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.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting for personal use, or for brief quotes used in reviews.

This book contains scenes of consensual homosexual sex between adults. If it is illegal for you to download, possess or read works of erotic fiction, please move on. This book contains scenes of violence and mature subject matter. Reader discretion is advised.

While this story is set in 1976, when safe sex was not practiced, the author urges all his readers to ALWAYS practice safe sex. The life you save may be your own.

My thanks to Peter, my editor, whom I hope enjoys long life and happiness. A good editor is hard to find!

To all my readers, may the Star of Bethlehem shine down upon you and all you love. Have a merry, merry Christmas and may 2005 be much kinder than 2004.

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 27

"They're not eating," said Chef as he stood behind the steam line with The Phantom.

The Phantom's gaze scanned the half-filled dining room. Lunch was usually well attended, but today was different. There was the usual gaggle of YAG crewmembers eating as if the food on their plates would be their last meal. Chef was not referring to them, of course. The Phantom exchanged a glance with Chef and then looked over to the far corner. He nodded. "They", meaning the Aurora cadets, were indeed off their feed.

At the Chiefs' table, much expanded with the recent promotions, Tyler, Val, Mark and Tony had been joined by the Twins and Mike Sunderland. Tyler was toying with what little food there was on his plate, while Val had tried one bite, and then pushed his plate away.

This was not a reflection on the food for Ray and Sandro had prepared a good pork tenderloin, served with apple sauce, oven roasted, herb dressed, baby red potatoes, and mixed vegetables as one of the two entrées. The other entrée, a hamburger plate, was proving much more popular, which led Ray to snidely question why he bothered.

The Twins, both Cory and Todd, were uncharacteristically quiet, although for different reasons. Cory had chosen a salad, but spent more time pushing a small piece of tomato from one side of his plate to the other. He was still quite stunned at his own erudition earlier, and reconsidering his opinion of the Order and considering what he should do now. As Todd had murmured as they left the Gunroom, it was a tough act to follow.

Todd was not considering his options or what he would do. He would follow The Phantom, and he would become a Knight. What was bothering Todd was Matt's total indifference to him. Darting frequent glances around the dining room, Todd had noticed that Matt seemed to be paying a great deal of attention to Nicholas and wondered if he was making more of something innocuous than he should. Matt was naturally happy and friendly to everyone. Still . . . A small sigh escaped Todd's lips. Matt and Nicholas together? Not likely. Nicholas was in love with André, and they had exchanged vows. Still . . .

"You had your chance and you blew it!"

The words, cold, unemotional and without sympathy, seared through Todd's brain. He turned to see his brother staring at him, Cory's blue eyes clear and as cold and unsympathetic as the thought he had just sent to his twin. Todd's face glowed crimson as he slowly nodded his head and murmured, "Yes, I did and more fool me."

Rob sat with Brian, each toying nervously with the cutlery laid on the table, both deep in thought and occasionally darting glances at The Phantom. Finally, Rob asked, "Have you decided?"

Brian looked at his friend and shrugged. "I think so, yes," he replied. He looked at The Phantom, smiled wistfully, and continued, "If only because he's my friend, I'm going."

Looking about, Rob then lowered his voice. "And the fact that you're just a little bit in love with him?" he asked.

Brian cocked his head and smiled slowly. "Yes, that too. But then, Rob, I think that we all are, just a little."

Sighing, Rob nodded his head in agreement. "More than a little, Brian, more than a little." He reached out and his fingertips touched Brian's hand. "Every time I'm with him I get this warm feeling. I know he loves me, and wants to protect me. I also know that he will forgive anything so long as I remain what I now believe I truly am, his brother."

Brian thought a moment and then said, "Phantom is no saint, but he does love us. He sees good in just about everybody he meets. It's not about sex, Rob, although sex has played a part in his relationship with us."

Rob's eyes widened slightly and he knew. Brian had been visited during the night, just has he had been.

"Yes, Rob," said Brian without rancour or remorse. "I make no apologies and expect none from Phantom. What happened is between us. I'm glad it happened. Without Phantom I would never have gone on to . . ."

"Dylan," Rob said quietly.

Brian's face fell slightly. "Dylan was someone I cared for. I thought my feelings for him were mutual. They weren't and now I know that all Dylan was interested in was the sex. It happens. Dylan has gone home and returned to his life of 'normalcy'. I wish him well, I will always have a soft spot for him, but I know that we can never be. I hope you have better luck with Ryan."

"You . . . you know?" gasped Rob. He had been certain that his trysts with Ryan in Clothing Stores had been secret.

Snickering, Brian regarded Rob. "It's all in the body language," he advised ponderously. "The way a guy looks at another guy, the little gestures, the light pats when you think no one is looking." He shrugged. "It don't mean shit."

Blushing furiously now that his secret was out, at least to Brian, Rob looked nervous and embarrassed. "Brian, I sort of don't need . . ."

Brian held up his hand. "Look, Rob, nobody cares. I sure as hell don't. You've slept with Ryan - went all the way, I suspect - and it's no big deal. I slept with Dylan. What we did together was great, just as what you did with Ryan was great." Once again a shrug formed on Brian's shoulders. "I'm not going to out you, if that's what you're worried about." He noticed a small frown forming on Rob's forehead and continued. "And I'm not putting the moves on you, although you are one hell of a good looking guy."

Rob squirmed uneasily. "Aw, come on, Brian."

"It's true," insisted Brian with a grin. "You are one good looking stud and you've got the parts to go along with the rest of you. I don't blame Ryan for hopping into the sack with you."

"It wasn't like that!" Rob's protest was an angry hiss. "We . . . we love each other!"

Drawing back, Brian held up his hands. "Perhaps. But then, I thought that Dylan loved me. He didn't. I hope, truly, that you and Ryan make a go of it." Then he asked pointedly. "But then, has he called you? Have you called him?"

"No, he hasn't," admitted Rob reluctantly. "And I haven't called him. I haven't heard a word from him." Rob's handsome face fell. "Damn it, Brian, why are you asking me these questions?"

"Because when I go with Phantom I want to know that the guy beside me is there for me and the others. I don't want to go sailing off into harm's way only to have you, or any one of the others suddenly decide that you're in over your head and want out."

"That's unfair and untrue!" snapped Rob. "You're just pissed off because Dylan took a hike on you!" He glared at Brian. "Don't judge me by what Dylan did, or what Ryan did! I'm my own man and I make up my own mind. Ryan has nothing to do with what Phantom is asking us to do!"

Brian's calmness was disconcerting to Rob. The guy barely changed expressions! "I haven't made up my mind," Rob continued. Then he leaned forward and looked evenly at Brian. "But when I do, it will be because it is the right thing to do, not because I made it with Ryan, or you, or any other guy. Ryan has nothing to do with what I do, just as Dylan is not a part of what you plan on doing."

Brian nodded. "Dylan is out of this thing, and so far as I know never was in."

"And neither is Ryan," conceded Rob. "I've heard names being bandied about, guys who were a part of this dream of Phantom's. Nowhere have I heard Ryan's name mentioned."

Pushing his chair back, Brian made to rise. "Then whatever you decide will be based on the rightness of what is to come?"

"Yes."

Brian looked around to see the Twins leaving their table. "Then it's time, Rob."

"Timing is important," The Gunner said as he gestured to the list of names and addresses pinned to the wall of Ace's living room. "We must make certain that we do not strike too soon, or out of sequence. We cannot allow any of these men time to warn their friends."

Arranged on the sofa and chairs scattered haphazardly about the room, the men gathered nodded. They all knew that there must be a coordinated swoop on the homes of the men who held boys.

In the far corner Terry Hsiang, Michael Chan's representative, nodded his concurrence. Terry was young, or at least looked young, with a smooth, handsome, unlined faced. He was dressed in a conservative suit, and highly polished oxfords. Outwardly, he gave the appearance of an upwardly mobile young Chinese, successful to a point, with more success on his horizon. Few knew that as Michael Chan's Viceroy in Toronto Terry controlled the clandestine gambling rooms that dotted old Chinatown and was deeply involved in loan-sharking. Even fewer knew that Terry was involved in smuggling illegal immigrants from the mainland and Hong Kong. He was also busily establishing "Chinatown East", where the trickle of ethnic Chinese who had fled Vietnam had become a flood. They needed homes, business, and loans. Terry Hsiang was a powerful man, with fingers in many illegal pies. He was also a man who was not afraid to use his power.

"If I may?" Terry asked quietly.

"Yes?" The Gunner knew of Terry's involvement with Michael Chan, and trusted Michael's judgement. He also trusted Terry's loyalty. Michael would never have placed the younger man here in Toronto if he were not trusted implicitly.

"What is to be done with these . . . people?" Terry asked. He refused to call them men, these animals who preyed on innocent boys. "Are they to be punished?"

"A Bar of Justice has been called," replied The Gunner without emotion. "Hunter, Willoughby, Simpson and the German, Stennes, who is the ringleader, will be called before the Bar of Justice. Their punishment is decided. Death by hanging."

"And the others?" asked Teddy Vian, who was sitting between Jeff MacKenzie and Gil Stephenson on the sofa. "Have you decided on what is to be done with them?"

"And remember, you can't have a dozen or so bodies turning up dead," advised Aaron Mark II. He was seated on the arm of an overstuffed chair with Aaron Mark I. Aaron Mark II's hand was resting against the nape of Aaron Mark I's neck. "Personally I'd like to see them all floating in Lake Ontario but . . . I gather it would not be in anyone's best interest for this abomination to be made too public, or to have the police involved."

The Gunner took a deep breath. "Any knight who is involved in this thing will be brought before the Bar of Justice. Stennes, because he is the mastermind, the pimp, is to be brought before the Bar of Justice. As for the others, I am open to suggestions."

Terry Hsiang's expression did not change. "If any Chinese are involved, I shall handle them." He levelled dark, cold eyes at The Gunner. "Such is our way."

"Which means they will disappear," thought The Gunner. His jade green eyes were just as cold as Terry's black orbs. "Let right be done," he said firmly. "As for the others, as I have said, I am open to suggestions."

"Discredit them, destroy them," said Aaron Mark II. "Make certain that their business associates know what they are. Start a whispering campaign - they are men of power and they live for power - and if the rumours are strong enough, if enough of their friends question their integrity and morals, they will be destroyed. All it takes is a word here, a snide remark there, and people will get the message."

Lester, who was sitting as close to Brent on another chair as he could, nodded his agreement. "And if there are any doubts we can send anonymous letters, with photos. There are also the Immigration files. These men have put their names on government visa applications, or sponsored these boys as students or visitors. They have a lot to lose, Steve. They'll head for the hills rather than face exposure."

"So we make sure that they know what will happen to them if what they've been doing becomes public knowledge," offered Ace. "Ideally what should happen is that whenever they appear their peers will sneer and look away. Some of these people would rather die than lose their so-called social status." He smiled grimly. "And the politicians amongst them would rather die than lose their political power."

"Can it be done?" asked The Gunner.

"It can be done," replied Terry as Aaron Mark II nodded. "It will take time but it can be done."

"We have photos, we can get copies of immigration papers and we can get sworn statements from our own people," said Brent. "Just the threat of the Vice Squad paying them a visit will cause those people to think twice about repeating their actions."

"There is also the financial aspect," said Lester. He looked at Steve. "You want to open a hospital for the boys we save, and set up a school for them."

The Gunner nodded. "Yes."

"Then make them pay for it." Lester regarded Aaron Mark II and then Terry Hsiang. "Surely there must be a way, somehow, to gain access to their bank accounts and their stock portfolios. Drain 'em, says I. Take them for every penny they have and let them live under a bridge!"

Lester's anger was all but overpowering. The Gunner knew the life that Lester had been forced to lead when his family rejected him. Lester had been a street boy, and had suffered unspeakable abuse at the hands of his clients. Lester wanted someone to pay for the hurt and pain he had suffered not so very long ago.

Aaron Mark II left his seat beside his lover and studied the long list of names. "There are ways to find out what they have, and where they keep it," he said, his eyes never leaving the list. "Killing them will serve no purpose. Better to destroy them financially and socially. Let them live with what they are in the knowledge that they are scum," all but spitting out the last word. "My Israeli friends will help."

The Gunner knew better than to delve too deeply into Aaron Mark II's "friends", suspecting that they were Mossad. He turned to Terry Hsiang. "And you?"

Terry nodded. "We have people who are in positions to know such things, and to find out such things," Terry said confidently.

"And my brother is a junior VP with the Bank of Montreal," confided Teddy. "I'll speak to him."

"And I'll speak to my father," offered Max. "He's on the Ontario Securities Commission down at Queen's Park." He smiled grimly. "Poor Daddy! He's going to shit a brick when I tell him the names of the men involved. He knows several of them."

"And I am not looking forward to telling Sophie about that guy in Oakville," said Aaron Mark I with a shudder. "I saw a photo in her drawing room of her second wedding party. The guy was her second husband's best man!"

"He is also a senator, Aaron," advised Ace. "A senator who sits on the Military Affairs Committee." He grimaced. "This rot goes deep, guys."

"Deeper than we possibly know." Aaron Mark II returned to his chair arm. "My friends will help in any way. All we ask is that copies of whatever is discovered about these men are made available. We are particularly interested in Stennes. He has ties to the neo-Nazi movement in Germany, to the Skin Heads, to every rightwing crackpot outfit in Germany. We are very interested in Herr Stennes!"

The Gunner nodded to Lester. Whatever was discovered was as good as being photocopied now. "It's settled. Stennes, and any knight involved will be hanged. The others will be discredited."

Heads nodded around the room. "When do we launch our rescue operations? Time is running out, I think," said Shane. "I don't like to think that the boys are being abused any more than they have to be when we can do something about it."

"Keep them under surveillance," ordered The Gunner. "Gather information and start looking for something that will hold up in court." He turned to Terry. "Have your people start gathering what documentation you can. Max, speak to whomever you need to speak to and get copies of everything you can. Shane, Teddy, Gil, we need more pictures. Get them. Aaron and Lester, get the hospital ready. You have six days. Aaron of the special Israeli Friends, please find out what you can about the men on the list - Lester will give you a copy."

The men looked at each other and then at The Gunner. "Six days?" asked Brent.

"Today is Tuesday the 24th of August. On Monday next, the 30th, at 0500, we will end it."

"Six days!" exclaimed Lester quietly.

"Six days," repeated The Gunner briskly and then left the room.

"May I come in, or do you want to be alone?" Ace asked as he pushed open the door to the bedroom.

The Gunner, who was lying on the bed, nodded and waved Ace forward. "I'm not in a good mood, but come ahead."

"What's wrong?" asked Ace as he settled beside The Gunner. "Everything is falling into place. Lester and the two Aarons have gone to the hospital. They're going to bring in a cleaning crew and have the place scoured."

"I can imagine the shape it's in," grumbled The Gunner.

"Actually, it's not too bad. The rooms are all set up with beds, and there's a good-sized dining room and lounge. According to Aaron Mark I it was set up to be a pretty upscale little inn, not some fleabag."

"Well, that's something." The Gunner glanced at Ace. "And the others?"

"Off and doing." Ace sat up and began to lift The Gunner's T-shirt up his chest. "Come on, strip off."

"Ace, I just condemned four men to death and I really don't think that getting it on with you is . . ."

"Don't flatter yourself, hotshot," returned Ace. "You're all tensed up and I'm going to give you one of my famous massages. Now lose the drawers."

The Gunner struggled out of his shorts and lay there, staring at Ace. "What next?"

"You turn over and I get nekkid."

"Nekkid!"

"I do my best work in the nude, Steve," replied Ace with a grin. "Now shut up and enjoy."

Ace straddled The Gunner's body and slowly began to smooth and massage The Gunner's tense shoulder muscles. "You're doing what needs to be done," Ace said as his fingers and palms worked magic. "I know it's hard, Steve, and I'm not sure that I could be so, well logically cold about it."

The Gunner raised his head. "I didn't hear you objecting," he protested mildly. "Damn, that feels good."

"And you won't," returned Ace as he pushed The Gunner's head back down. His hands moved down to massage The Gunner's back muscles. "It has to be done. I agree with what you're planning and I have no regrets about a Bar of Justice." Ace moved back, his warm testicles dragging across the cleft of The Gunner's firm, round, behind. "What I wonder about, though, is why the extreme prejudice?"

The Gunner looked back over his shoulder. "Ace, for all of its long history the Order has forbidden, categorically, paedophilia, in all its forms. Society, has condemned it, the Law forbids it."

Ace leaned forward and kissed The Gunner's broad, warm back. "And they broke their oath, which cannot be allowed."

"They swore the oath, Ace. They swore to protect the Order and its treasure. They have embezzled much of the Order's wealth, the same order they swore to protect! They gave their word, Ace, and broke it. Take away a man's word of honour and he has nothing, is nothing. I know to some such things are hokey, and old-fashioned, but a man's word must mean something. Willoughby, Hunter, Simpson, all broke their word, in more ways than one. They became involved with Stennes for personal gain, for money, and in Simpson's case, sexual gratification."

"And in addition to breaking their word, they tarnished, irretrievably, the honour of the Order," supplied Ace. He ran his finger down the cleft of The Gunner's buttocks and slowly massaged the man's low-hanging scrotum.

Ace felt The Gunner squirm and smiled. "You've argued with yourself over this for too long, Steve. I agree with you. The decision has been made and we go with it." He gently reached down and grasped his erection. "Now, Stevie, just keep quiet and enjoy."

The Gunner was starting to feel warm and content. He sighed as Ace's wide hands slowly massaged his waist. He could also feel a warm stirring in his loins. As Ace's hands reached his butt cheeks The Gunner moaned and raised his hips slowly. "Ace . . ."

Ace leaned forward and gently kissed The Gunner's right ear. "Steve, I love you. I need you and if you'd only admit it, you need me." He gently nuzzled The Gunner's neck. "And right now I do need you."

Knowing what was coming, The Gunner nodded his head. He felt the weight of Ace's body lift, and heard the soft, muted rustling of wood as the drawer in the nightstand was opened and Ace fumbled for the lubricant he kept there.

"I love you," Ace repeated as his finger slowly rubbed the cool lubricant into The Gunner's opening. "I am not fool enough to think that you will ever be in love with me, but I will always be with you."

The Gunner spread his legs and felt the spongy, warm, curving head of Ace's penis as it probed his opening. He looked back to see Ace straddling him, ready. "Ace, I do love you. I wish I could be in love with you." He buried his face in the pillow under his head. "Take me, slowly, love me, slowly," he murmured.

With excruciating slowness, Ace entered his lover. When his pubic hairs brushed the smooth, pink cheeks of The Gunner's buttocks, and the head of his penis pushed gently against the hidden pleasure spot deep within his lover, Ace lowered his body. "You're a bastard, Steve Winslow," he growled as he gripped The Gunner's shoulders. "I should hate you!" Ace began a slow, deep, thrusting rhythm. "But I can't hate you! I should want to fuck you!" Ace whimpered as a wave of indescribable pleasure coursed through his body. "But I only want to make love to you!"

The Gunner remained silent as the wonder that Ace was giving him engulfed his being. He would not think of anything else but Ace, of the glorious lover whose breathing had grown faster and heavier, whose body was driving him upward and upward to a plateau of delight.

"Damn you, Steve," Ace growled. "Let me love you! Let me . . ." Ace's body suddenly grew rigid and a low, keening moan filled the bedroom. As his penis spasmed and his warm semen surged out, he gasped over and over, "I love you, damn you! I love you!"

"I'm sorry, Ace," The Gunner whispered as he stroked his lover's warm, flushed face. "I want to, dear God, I want to, but I can't. I have too much to do, to many things to do, and something deep within me will not allow me to be what you want me to be."

Ace, who was lying comfortable in The Gunner's arms, nodded his head against the man's strong chest. "I know," came his whispered reply. "I just wish that you would sit back and smell the roses! I know that's trite, and a cliché, but damn, Steve, you're not some god, you're not the only one who can do what you think needs to be done!"

"I know, Ace, I know," said The Gunner sadly. "But Ace, please try to understand. I'm responsible. I can't stop to smell the roses, watch the grass grow. I can't! I must see the thing through to the end; I must devote my entire attention, my entire being, if you will, to the task at hand. I know you think it foolish to think that way, but there it is. I cannot help myself. It is in my heart, my soul and my blood."

Ace slowly backed away from The Gunner's arms and sat on the edge of the bed. He fumbled around and found the pack of cigarettes, lit two and handed one to The Gunner. His eyes were hooded as he asked, "So where does that leave me, Steve?"

The Gunner looked into Ace's eyes and a small smile formed on his lips. "As part of me, Ace, for as long as you want to be a part of me."

This was not the reply Ace had expected. "You mean that?" he asked, his voice filled with doubt.

Nodding, The Gunner ran his hand across Ace's smooth, muscular leg. "As strange as it may seem, yes. I do need you, Ace. I need someone who understands me, and will put up with me."

Ace laughed harshly. "I'm as bad as Lester!" he declared ruefully. "Brent will never leave his wife and kids, yet Lester loves him, and puts up with the bastard. You will never back down, or give up on anything, and you will never allow yourself to fall in love. Yet still I love you and put up with you!"

"Ace, I do care for you, I do need you, I do want you, and I want you to stay with me," replied The Gunner warmly.

Sighing, Ace looked around for an ashtray, and then ground the cigarette into the clear glass. "I just wish that once you'd let yourself go! But you won't."

"No."

Ace looked around for his underwear. "Then I suppose I had better just consider myself well-served and get on with helping you." He smiled sourly. "So, what happens next?"

The Gunner uncoiled his body and rolled from the bed. "First, we have to shower and then . . ." He saw one of Ace's eyebrows arch inquiringly, " . . . and then we sit down and try to figure out just what the hell we're going to do when Sophie finds out about her friend in Oakville."

Ace snickered and drew his underwear over his face. "Hide! Run and hide, dear Steve, because she will blow the proverbial gasket!"

Laughing, The Gunner reached out and his hand slowly enveloped Ace's genitals. "Well, let's hide something in the shower!" he suggested lewdly.

Slowly pulling his underpants away from his face, Ace grinned. "You're still a bastard! But yeah, I think I'd like that." He felt The Gunner's thumb as it slowly stimulated the curving, slightly sticky glans of his penis. "And you only want me in there 'cause you know I won't be able to run far!"

As he slipped his arm around Ace's waist, The Gunner laughed. "Not that you'd even try!" he said as he leaned forward and licked Ace's ear.

"Er ist Sterben!" Sepp snapped angrily. "Es gibt zu viel Blut!"

Troubridge glared at the young German and then returned to slowly removing the bandage he had packed into Eugen's torn, ravaged, rectum. The gauze was saturated with blood. Dark, almost black blood. "Jesus, he muttered." He turned to look at Percy Simpson, who was standing in the doorway, wringing his hands.

"He needs a doctor," Troubridge said flatly. "The lad is torn up inside."

"Impossible," Percy whimpered. "Stennes would never allow it! He's still in town with that creature of his." He glared at Sepp and Gottfried. "Seien Sie ruhig! Er ist nicht genug krank zu sterben!"

"Aber das Blut!" returned Sepp. "The blood, there is too much blood!"

"Halt die Schnauze!" yelled Percy. "Sie wurden nicht um Blut gesorgt, als Sie das rammten . . . das . . . Pfosten in ihm!"

"All of you shut up!" bellowed Troubridge. He gestured at the small pile of gauze bandages lying on the bedside table. "Hand me more gauze." He glared at Sepp and saw that the boy's thick appendage, his "post" as Percy had called it, was growing thicker, the deep purplish-pink head peeking out of the fold of skin that covered it. "The little bastard is excited! He's enjoying this," Troubridge thought cruelly. "Get out," he ordered. "Get out of my sight!"

The two German boys scuttled from the room, pushing their keeper aside in their haste. Percy, a worried look on his face, advanced further into the bedroom. He looked at the unconscious boy on the bed and watched as his butler gently repacked the boy's rectum. "We can't fetch a doctor, you know that!"

Troubridge sneered at his employer and then reached down to take the washcloth from the bowl of warm water sitting on the floor beside the bed. "If I can't stop the bleeding Eugen will die," he said as he carefully cleansed the blond-haired boy's buttocks of the blood that continued to seep from his anus. "Eugen will die!" he repeated.

Percy's hands began fluttering. "You cannot let him! Stennes will never . . ."

"Stennes did this!" Troubridge hurled the soiled washcloth at Percy. "Stennes and that blond monster he's taken up with! Stennes and Sepp and Gottfried! And you stood by and let them do it!" He stood up abruptly and faced Percy. "You allowed it!" he hissed.

"You don't understand," whined Percy. "Stennes is too powerful. He will never allow Eugen to live now! If I call him, he will come here and take the boy away. You know what will happen to him!"

"He's dying, damn you. Does that mean nothing to you? How can you say . . ." He drew back slowly. "You are a pitiful creature, Percy. God have mercy on you!"

"Me?" returned Percy, his lips curled in a sneer of disgust. "You're as bad!" He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a thick wad of bank notes. "This is what drove you!" he snarled as he waved the bills at Percy. He pushed the butler aside and placed the notes on the table. "What is done, is done," Percy said as he stared with cold, unfeeling eyes at the boy curled into a foetal position on the bed. "If I could, I would call Stennes and this . . . problem would go away." He shrugged. "I have no idea where he is."

Percy then gave Troubridge a sly, feral glance. He saw that the butler was paying more attention to the pile of money on than table than he was to the pitiable German boy. Smiling inwardly, Percy reached out and brushed an errant lock of blond hair from Eugen's warm forehead. Troubridge, Stennes, Hunter, Willoughby, all thought him a senile old fool. But Percy was far from being a fool. He had long ago taken Troubridge's measure. Any warmth, any compassion, the Englishman might have had had long since been replaced by cold, hard, dollars.

Percy turned and faced Troubridge. "It would be a pity if such a handsome young man were to die. You must see that he is made comfortable."

"I am not a doctor," Troubridge responded.

"No, you are not," agreed Percy. "Keep packing his . . . his orifice. The bleeding will stop and then we will contact Stennes. Eugen's usefulness is at an end."

"You can't be sure about the bleeding," protested Troubridge.

"Then he will die in comfort and with a measure of peace long before Stennes returns." He looked directly at Troubridge. "If there is no hope you will call me."

As Percy closed the door behind him, Troubridge sat on the edge of the bed and stared at Eugen. The boy seemed to be sleeping easier. Perhaps his original assessment was wrong. Perhaps Eugen would survive. Troubridge reached out and with the back of his hand felt Eugen's forehead. Warm, but not worrisomely so. If the bleeding could be contained, and stopped, Eugen had a chance.

"Damn," Troubridge muttered as he buried his head in his hands. He knew what Percy's measure of peace was: a syringe filled with morphine. Percy would stop at nothing to ensure his little kingdom remained intact. Nothing would be allowed to destroy Percy's little world.

Sighing, Troubridge glanced back at the boy and then reached out for the telephone that rested on the table. As he did so the side of his hand brushed the small pile of hundred dollar notes.

Rising, Troubridge slowly replaced the telephone receiver and then pocketed the bank notes. He looked again at Eugen, shook his head, and left the room.

"Are you getting this? Are you getting all of it?" Stennes demanded in a harsh whisper as he peered through the two-way mirror, his eyes riveted on the scene unfolding in the bedroom beyond.

The stocky, sour-smelling Oriental, his eye firmly against the eyepiece of the muffled 35mm camera grunted. Behind them, Hung Tuan Han, the proprietor of the establishment, smiled benevolently. "We shall make a fortune with this one!" he declared. "Such spontaneity, such exuberance!"

Stennes returned Han's smile. "And we have the insurance we need in the event my young blond friend decides he is unhappy with our arrangement."

Han nodded toward the lithe, golden-skinned boy who was approaching the bed on which Paul Greene lay naked. "What do you think of him? Beautiful, is he not?"

"Very," agreed Stennes. The Oriental boy, who looked far younger than his years, was indeed beautiful, his natural beauty highlighted and heightened by clever use of lighting. He noticed that the boy's shaving his body had enhanced the air of youth and beauty. He had no pubic hair or hair under his arms, and Stennes wondered if he could talk Paul into shaving his body hair.

"The boy is Vietnamese," Han said. "He is a boat person and has no family."

"Where did you find him?" asked Stennes as he watch the young Vietnamese slowly trickle warm, scented oil on Paul's body. "Vancouver?"

"New York," advised Han. "His protector, an American, was hiring the boy out to the sailors in port for the Bicentenary."

Snorting, Stennes turned. "You did well. The boy is much better employed here than in servicing sailors!" he snapped. "He seems to enjoy his work."

"He does," confirmed Han. "Nhan worked in Saigon and was well-trained. It was unfortunate that we could not sponsor him."

"The Americans are now filled with remorse at abandoning their little Vietnamese brothers," sniffed Stennes. "They go to great lengths to sponsor these refugees from the obnoxious Ho's regime."

"He is dead," replied Han. "The world is better for his passing."

Stennes led the way from the small, hidden room and asked Han, "Have you investigated our sponsoring such boys? The Canadians are just as foolish as the Americans. We must make inquiries."

Han frowned. "We would have to work through the Chinese although I would prefer the Italians."

"Why?"

"This side of Spadina is controlled by the Circle K Boy," advised Han. "They do not have the connections. Terry Hsiang, who is the Viceroy, tolerates them because their business does not interfere with his."

"Then contact him," Stennes ordered.

"That is not possible," replied Han reluctantly. Stennes was a pig, and like many pigs stubborn when denied something he wanted. "Hsiang does not deal in human beings, at least not for something immoral. He is very straight-laced and very conservative. If he were to find out what we do here he would bring pressure on the Circle K Boys to close us down. No, it is better to work with the Italians. They consider us to be little better than animals and will gladly take our money."

"No doubt," responded Stennes dryly. "Do it."

Han smiled and bowed. "I shall contact them tomorrow." He gestured toward the staircase that led to the upper floors of the huge Victorian mansion that housed this very discreet and very expensive brothel. "Do you wish to take some leisure time?"

Grimacing, Stennes shook his head.

"I have two new boys," said Han. "Peasant boys, fresh off the boat from the mainland. Very crude." Han knew that Stennes preferred his boys bulky and muscular. The boy Nhan, and the others like Nhan, would never appeal to the German.

"I am not in the mood for neophytes," snarled Stennes.

"They are experienced," said Han hurriedly. "They were trained on the voyage over. One of them enjoys the whip," he finished in a whisper.

"Ya?"

Han nodded enthiusiastically. "And the other has the penis of a bull!"

Stennes thought a moment. He had nothing better to do, really. The young Russian boy had been delivered to his new protector and Noel would not arrive until later this evening. Paul was busy with his new toy. He shrugged. "Is my room ready?" he asked.

"Number 27, as always, Great Lord," replied Han, bowing. "I shall send the boys to you."

In the opulently appointed bedroom, Paul enjoyed the role of a Sybarite. He lay on the most comfortable bed he had ever slept in as the young Vietnamese slowly massaged rose-scented oils into his skin.

Paul sighed happily. Thus far he had experienced sensations that he had never known existed. Sex had never been so enjoyable. His body had been massaged and his penis suckled with such gentleness that he had all but exploded with pleasure. The Oriental boy, slim, golden-skinned, with flashing black eyes, had writhed and moaned as Paul's penis savaged him, and then lay back, smiling, calling him "Great Lord" and complementing him on the size of his member. Nothing, not what the French-Canadian, who was now dead, or the two Germans, had done to him, had approached what the Oriental could do.

Paul's slate grey eyes studied the slim youth. "What is your name?" he asked presently.

"I am called Nhan, Great Lord," replied the boy shyly. None of his 'clients' had ever asked what he was called. "I am Vietnamese and come from Saigon."

"But you got out."

Nhan began to slowly massage Paul's thin chest. "I had a friend, an American. He arranged for me to go to Hong Kong. Later, he brought me to America." His hands drifted downward and he slowly rubbed the aromatic oil onto Paul's small testicles. Then, using just the tips of his fingers, Nhan gently stroked the small, egg-shaped orbs contained in the smooth skinned sac. Paul groaned and arched his body. He could feel his penis growing harder. "Not yet, Nhan," he growled. "I need some time to rest."

"As the Great Lord wishes," murmured Nhan in reply. He withdrew and sat demurely at the end of the bed. "I am to please you in any and every way possible," he said, averting his eyes, as if it were a sin to look upon the naked, blond-haired boy.

Chuckling, Paul motioned for Nhan to come forward. "Are you a whore?" he asked.

Nhan bristled, and then recovered. "I am a courtesan. I am trained to please a man in many ways. I am not for sale to just any man."

"Hey, I didn't mean to insult you," exclaimed Paul half-heartedly. "I was only asking."

"I am not insulted," Nhan lied. "In my profession it is to be expected. Men think that because I please them I am without morals or consequence. I do not give myself to all, only a select few."

This last was also a lie. Nhan had been brought to America by his "protector" to earn money. The American, a crude, overweight former civilian contractor in Vietnam, had lost a bundle when the Communist tanks had rolled into the old capital city of Saigon. He needed to make up some of his losses and Nhan had gone a long way to doing just that. The arrival of the Tall Ships in New York to celebrate the 200th Anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence had proved a gold mine. The event had drawn men from all over North America and Europe to Manhattan. Many of them were men of wealth and Nhan, ensconced in a suite at the Pierre, had entertained more than his share.

Nhan had counted himself lucky that he had not contracted some dread disease. Of course, he knew how to check for telltale sores and strange weepings from penises. Nhan knew that he was free of disease, and his protector had made certain by sending him to a discreet physician before selling him to Han.

In Toronto, Nhan entertained only one man a night. The men were usually Chinese, and accustomed to kow-towing and scraping. Nhan did not care that he had to demean himself. He was a courtesan and acted as he was expected to act. Servility had its rewards, after all, and Nhan's secret horde of jade and gold grew weekly. He did not expect much from this child who thought he was a man. He had been told to please the blond-haired boy. A beaming smile from Han would be his only reward. And at last he did not have to pleasure the German, who was a pig, and had the organ of a Minotaur!

Paul regarded the silent Vietnamese and then reached out to gently cup the young man's slim penis in his hand. He slowly pushed back Nhan's foreskin, revealing the deep purple, conical head. Nhan sucked in his breath at the ferengi's touch. Few of the men he pleasured gave any thought to his pleasure.

"Have you ever had a man?" asked Paul with a smile.

Nhan was not at all sure what the blond boy was getting at. "Of course, many times." He played on Paul's vanity by adding, "And you pleased me greatly."

Paul laughed at the lie. "No, I mean have you ever . . . you know, been with a man?"

Nhan's eyes widened. "Why, no, Great Lord, not in the way you mean."

Paul's eyes brightened as he slowly stroked Nhan to hardness. "Put some of that oil on your dick," he said huskily.