk, there had never been even a hint of impropriety. If the footmen were getting off with each other they knew how to keep their mouths shut and their activities close to home.

And, so far as Pete was concerned, Michael had struck very close to home when he spoke of the special bonds that sometimes formed between combat solders. Pete was no innocent, not after the Embassy Christmas Party in 1974 when he had . . .

Peter had no interest in what the footmen did, or K'ang's Chinamen. Or, for that matter, what the men of his command did, in their free time. He believed in live and let live. Unfortunately, others did not and if the Order was composed of gay men, then another set of enemies was forming on the horizon because if Michael was gay, or protected his gay employees, his business associates, who were as homophobic and biased as most of society, would not tolerate it. Such things, Pete knew, were not tolerated in Chinese society.

There was something else. Something about lost monies, and treachery, something about young boys. Nothing substantial, nothing one could put one's finger on, a wisp of a rumour, a chance overhearing of a remark between Michael's cousin, Joel Chiang, and Joe Hobbes or Gabe Izard. All in all Pete reasoned that Michael Chan was involved, and threatened, in more ways than one, by men whose ruthlessness could only be imagined.

And now there was K'ang! The Taiwanese CIA had a reputation that sent chills up and down Pete's spine. How many of the Inside Security Force had a greater loyalty than that which they rendered to Michael Chan? So far as Pete was concerned where there was smoke, there was fire and Michael would be well served if he dispensed with their doubtful services.

Pete remembered the abuse, the disdain, the hatred, the shame, heaped upon him when he returned to the United States. He also remembered the polite, quiet words of Michael Chan and quickly made a decision. Ethel Louise Sheppard did not raise Peter Mark Sheppard to spurn a friend or a man whose salt he had taken.

"My men are loyal, and they don't have any contact with people they should not have contact with," Pete said stiffly. "They are not angels, but none of them is in cahoots with anybody." Pete's voice continued firm as he said, "They know what you did for them, and they never forget a kindness. Still, I will, shall we say, make inquiries."

"You've been with the Major too long," responded Michael, pleased that he did not have to explain in detail his fears. "If you require assistance, please do not hesitate. And I would expect to be fully informed at all times."

"Of course." Then Pete had a thought. "There's still the inside force."

Michael smiled inwardly. He had picked up on Pete's inflection and veiled suggestion. Once again Michael knew that the Major had chosen well. "I think it is time to have a Changing of the Guard," he replied, "K'ang's treachery has given me the excuse I needed to rid myself of unwanted baggage."

Pete knew of at least ten of his former Marines who were down on their luck. "I can make a few calls and have at least a dozen guys up here in say, forty-eight hours?"

"I was thinking more of replacing the entire Chinese contingent," said Michael. "I trust you, Lieutenant and I trust you will choose the replacements well. Remember, no drunks, no paedophiles and certainly no one who uses controlled substances. I am prepared to be generous but . . . Dear God!"

Just ahead of the two men was a tall, Douglas fir. Tied to the fir, backs to the scratchy bark of the towering trunk, were three men. Three white men, three members of Lieutenant Sheppard's company, three naked men of Lieutenant Sheppard's company.

"They jumped us, Loo!" the largest of the three men said phlegmatically. He was tall, well muscled and came from Brooklyn.

"Never even heard 'em," bitched the second man. "Sumbitches moved lak ghosts!" His dark blond hair was matted, and he was shaking from anger. He was as well built as his companions, hairier, and his words dripped the sorghum and hominy that came from spending his formative years in a small, nondescript, and all but nameless hamlet somewhere in the mountains of West Virginia.

"They jumped us fair and square, Ned," said the third man. He was also tall, had a square-jawed face and crisp, firm muscles on his chest. "They could teach lessons to Charley." He was from Boston and loudly averred that he hated baked beans, scrod and that a yellow-back Democrat wouldn't get into the house unless he came to fix the toilet.

Michael tried not to look at the three men. His eyes darted toward the forest, wondering if Laurence and Logan were still slithering about in the underbrush. When his eyes returned to the three embarrassed guards he noticed that as soon as Pete had cut their bonds they had dropped their hands down to cover their privates. He smiled inwardly at this all too natural male reaction. Not that any of the three had anything to be ashamed of, although Ned, the West Virginian, would be out for two weeks on medical leave if ever he chose to become a member of the Order.

Turning his back as the men bent down to pick up their uniforms and underwear that had been neatly piled a few feet away from the base of the tree Michael said, "You might want to enlist Laurence's assistance in that new training program you were speaking of." He paused and added, "If you can find him!"

Pete glared into the silent, dark woods. His initial reaction was to swear vengeance. Then he heard the men swearing and expressing frank, open admiration for the English Marine. They were not angry, not any more. Superior forces had bested them fairly, squarely, and they knew. Like true soldiers, they admired professionalism, even in an enemy. Which professionalism his men had lost, Pete reasoned. They had become comfortable in their jobs, never suspecting that anyone in their right mind would attempt to sneak into the cantonment. Being comfortable, his men had become complacent.

Seeing the three men had dressed, he looked at them sternly. "And you call yourselves Marines!" he growled sternly.

"Uh, come on, Loo," began the Bostonian. "It could have happened to anybody. Those men were damned good!"

Lieutenant Sheppard wanted to lash out a reminder that the three men had been bushwhacked by a reserve Royal Marine Commando and a waif! He did not, however, as he saw no point in adding insult to humiliation. "And you are supposed to be better!" he snapped instead.

Michael stepped back. Lieutenant Sheppard knew what he was doing and Michael had no intention of interfering. "Perhaps I should return," Michael said quietly. "I am sure that Joel has calmed down now and that he has found his contraption working perfectly."

Nodding, Pete looked at Ned. "Corporal Hadfield, you will escort Mr. Chan back," he said with authority. "And where is your sidearm?"

The Corporal, who had moments before been a Sergeant, hung his head and grinned weakly. "Um, they took it, Loo?" he muttered.

Staring icily, Pete asked, "Lance Corporal Peabody, Lance Corporal Stein?"

Michael, who had been silently observing the exchange between the officer and his men, saw that he was observing true professionalism. Peabody and Stein had been Corporals. All three men had screwed up, knew it, and accepted what was, to them, justified demotion in rank, without cavilling, whining or moaning. Not for the first time Michael felt the pang of regret that he had never been allowed to join the ranks of such men.

Both Peabody and Stein scuffed the earth with the toes of their boots. An embarrassed Corporal Stein confirmed that Peabody's and his holsters were empty. "Uh, yeah, Loo."

Shaking his head in disgust he addressed Corporal Peabody. "All of you clowns return to the cantonment. Tell the Duty Gunnery Sergeant I want everybody, and I mean everybody but a Corporal's Guard back here in sixty mikes. They are do be dressed in sports gear and carrying saws, axes, nails, hammers . . ."

"Uh, sports gear?" asked Peabody.

"Hammers?" asked Hadfield.

"Whaddawe need them for?" asked Stein.

Pete settled himself against the base of the fir tree that the three ex-Marines had been tied to. He saw the knowing smile on Michael's face and winked ever so slightly. "It's time we returned to basics, gentlemen," he said with a malevolent grin. "You three, and your buddies, are going to build an obstacle course." He waved airily. "There's plenty of sites, but I think this will do nicely."

All three men looked stunned. "But Loo, that will take a month!" exclaimed Peabody. "Hell, there's no cleared area. And look at those trees!"

"And the undergrowth is thicker'n the bush on a Saigon hooker!" whined Hadfield.

Stein wisely scratched his crotch, hitched up his pants, and remained silent.

Lieutenant Sheppard looked languidly at his watch. "You now have fifty-seven mikes."

Realizing that their Lieutenant was serious, Peabody and Hadfield turned and began leading the way back to the main house, Stein on point. As they walked, and after what they thought was a safe distance, Stein mumbled to no one in particular. "I hope the Loo has clean drawers on."

Lieutenant Sheppard's laughing voice came drifting down the path. "I have, Private Stein, I have." Then he added, "And tell the men the first run at the new obstacle course is scheduled for midnight tonight."

Now Private Stein glanced quickly back at the Lieutenant, who was settling himself beside the damned fir tree. "Do you think he means it?" he asked Peabody.

"He means it," replied Peabody glumly.

"Stein, y'all never did know when to keep that yap of yours closed!" declared Ned Hadfield without rancour.

"Yeah?" returned Stein contemptuously. "At least I saw a Saigon hooker's bush 'cause the only time you skinned back that little thing you call a pecker was in the shower and the Gunny caught you and put you on KP for seven days!"

"Oh, yeah?" snarled Ned. "Well I heard that the only time you saw a hooker's bush that little nub you call a pecker took one look and hid in the bushes!"

"Oh yeah, you red-necked peckerwood?"

"Yeah, you hairy assed son of a bi . . ."

Ten or so paces ahead of the three ex-Marines, Michael listened to the good-natured bickering and thought sadly, "Uncle Henry, you might have known business, but you should have let me join the Seaforths when I asked you." His shoulders sagged slightly. "And I should never have allowed you to talk me out of joining the Militia!"

Lieutenant Sheppard heaved a sigh of relief as the men walked down the curving lane and disappeared from his view. They had taken their punishment well, which spoke volumes for their training and outlook. They were good Marines.

Pete then whispered a "Thank God," as he considered the damage that could have been wreaked had the intruders been real enemies. In a way Pete thought that Laurence had done them all a favour. He had showed them kinks in their armour, true, but more importantly he had allowed the men of the Outside Force to prove their loyalty and their worth. And even more importantly, Laurence had taught Pete a lesson. He had allowed himself to become complacent. Pete now knew that he had a lot to learn, and that he would never again be caught with his pants down around his ankles. He would have to have a long talk with the Royal Marine and hoped that Laurence was finished with his game and would soon come in from the cold.

Smiling lewdly at his comparison with poor Frank Campbell, the both of them caught with their pants down, one literally and the other metaphorically, Pete had barely settled comfortably before he heard a rustle, a soft slither, in the undergrowth. "Jesus," he thought, as his eyes darted left, then right, "It couldn't be . . . Hell, even Charley was never this stealthy in Vietnam!" Then he thought that it could be a snake, maybe a critter of some kind. Still, his hand slowly reached down for his holstered pistol. His fingers had barely touched the grip of the pistol when a thin piece of wire seemed to wrap itself around his neck. "Now, I wouldn't do that, if I were you," came the calm, crisp, somewhat clipped voice of a Royal Marine Commando.

Feeling a fumbling at his waist as an unseen hand deftly removed his gun belt, Lieutenant Sheppard swallowed hard and nodded. He looked and saw two camouflaged figures emerge from around the giant fir tree to either side of him.

"Shall we talk?" asked Laurence as he held out his hand.

"Now Aubrey, there's no use carrying on," said Noel as he zipped closed his suitcase. "I'm awa' and that's all that can be said."

Behind Noel, Aubrey, who was wearing a caftan that made him look like a Polynesian princess on the uppers, fluttered and wept. Noel turned and gave the overweight, balding man a kiss. "Now I'll be back, so what's the worry?"

Noel's confirmation that he was actually leaving sent Aubrey howling into the nearby bathroom. Glaring at the closed door, Noel muttered a swart oath and hefted his suitcase. "I have to go!" he shouted at the closed door. "I told you that."

Noel's words evoked another howl.

"Stupid twat!" muttered Noel as he left the bedroom and walked into the spacious and over furnished living room. He saw the small bag that he would carry onto the plane and sat down to examine it, making certain that the papers he had stolen were still safe.

Smiling to himself, Noel then called for a taxi to take him to the airport. He was just as pissed off as Aubrey, but Stennes had been insistent. Noel was to come to Toronto on the first flight he could get.

As he waited, Noel thought about his relationship with the German. Stennes had connections all over the country in the form of men who used his services. One would tell another, who would tell another and soon one customer became twenty and more. Noel never knew the total. He had no need to know. His job had been to spy on the late Grand Master, something he had done with great expertise. Noel considered that the money Stennes had paid him had been well spent.

A honk outside told Noel that his cab was here. He did not bother to say goodbye to Aubrey, who was still blubbering in the bathroom. He left the house and got into the cab without a backward glance.

On the long trip to the airport, Noel felt no trepidation. He was right put out that he had to haul ass to Toronto. He should have expected something. Stennes was not at all pleased that Noel's employment in Michael Chan's house had been abruptly terminated. Noel cursed himself for calling the telephone number that Stennes had given him, a number to be used only in an emergency. Stennes had ranted and raged, and called him names, but in the end had calmed down when Noel assured the German that he had some very interesting papers for him to see.

"Still, I should have waited," Noel muttered to himself. Aubrey might be a pain in the ass, but at least he could keep his mouth shut and Stennes didn't know about the house. Noel had taken great pains to never mention Aubrey in his reports. Better safe than sorry, he opined silently.

Not that Noel feared Stennes. Just being careful, is all. He and the German went back a long way, back to the days when Noel had been a dirty-faced urchin lurking in the shadows of The Gorbals, Glasgow's most notorious slum. The heavy weight of poverty, drunkenness and depravity that lay darkly over the dank warrens of tumbledown workers cottages and decrepit blocks of flats had drawn Stennes like a wolf to the fold. The German - Noel had never known the man's true origins - seemed to know instinctively where the poor, the desperate, the forgotten, huddled together in misery. He also knew that ignorance and want made for rich hunting grounds. Stennes preyed on the misfortunes of men, and took advantage of those misfortunes.

In later years Noel never flattered himself that he had become a part of Stennes' organization because of his stunning personality, which he didn't have, or his looks, which he also didn't have. When Noel had first made Stennes' acquaintance, if that was the right way of putting it, he had been 12 years old, a skanky little whelp with grubby knees and a runny nose. Noel was the rough-hewn brat of an even rougher-hewn, perennially out of work, alcoholic dockyard matey and an alcoholic, slatternly mother who looked on her daughters as a source of income and her sons as worthless pests, always underfoot and always demanding to be clothed and fed, of no use to man or beast, useless leeches that brought no tears when they ran away or were called up for the National Service. Given the run of the litter-strewn streets, Noel lived by his wits, and petty theft, with occasional forays into breaking and entering. As a child of the streets he also knew that it was only a matter of time before he found a new source of income, when he was older, and all he had to do was loiter on a certain corner down by the docks. Noel might not have looks, or a personality, but he had something hanging between his legs that guaranteed five quid in hand. According to popular gossip, a lad didn't even have to take down his trews.

Noel had never considered that there were men who were willing to pay premium prices for young lads. That such men existed was common knowledge, true, but the older lads, and the coppers, made short work of any who came looking for anything other than aged, prime Scottish beef!

Resigned to petty thievery, at least until he was 15 or so, Noel had been surprised when his father had roused him from his odorous bed, which he shared with two of his older brothers, in the middle of the night and taken him to a grotty doss house down in the docklands. The old man had met someone in a pub, someone who wanted a little companionship. No fool, Noel demanded a cut of the money, and while he received only a cuff on the ear, he did learn that if he gave Stennes what he wanted, when he wanted it, rewards would follow.

Noel's venality, greed, and lack of anything approaching morals, had led him into a relationship with the German. Noel haunted the cluttered alleys and lanes that passed for streets in the Gorbals and knew which family was on the uppers, which father of a vast brood spent too much time in the corner pub or whose wife, sick of childbirth and toil, had run off to the South. He had a large circle of acquaintances, street boys and such, who despaired of ever finding real work, and who more and more were descending into the hellish world of drugs and who would do just about anything to get away from their life of poverty.

That Stennes, and by definition, Noel, were playing a dangerous game, both knew. Stennes was a pimp who travelled from city to city in Europe and Britain to find boys. These he would then "introduce" to gentlemen of means, almost always in England, sometimes on the Continent, and always for a fee, a very high fee. Both Noel and Stennes knew that just being homosexual in Britain could lead to a four or five year stay in Reading Gaol. Having felonious carnal knowledge of a minor child could lead to an even longer stretch in Wormwood Scrubs, which was why all of Stennes' English clients paid in guineas, and not pounds. As for the Scottish lads, few complained. They were leaving the grit and filth behind for soft beds, good food and decent clothes in posh houses. Everybody knew what he was getting into, and everybody got his cut.

Noel, who was never on the game, and reserved for Stennes only, eventually grew tired of crumbs. He wanted more, but by the time Stennes would agree to his leaving, Noel was much too old for the punters. Youth, boys, pretty little boys, were the moneymakers. Or so he thought.

Like generations before him, Noel went down to the Recruiting Office and signed up with the Royal Marines. He could have had his choice of services but he did like the uniform. He quickly discovered that in the right places what he had to offer was accepted with alacrity.

Royal Marine Noel Aubrey, aged 18, slim, and looking dashingly handsome in his newly issued dress uniform, had barely stepped down from the train that had carried him from Lympstone, Devon, up to London, after his recruit training, had discovered that there were certain men who could not resist a man in uniform, certain men who salivated at the sight of a Royal Marine in uniform. Noel also discovered that these men also carried wallets stuffed with ten and twenty pound notes, notes that found their way into Noel's bank account after he accepted an invitation to join one of the men for a quiet drink, and perhaps something else later on?

Noel, whenever he could get leave, would go up to London and visit one of the many small, discreet, private clubs of Soho. It had not taken long for word to spread that the young Marine possessed a most impressive weapon (it sent poor old Aubrey into orgasmic rapture every time Noel took it out of his trousers, didn't it?). It took even a shorter time for word to spread that this weapon was for hire, for a price, to discreet gentlemen.

Being selective made Noel all that much more desirable. He had many offers of a more permanent arrangement, which he refused. He enjoyed the variety and did not want to be pinned down with one man.

Noel banked the money he earned from his clients, and from the payments he received from Stennes for services rendered. Noel had kept in contact with the German and from time to time he passed on to Stennes the names of men who might be interested in younger companionship. Then there were the bonuses that Stennes paid whenever he called upon Noel to help him "break in" a new boy. The sex was not all that great, but as Noel thought it, what the hell, a hole was a hole and the money was not to be sneezed at.

While he could have lived a very comfortable existence, Noel did not. He knew full well what would happen to him if his secret lifestyle became known. He lived in barracks, and by day was a picture postcard Royal Marine. When he wasn't on weekend exercises, he would slip up to London. Life was good.

Whenever he thought of what happened next, Noel grimaced and swore. He'd had a good thing going and then that damned fool of a Colour Sergeant, Chard, had gone and got himself caught shagging some Malay peasant! Noel personally didn't care if Chard fucked a Malay or the RSM's pet goat. He did care about the discovery of Chard living off base with another male. It had queered the pitch for everyone!

Led by the Fleet Street gutter press, the hue and cry over Chard's court martial had led every male who had ever experimented with another to scuttling into the shadows. Voices suddenly became deeper, moustaches sprouted on almost every upper lip, and the ladies who haunted the saloon bars of the local pubs suddenly found business very brisk. As details of Chard's domestic arrangements became known Peelers from the MOD Police, CID detectives, suddenly became very interested in the sex lives of Her Majesty's Royal Marines.

Noel didn't give a flying fuck about the detectives. He had never plied his wares on base, and it was doubtful that the coppers would reach as far afield as London. Still, Noel thought it prudent to remain close to barracks. Prudent, and very boring. Anyway, he was biding his time. His enlistment was up and he had already signed the papers. His main concern was what he would do when he was demobbed.

Being a prudent man, Noel knew that while he could have spent a few years in London, his money-earning days were limited. The punters paid for youth, exuberance and virility. The old John Henry might remain forever a thing of wonder but it was only a matter of time before Noel would find himself looking about for a quiet detached house in a quiet street, alone and growing ungraciously old, tending his cats, and paying for what he once sold.

In the end it was Major Meinertzhagen who had solved, at least temporarily, the question of Noel's future. How the Major had come to know - if he knew at all - that Noel was gay, Noel never questioned. The Major, as always taciturn and discreet, never asked or let on what he knew. There were, after all, certain things a gentleman did not discuss.

The Major, who had resigned his commission in protest of the railroading of Sergeant Major Chard, and hearing the veiled hints from Whitehall that he would never add a pip to his crown, began to pack his bags. He also approached Noel, and 2nd Lieutenant Laurence Howard, a young officer with a sterling reputation. Noel did not know the officer, who was in a different Commando.

Noel could not quite understand why the Major had selected him. 2nd Lieutenant Howard, yes. Laurence was smart, respected, and filled out a dress uniform a treat, to the extent that Noel would have paid the officer, and no danger!

The Major had spoken with the two men and then offered them employment. He had a contact prepared to offer suitable young men positions in domestic service. The pay was more than adequate; there was room for advancement, and the work not at all onerous. The only minor problem was that it was in the colonies, the Dominion of Canada to be precise.

Laurence, disillusioned and struggling with his own homosexuality, saw no reason to remain in the Royals. Canada, North America, would be a welcome change. Noel did not object. While London was tempting, his only alternative would have been the Gorbals and that was one bitter patch of earth he would never return to.

Both men accepted the Major's offer and boarded a BOAC flight to Montreal. During the flight Noel had intimated that he was sexually attracted to the young officer. Laurence, much to Noel's surprise, had reciprocated. Once in Canada, they boarded the CNR's "Super Continental" for the train trip across the Dominion. In their first class compartment Laurence had his first experience with another man, and their affair began.

In Vancouver both men were set to work. Laurence was assigned as a footman in the household of Michael Chan, the Chancellor of some all but defunct order of knights. Noel, to his mind, was given a much more prestigious position as footman to the Grand Master of the Order.

Regrettably Noel's affair with Laurence came to an abrupt end. The Chancellor lived in Vancouver, while the Grand Master haunted a crumbling old wreck of a house on the outskirts of Coquitlam, a most provincial town, and for almost a year and a half they rarely saw each other.

Noel had quickly discovered that his duties were more than met the eye. He might parade around the halls in fancy livery but he was in reality at first a guard, and later, when he learned the truth about the old Grand Master, a procurer.

"Now there was a man who liked his chicken!" remembered Noel evilly. The old fool could not get enough. Nor could the Grand Master's friends, all high-ranking knights in that moribund order. Noel had lost no time in making a transatlantic telephone call to his friend, Stennes.

Stennes had listened and, as both he and Noel saw it, an Order of queers and poofters would need a steady supply of boys, which Stennes would supply on demand. Stennes had a new source of fresh young boys, from Eastern Europe and Russia, a source that proved very popular. Stennes had branched out, made contacts and acquired some very murky partners who supplied the necessary travel documents. Noel could never quite get up the courage to ask who Stennes' partners were. What he didn't know couldn't be used against him.

Still, Noel was careful. He kept his past carefully hidden and took great pains to never reveal to Laurence, the Major, the Grand Master, or anyone else, his involvement with Stennes. As he also knew a good potential for blackmail when he saw it, Noel kept notes.

Not only did Noel report everything he saw or heard, he had it all documented. He considered the small pile of notebooks listing names, dates, and preferences, an insurance policy. He also had negatives, horrid things, Noel thought privately. Snaps of grown men cavorting with boys! Noel could tell stories about the orgies, the parties, held almost nightly in the old house on the outskirts of the small British Columbia town. And if a boy was . . . difficult . . . well a quick call to Stennes and the problem went away. What happened to the problem Noel did not care to speculate. He did care to make a note of the date, and whenever possible, the boy's name, ethnic origin, and a short description.

Everything had come a cropper, however, when the old Grand Master fell ill. Noel had been detailed to care for the old bastard. He had toyed with the idea of helping the old man start his final journey sooner that expected, but rejected it. With Michael Chan assuming all duties, and authority, it had been much too dangerous. The Chinaman, and his acolyte, Major Meinertzhagen, watched everything, heard everything and both were as ruthless as Stennes. About the only good thing that had come out of the old bastard's pegging out was that the house in Coquitlam was sold and Noel was brought to Vancouver, where he quickly resumed his affair with Laurence.

Shuddering at the thought of Michael Chan and the Major, Noel saw that the cab had stopped in front of the Departures entry. He paid off the taxi, checked in at the airline counter, and sat down to wait for his flight to be called. His thoughts returned to the cantonment, where he had the run of the place. Michael, foolish man, had placed great faith in trust in his servants, and for some reason thought that the ex-servicemen were endowed with some sort of special honour.

Snorting, Noel knew that he had no honour. He worked for one man, Noel Aubery, a man who believed in taking care of himself and a man who never put all of his eggs in one basket.

As he watched a Pacific Western airliner glide effortlessly to a landing, Noel wondered just what Stennes wanted of him. Noel had no interest at all in selling boys. He had little interest in boys in any case. Noel's only interest was, and would be, money. He watched as the landing stairs were pushed out to the newly arrived aircraft and saw the door opening. Presently a long line of servicemen and women began deplaning. He had no interest in the women and some of the young men were quite something to look at. He hoped that some of them might be on the same plane as he was to Toronto. Nothing like a fresh-faced young soldier or sailor to help make the flying hours pass quickly.

As the line of servicemen disappeared into the terminal Noel's mind returned to more mundane matters. In his pocket was a key to safety deposit box in which rested the negatives, lists, and notebooks. Nobody but Noel knew which bank held this potential - to Noel - treasure. There were also the contents of the leather carryon.

Noel had purchased the innocuous piece of luggage in Kowloon when stationed in the Crown Colony of Hong Kong. A masterpiece of Chinese ingenuity, the plain bag had cost Noel 100 pounds, and worth every penny of it. Sold as a piece of whimsy, a novelty, the bag had proven popular with tourists, especially after a visit to the jewellers and goldsmiths in the Street of Gold in the old city. It had a sturdy lock, which could be opened with a key, or a screwdriver. What was not known was that it also had a false bottom that could only be opened if one knew which of the decorative brass Chinese ideographs and studs that strengthened the corners to press. When he was rotated back to England the bag had contained some exquisite gold chains. Today it contained some very interesting - or so Noel thought - documents.

While none of the documents had anything to do with Michael Chan's business dealings - the Chinaman was much too careful to put anything in paper - there were some very interesting lists of names, membership lists of knights, and all men who would rather not have their particular interests made public. That some of the documents were written in Latin was Stennes' problem. What mattered was that the men whose names were listed could be approached. This would not be a problem. In Noel's opinion Stennes, who had no scruples, would have to reach up to blackmail.

Noel was feeling confident as he walked up the stairs leading to his flight with a spring in his step. What caused Noel to smile broadly as he settled into his Business Class seat was that thought that if he and Stennes played their cards right, not only would they fatten their bank accounts, they would also bring down a jumped-up, self-righteous, pretentious Bluejacket who thought that just because he had crossed cannons and a hook on his jumper he was something special, somehow better.

"I'd like to see his face when the Redcaps present him with the list showing his name," thought Noel viciously as the aircraft moved slowly down the taxiway. "Oh, would I love to see that!"

The Gunner studied the carefully typed list of addresses and shook his head. The men who owned the houses and flats were men of wealth, consequence and power. They all seemed to live in upscale neighbourhoods, which was not surprising. If a man could afford to purchase a boy, he could afford to live in Forest Hill. The Gunner also noticed that some of the names had a number beside them, and in some cases, names.

The Rangers had done well. In a short time they had managed to identify over a dozen men and determine if they had a boy, or boys, living with them. Michael Chan's agents had also begun drifting by. Most were exactly what they purported to be: deliverymen, contractors, florists, and what not. They were the faceless, anonymous, unnoticed army of the unwashed that delivered the laundry and fried rice, or mowed the lawn. Anonymous and faceless they might be, but they had eyes, and ears, and those who had taken Michael Chan's salt would lose face - honour - if they in any way failed in the task their benefactor had set them to. Their muttered reports, either in person or over the telephone, were precise, and in some cases, very detailed.

A strained smile creased The Gunner's face. Three of Michael's operatives had reported that Percy Simpson had three boys in his house. Two were not very highly thought of, according to one of the men. They were shameless and one of them had propositioned the operative! The third boy, however, was well mannered and did not seem to be the type to live in such a house.

"Eugen," The Gunner muttered to himself. "It has to be."

The soft shuffling of bare feet across the hardwood floor interrupted the Gunner's musing. He turned in his chair and saw Lester coming from the direction of the bathroom. "You're up early," he said as Lester walked into the small kitchenette and poured a cup of coffee from the pot that never seemed to empty.

"Too much to do," replied Lester as he settled himself at the table. He indicated the papers that The Gunner had been studying. "I never dreamed there were so many," he continued with a sad shake of his head.

"Men, or boys?" asked The Gunner.

"Boys," replied Lester with a sigh. "Oh, I knew that there would be many men." He looked even sadder. "Steve, I've been living in the gay world since I was fourteen." He heard The Gunner gasp in surprise and continued. "I told you about my brothers."

Nodding, The Gunner motioned for Lester to continue.

"The rule in my house was that if one of them showed hard, I took care of it." He shrugged. "I eventually figured out that if I was going to suck dick I might as well get paid for it. I went downtown, to Breadalbane Street, which is called 'Boys Town'. It didn't take me long to notice that many of the men who wanted what I offered wore wedding rings." He chuckled caustically. "I should have charged more!"

"I'm sorry, Lester, that you had to go through that. Perhaps what we do today will mean better times in the future."

Lester shook his head. "Steve, I might have been fourteen, hell, some of the other boys were barely into their teens, but we all knew exactly what we were doing. I did what I did because I needed to eat. Some of the kids did it because they were hooked on something. Others did for the money. They would wiggle their asses, take the dough and then the Yonge Night Bus home to their white bread suburbs." Lester tapped the papers sitting in front if The Gunner. "But the point I am making is that for whatever reason we had a choice. We could have stayed home, and taken whatever came along, or flipped burgers. We could have said no. These kids don't have that choice and that pisses me off!"

The Gunner could not help laughing. "A very dear young man of my acquaintance once told me that the most dangerous thing in the world was a pissed off queer."

"Obviously a very astute young man," rejoined Lester. "And like many 'young men', he probably sees life a hell of a lot clearer than men of forty. I was fourteen and I knew what was going on. Adults never seem to understand that young people, boys and girls, are perfectly capable of seeing a con job, of recognizing when something is wrong. And capable of seeing a solution." He snickered diffidently. "Of course, it helps if you're a street kid. They have smarts like you wouldn't believe."

"As strange as this might sound, I do know what you are talking about, Lester," replied The Gunner. "I happen to know a group of young men whose insight and understanding at times astounds me and at times makes me fearful."

"Young isn't necessarily dumb!" retorted Lester. "Kids see things that adults don't. They also haven't had their minds too polluted by so-called adult thinking. They're inquisitive, and adventuresome and at times impetuous, yes, but they are quite capable of understanding. As an adult you consider the neighbours, the side effects. As a kid you see clearly, you see the forests, but you also see the trees. Don't sell your young men short, Steve."

The Gunner smiled. "You know, if you're not careful, you just might make one hell of a mentor. I think that you and Ace will make one hell of a team."

A look of surprise came across Lester's face. "What team?"

"The team that is going to look after the hospital that will house the boys we save." He paused and added, "Those who want to be saved."

"There will be some who won't want to leave the game, Steve," replied Lester. "Remember, I was there. I knew boys who loved every minute of what they were doing. I saw it in the streets and I saw it in the baths. Some guys just can't get enough dick, if you'll pardon my French."

The Gunner waved away Lester's crudity. "I understand, Lester. I hope we will be able to help those who want that life. We can't force them to attend school, to try to adapt to a normal life if they don't want it. As for the others, I hope we can provide an environment where the boys can feel safe, where they can heal." A far away look came into The Gunner's eyes. "I want a school where the boys can learn, but also be boys. A place where they aren't judged, or forced to be something they don't particularly want be. A place where they are not pre-judged. A place where they don't have to worry about being gay, or straight, or whatever. A place where they are accepted and not just tolerated."

"It sounds idyllic," said Lester.

"No, hardly that. I want them to have something, Lester. I want them to have an opportunity to learn, to have fun. They need to be taught ethics and morality and so many things that so-called normal boys take for granted. We can't replace their parents, probably because their parents abandoned them or sold them. We can point them in the right direction, and that is what I, and I hope you and Ace, will do."

"Why me?" asked Lester. "I am a queer! I swish around."

Much to Lester's surprise, The Gunner reached out and took his hand. "Lester, you've been dealt a rum hand, true. But you know what the game is, you know what hell is like. You have the experience, and the scars, to help these boys get through the horrible struggle they are going to have coming to terms with who they are. It won't be easy, and we will all make mistakes. I'm prepared to make those mistakes and learn by them. Just as you learned by your mistakes."

"Well, some," admitted Lester with a grin. "But Steve, that poky little place down in Kensington - by the way, Aaron Edgar needs a cheque for the lease. He called earlier - the place is all right for the number of boys we know about. But what about later? What about the boys who are on the streets now? Have you considered them?"

The Gunner had to admit that he had not looked beyond the boys held in bondage. "Are you saying that we'll have some sort of Orphan's Brigade calling at the castle gate?"

Lester ignored The Gunner's levity. "The problem goes much further than you know, Steve. Remember, I'm out there on the streets. I see the kids. I talk to the kids and I'm here to tell you that the word will get around and sooner or later there will be a knock on the door and there will be a hurt boy, or a hungry boy, and neither you nor I will turn him away because there are no hostels, no Covenant Houses for queers."

"It's that bad?" asked The Gunner. He shook his head. "I had no idea."

"Steve, if you're down and out and straight, you can get help. The churches have programs, the Salvation Army has a program, everybody has a program." Lester held up one finger. "But, if you're down and out and queer you're on your own! You either pretend to be straight, and watch your ass every waking moment, or you find a nice alcove under a bridge."

"Maybe I should have leased the Royal York," replied The Gunner with a laugh.

"You'd fill it," returned Lester seriously.

"So, we have to look to the future." The Gunner stood up and walked to the balcony. He stared into the early morning half-light and then said, "I have a piece of land, six hundred plus acres. It's up near Arnprior . . ."

"Arnprior! That's almost to Ottawa!" returned Lester, sounding horrified, as if the small Ontario town was somewhere on the outer limits of civilization.

"But it's a place where we can make a school." The Gunner turned, his voice filled with enthusiasm. "Think about it, Lester. Can you see a school where gay boys can go and not have to worry about their peers? A haven, if you will. We can expand and . . ."

"Dream!" responded Lester. "It would cost more money than you have, or I can ever see us having!"

"Then we'll go out one afternoon and scout alcoves under bridges, shall we?" retorted The Gunner sarcastically. He stared evenly at Lester and smiled. "We can do it. We start small, yes, but we will grow. Michael will help, I'm sure. Sophie has more money than she knows what to do with and has neither chick nor child to leave it to. I have the money coming from my aunt's jewels. We can do it, Lester."

"It's a dream, Steve," said Lester, leaving the table and refilling his coffee cup. "I wish I could be with you."

"There is no reason you can't, Lester. Why, the place wouldn't be the same without you and . . ." The Gunner stopped speaking abruptly. Then he said carefully, "You won't leave Brent, though."

Lester began sniffling quietly. "It's not that Steve, not at all. I know that Brent will never leave his wife, his kids. He's built himself a bombproof little nest, a perfect cover. He doesn't have to worry about losing his job, his pension. At the station house he's straight as an arrow, and everybody thinks he's a man's man." He sighed and shook his head. "Brent cares for me, but all I really am to him is a fling, a queer byway he's walking down at the moment. Eventually he'll realize his other life is the one that matters most to him. And then he'll leave." Lester laughed sourly. "I can live with that, Steve, and I'll live with it for as long as Brent lets me."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Look at me!" yelled Lester. "I'm a femme. I swish around, I camp! Dear God, would you really want me to be a role model for teenage boys?"

"Actually, I do," replied The Gunner calmly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Lester, you've lived the life, you've been on the game. What of all those boys who are like you, femmes, swish? You can change, and so can they. You can even act butch just as well as a straight man. I've seen you do it! You know how to tone down the stereotypical moves, the camping. If you can control those moves you can damned well teach others how to do it!"

"Well, yes, I suppose I could," said Lester, still reluctant. "I had to survive." He snickered. "I once memorized every baseball stat I could find. I was working in bar on Bay Street frequented by stockbrokers and there was this one absolutely gorgeous bond broker who lived and breathed baseball! He also drank beer so I acquired a taste for Labbatt's Blue - it gave me gas - but it was worth it!"

"Lester!"

The warning note in The Gunner's voice gave Lester pause. "Sorry, force of habit," he said weakly.

"You're forgiven," growled The Gunner. He pointed a finger at Lester. "You changed when you had to because you needed to survive. You can teach others! You can help them deal with the way they are and teach them how to get along in the world, how to survive! I can't do it, Ace can't do it! We have never had to live the life! Aaron Edgar is a little precious, but he's learned to control his impulses and draw back. Did someone help him, or did he have to learn it through trial and error, and the occasional beating? Not every boy wants to play hockey, or football. What about the boys who want to dance ballet, or paint, or write hopelessly romantic novels? Who is going to mentor them, listen to them, let them cry on his shoulder?"

"Come on, Steve, talk about wishful thinking!" responded Lester flippantly.

The Gunner approached Lester and smiled evilly. "You want me to grab your balls again?" he asked.

"Only if you mean it!" returned Lester. His smile was calm, and cool. "Steve, you mean well, I know that. But I know what I am and I am honest enough to admit it to myself!"

The Gunner's strong hand reached out and took Lester's shoulder. "Lester, not so very long ago a young man whom I adore, but whom I shall never live with, was in what I call his Full Bore, Jug-Eared, Green-Eyed Monster Mode. He was angry, but he knew what he was saying when he told his friends to never be ashamed of who they were, to never be ashamed of what they were, and to never, ever be afraid to be who they were." He squeezed Lester's shoulder. "Never stop being who you are Lester. You have a lot to offer. Be who you are, Lester, and let the rest of the world make of you what it will."

"I'll try," whispered Lester presently. "God knows how I'll do it, but I will try."

"And Ace or I, or Brent will be right there to catch you if you stumble."

"Brent? Come on, Steve, he's just a horny flatfoot who knows a good lay when he sees one!" scoffed Lester.

"Perhaps," conceded The Gunner reluctantly. "But then, perhaps I see something in his eyes when he looks at you that you don't want to see." He pulled away and began scanning the papers on the table. "Now, where in the hell are the Rangers? They should be up and doing! And where the hell is Ace?"

"In bed, where you left him," retorted Lester. "As for the Rangers, for all I know they found a couple of Mormons to molest!"

Percy Simpson trembled with indignation and fear. He shrank back as once again Stennes waved a hard, thick finger in his face. "I warned you!" Stennes shouted. "You were not to touch the boy!"

"I . . . did not . . ." whined Simpson as he sank slowly into a chair. "I gave him a bath! A bath!"

Behind Stennes, Paul Greene stood impassively. He had no role in this argument, although he realized that watching the scene unfolding would give him an insight into the true character of his newfound protector.

Behind Paul, Sepp and Gottfried, both naked, simpered and posed seductively. They hated Percy, despised him, in fact. Stennes, whom both young men had met before, intrigued them and while the boys feared him, they were smart enough to know that the German was the real power in the room. They also knew that Stennes enjoyed what they could offer him. They were also interested in the blond, skinny young man that Stennes had brought with him. They wondered if Herr Greene, as he had been introduced to them, kept Stennes happy.

Both Sepp and Gottfried had few scruples and no morals. They slept with Percy, they would sleep with Stennes, and they would sleep with Herr Greene. It didn't matter to them. Pleasing Herr Stennes and whomever he ordered them to please brought warm beds, nice clothes and wonderful food. Besides, they both liked what they did.

Standing to one side, Eugen, who was fully clothed in a suit and tie, stared at the screaming German. Eugen's face was flushed and he tried to shut out the scene before him by closing his eyes and praying silently that Troubridge would keep his word.

Percy's denial brought a deceptive calm. "I will examine the boy. If there is any evidence, any sign, that you have damaged him, I will kill you!" he hissed menacingly. He turned on Sepp, Gottfried and Eugen. "Go to your room. Prepare yourselves. I come to you shortly."

With Paul following, Stennes hurried from the lounge and up the stairs of the house to the second floor. He stopped before a blank door and quickly inserted the key that Simpson had given him and entered a small, spare bedroom.

The child was sitting on the bed, wearing only a pair of underpants. He looked up and shrank back at the sight of the man who had taken him from the orphanage.

Paul watched as Stennes, who spoke Russian, for the child had no other language than his mother tongue, ordered the boy to leave the bed.

Fearfully, the child did as he was told. He feared what was to come, had expected it for the Direktor had told him back in the orphanage that he must never displease this man. As he loved life, the Direktor had said, he must do everything the man demanded.

As Paul watched, Stennes soothed the weeping little boy, asking questions that Paul could not understand. The boy shook his head in reply and made no protest when Stennes slowly pushed down his underpants. Stennes examined the slim, handsome body, had the boy bend over and spread his cheeks. After examining the child's rectum he had the boy stand and began to fondle him. When the child's miniscule penis was hard, Stennes slowly pulled back his foreskin and nodded.

"The fat pig told the truth," said Stennes when he finished his examination. He patted the child on his bare behind and muttered something in Russian. The he turned to Paul. "This child has never been touched. Had he been, I would have known."

Paul raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

Stennes saw the gesture and chuckled. "Bruising around the rectum, the fraenum, which joins the prepuce to the penis, torn, damaged," he explained. "I will teach you how to judge what is prime and what is not."

"I am to become a part of your . . . organization?" asked Paul impassively. He looked directly at the little boy. "I am not interested in him," he added.

"He is not for you if you were interested in him!" returned Stennes. He motioned for Paul to leave with him. "That child is worth half a million U.S.," said Stennes as they walked back toward the stairs. "An American pop star enjoys boys of that age." Stennes might have decided that Paul was to be his heir. He did not yet trust him enough to reveal all his secrets. "Remember, junge, that the higher they are, the more they want. The more money they have, the more they are able to indulge their passions and the more they are willing to pay."

Other than rumour and whatever he read in the newspapers, Paul had no idea of the scope of what Stennes was alluding to. What excited Paul was the thought of power! The sight of Percy Simpson, a man of wealth, as evidenced by this house, a man of obvious power in other circles, cavilling and whining like a whipped cur at Stennes' wrath, was exciting and stimulating.

As the pair turned the corner that led to the bedroom wing, Stennes continued. "I saw something in you, young Paul. You have ambition, and you have arrogance. I like that in a young man."

"And what else do you like" thought Paul. He hoped that Stennes was not about to proposition him.

While Paul's face had remained passive, Stennes seemed to know instinctively what the boy was thinking. He stopped and slowly ran his hand down Paul's slim body. "You need not fear me, junge. While you are desirable, you are much more valuable and useful to me as a colleague."

Paul breathed a sigh of relief. He did not trust Stennes, and he had no desire to find himself in the man's bed. That having been said, Paul was smart enough to understand that if he aligned himself with the German, if he obeyed the German in every way, great things would follow, not the least of which would be money.

With a shrug, Paul dismissed the thought of money, which while it was a useful commodity, held no great appeal to him. Money could be used, yes, to pay for the Movement, but what he now came to realize was that secrets were much more valuable. If a man were willing to pay a half-million dollars for a boy, he would pay even more to ensure that the purchase remained out of the public domain. He smiled slyly at Stennes, but did not say anything.

Laughing quietly, Stennes said, "So, you understand, then?"

Paul nodded. "The fat man is terrified that what he is, what he does, might become public. The man who has bought the Russian boy is also terrified, although I doubt he would admit it, that what he is should become public. He would be ruined, of course, if word that he diddles little boys came out."

"Now you know why I chose you!" exclaimed Stennes. "You understand the mechanics of power!"

"And the economics," returned Paul with an even slyer grin. "You supply a demand, yes?"

"Yes."

Paul gestured back toward the Russian boy's room. "The man who bought him will, eventually tire of him, yes?"

"Of course," replied Stennes. "Usually when they reach puberty. The man will then be in the market for a new boy, which we will supply. We will also broker the sale of the Russian to someone whose tastes demand something a little older."

Paul picked up on Stennes' categorizing of the boys he sold. The boys were a commodity, a "something" to be bought and sold. The German had no feelings whatsoever toward his "somethings".

"And when the boy becomes too old?" asked Paul.

Another chuckle escaped Stennes' lips. "They never become too old!" the German said with a laugh. Then he sobered. "Of course, you are right. When that happens, well, alternative arrangements are made."

Paul's left eyebrow rose perceptively. "Outdated and of no use to anyone?" he asked. "Disposed of to a jobber or . . .?"

Staring at Paul, Stennes now realized that the boy was much more perceptive than he let on. "Would it bother you if some of our product is, shall we say, consigned to the rag bin?"

"A subtle way of putting it," said Paul with a shrug. "Defective or outdated goods have no place in the inventory," he finished, continuing the analogy. "But then, I have a feeling that you use the commodity until it is threadbare." He grinned. "No?"

Laughing, Stennes sat on one of the chairs that flanked a long, marble topped table that stood against the corridor wall. "Of course! What we sell always has a use, a value. The Russian will be used by the pop star who will, when he tires of the lad, will in turn sell him to someone who enjoys the favours of older boys. When the boy is of no further interest to his protector, he will be sold to a house, or to another man who enjoys older boys, boys in their late teens."

"A house?"

"Of course, a house," said Stennes easily. "I own several discreet residences where those who cannot, or will not, pay for undamaged goods may, for a small fee, enjoy the delights of 'damaged goods'." He looked at Paul. "Of course, the fee does vary, according to the 'damage' of the goods. Later I shall take you to a house that is filled with what I call 'courtesans'. You will experience delights that you have never known."

Paul thought a moment. He understood completely the economics of money. He had once endured what was at the time a long, and very boring class on the subject. He mentally thanked the dry old stick of a high school teacher who had droned on and on, declaiming about the power of money. Paul understood that some things never lost value, in fact gained in value. The merchandise that Stennes offered was a case in point. Little boys became big boys who became teenagers. There was a market for all of them, somewhere. Paul also remember that the old instructor had been a bit of a Bolshie, and railed about money generating power. Paul was not so interested in the money as the power it would bring. He could, with money, gain power, gain rank, gain domination over lesser breeds. With money, with power, he could control and manipulate. Stennes had been right. To satisfy the lustful cravings that coursed through him Paul would use a commodity until it was threadbare. And when the commodity was of no use to anyone, he would consign it to an anonymous rubbish tip.

Paul's sly smile changed abruptly and he frowned. It had been explained in economics class that many times money was generated through a consortium, a partnership where business each put up seed money, invested in a project, and shared in the profits. Stennes had partners in all his enterprises. Some were behind the Iron Curtain, and some were not. Some could be trusted, and some could not. His steel grey eyes darkened. "A visit to this house you spoke of would be a change from rough trade. But first you must take care of a problem," he said quietly and emotionlessly.

"A problem?"

Nodding, Paul continued. "The fat man is a danger. He knows too much and is in trouble with his banking friends."

"Ah, you heard the General?" asked Stennes. He lightly clapped his hands in congratulation at Paul's snooping.

"I heard," confirmed Paul. "The fat man will sell you out in a minute." He then looked directly at Stennes. "Then there is the boy."

A look of surprise crossed Stennes' face. He had underestimated young Paul Greene. "Which boy?" he asked.

"Eugen," replied Paul sternly. "Sepp and Gottfried are rough trade. They know that if they open their mouths they'll lose this life they have." Paul waved his hand to indicate the expensive furniture and fine paintings of the corridor. "They know that for a long time, so long as they bend over or open their mouths, someone will be there to stick a prick in them, and pay the bills."

"Eugen?" prompted Stennes.

"He wants out. He's tired of being at the beck and call of a pervert, tired of being on the game. He wants out."

"And how do you know that?" asked Stennes, choosing to ignore Paul's calling his clients "perverts".

Paul snorted. "Sepp and Gottfried were naked. Everything they own was on display. They're whores and not afraid to show the world that they're whores. They made it plain that whatever it took they would do to please you, and I suppose, me. Eugen was fully clothed and stood apart from them. He stood there, like a statue. There was nothing in his eyes." Once again Paul repeated, "He wants out."

"So, what then, my young friend, is to be done with him?" asked Stennes slyly.

Paul was just as sly. A feral grin coursed his smooth, pink, vulpine face. "Eugen is still a valuable commodity. He is quite good looking and has value. Still, he needs what we called when I was in the Cadets an 'attitude adjustment session'." Paul's grey eyes seemed to turn to cold, uncompromising stone. "He needs to be shown who is in charge."

Stennes saw the look in Paul's eyes and smiled inwardly. The boy enjoyed inflicting pain, enjoyed the overwhelming feeling of power that came from subjugating others. Good. He stood up and gestured toward the closed door that opened into Sepp and Gottfried's room. "And perhaps have some fun doing it?" he asked.

Paul grinned malevolently but said nothing. He quickly adjusted the erection that had risen in his briefs at the thought of teaching Eugen who his betters were, and nodded.

Paul's nose wrinkled at the stench of the large room. It smelled of sex, half-eaten food and dirty underpants. On the large bureau sat a tray overflowing with bits and pieces of what had been a meal. On the floor beside the huge, unkempt bed lay piles of soiled towels and what looked like underpants. On the bed Sepp and Gottfried, who had been waiting patiently for the inevitable visit by their master, postured seductively.

Neither of the two German boys was aroused. They knew better than to fool around with each other. Herr Stennes enjoyed his boys fully loaded, so to speak, and despite having pleasured fat old Percy at their usual hour, both Sepp and Gottfried had recharged and their loins were aching. When they saw Stennes in the doorway, with his newest companion behind him, both Sepp and Gottfried flashed a grin. The blond Kanadien was skinny, but fresh, and anything new and fresh was a bonus. Even Stennes would be a welcome change from Percy!

Looking about the room, Stennes demanded harshly, "Wo ist das andere?"

Sepp looked at Gottfried, who replied, "In seinem zimmer, Herr Stennes." Then, realizing that the blond boy had little German, Gottfried translated. "He is in his room. He does not sleep mit uns. He thinks he is better than us!"

"Ya," added Sepp. "He dreams that he is the son of a Prussian Junker! Always he avoids us."

Stennes snorted disdainfully. "Er ist . . ." He decided to keep things simple and switched to English. "He is the son of a whore whose father was some nameless trick." He glared at Sepp. "Erhalten sie ihn!"

Nodding rapidly, Sepp skittered from the bed. "Jahwol, Herr Stennes."

While they waited for Sepp to bring Eugen, Stennes asked Gottfried, "You are happy?"

"Ya, Herr Stennes." Gottfried frowned. "The old man, he is generous."

"He is a pig!" retorted Stennes. "What of the other one, the butler?"

Gottfried shrugged. "He does not bother us. He sees nothing and says nothing. He is only interested in the money the fat one pays him to see nothing and say nothing."

Smiling, Stennes turned to Paul. "The butler is a smart man. He has been with Simpson for years and has gained much wealth."

"And so long as he is paid he is no danger," returned Paul sourly, although he could not keep the doubtful tone from his voice.

"Perhaps we should, as you called it, have an attitude adjustment session with him as well?"

Before Paul could reply Sepp pushed a frightened but defiant Eugen into the room. "Here he is," said Sepp, sidestepping Paul and Stennes and returning to the bed.

Stennes regarded Eugen for a moment. The boy was unafraid, and there was a stubborn set to his face. Stennes had seen the look in Eugen's eyes before. It was a look of defiance, which could not be tolerated. The boy needed to be taught a lesson. Stennes pointed to Paul. "My friend is in need of your services. You will remove your clothing and please my friend in every way."

Without looking at Paul, Eugen drew in a breath, looked directly at Stennes and shook his head. "Nein!"

Stunned momentarily at Eugen's refusal, Stennes' face turned red with anger. "What . . . what did you say?" he snarled low.

"Nein . . . no!" returned Eugen. He was determined. He would no longer give his body to a man unless he wanted to! He would take no more orders from this piece of . . . exkrement . . . this scheisse! "No, I will not do it!"

Stennes clenched fist smashed against Eugen's square jaw, sending the boy's glasses flying against the far wall. "You will do as you are told!" Stennes hissed dangerously. As Eugen lurched back from the force of the blow, Stennes' looked at Paul, who remained impassive. "You want him to suck you?"

While surprised at the suddenness of the assault on Eugen, Paul found the demonstration of raw power sexually exciting. Privately he thought that it would take more than a punch in the jaw to bring Eugen to heel. But, what the hell . . .

With deliberate slowness Paul removed his jacket, unbuckled his belt and lowered his trousers and briefs. He watched Eugen to see if there was any reaction in Eugen's eyes as he reached down to fondle his erection. Seeing none, Paul smiled knowingly. His penis throbbed as he said to Eugen, "Suck it!"

Eugen saw the evil smirk on the blond boy's face, saw the malevolence emanating from the thin, fox-like face, saw the smooth, thin penis the blond presented to him throbbing, saw a small drop of liquid ooze from the conical, circumcised head of the blond's penis, and shook his head. "Nein . . . no . . . I will not!"

Stennes all but exploded with rage. He began to pummel the unresisting Eugen with his fist. "Nehmen Sie ihn, nehmen Sie ihn in threm Mund!" he shrieked as his fist smashed against Eugen's face, his stomach his sides. "You will suck him! You will suck him!" screamed Stennes.

Eugen collapsed onto the floor and curled his body into a protective ball. He coiled his arms around his head, and his muffled, defiant voice filled the room. "Nein!"

Shrieking incoherently, Stennes began to kick the coiled body, landing telling blows on Eugen's body. Spittle flew from Stennes' lips has he continue to rain vicious kicks on the helpless youth. Finally, his tumescence plain, he drew back. He turned to Sepp and Gottfried who lay on their bed, speechless and horrified at the beating, and ordered, "Strip him!"

Both boys knew better than to antagonize the enraged man further. They forced Eugen's body to uncoil and quickly stripped him to his boxer underpants. Eugen's face was a mass of bruises. Blood seeped from between his lips and oozed from one ear. Already massive welts were rising on his sides and back. Neither Sepp nor Gottfried dared to protest or hesitate. They quickly ripped Eugen's boxers away and stood back, waiting for what they both knew was inevitable.

"Bend him over the bed," ordered Stennes icily. He watched as the boys lifted the all but unconscious Eugen from the floor and draped him over the end of the bed on his stomach. Stennes lowered his trousers and soiled briefs, exposing a huge, vein-scattered penis. He deliberately pulled back his foreskin to reveal a slick, slimy, purple coloured head. "Pull his cheeks apart," he ordered Sepp and Gottfried.

As the two German boys hurried to obey Stennes, he looked at Paul who had a vacant look on his face while he studiously masturbated.

"No!" growled Stennes. "You will do more!" He then savagely rammed his erection into Eugen's body. The boy screamed in pain as Stennes pushed as much of his penis as he could into the spread cheeks and grunted.

"You will never again disobey me, you whore! Remember I own you, whore!" Stennes growled as he savagely thrust into Eugen. "Do you understand me, schweine?" He thrust relentlessly into and out of Eugen's rectum, overcome with anger.

As Paul, Sepp and Gottfried watched, Stennes continued his unrelenting rape of Eugen. His breathing became laboured and his pendulous testicles began to draw upward. As a low growl began to grow in his throat, signalling that he was very near to orgasm, much to the surprise of the others, Stennes pulled out and fisted his organ rapidly. A loud grunt left Stennes' throat and his penis seemed to explode, sending a long stream of semen across Eugen's back and then down his buttocks. Stennes continued to stroke himself until only a small dribble oozed from the small slit on the head his penis.

Finished, Stennes drew back and looked at Paul. "Fuck him!" he ordered. "Fuck him and teach him some manners!" Then he added, "Do not cum in him! Squirt on him, show him that he is a whore, a pig!"

As Paul deftly inserted himself, Sepp and Gottfried's hands drifted down to their hard penises. Their eyes glistened as they watched the blond stranger thrust and pummel the moaning boy stretched on the bed and Sepp's tongue flicked out as he licked his lips. Beside him, Gottfried's eyes took on a fevered look and a triumphant smile furled his lips.