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.
Copyright 2005 by John Ellison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this type of story is illegal where you live.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.
I apologise for the delay in posting this chapter. The pressures of work, and a short vacation (my editor, not me. I am an old pensioner who thinks going to market is a vacation) have impacted on my ability to post in a timely manner. I shall try to do better!
Aurora Tapestry
Chapter 31
The horn fixed to the wheelhouse of the YAG Flagship, officially Hull Number 330, unofficially HMCS Exeter, blared across the dark waters of Comox Harbour, setting the seagulls to squawking noisily and flapping angrily. Another blast and the wooden hull, its twin screws sending the oily water to roiling at the stern, moved almost daintily away from the long wooden jetty that thrust into the harbour waters.
On the deck of the vessel the hands quickly hauled in and coiled the wet lines that had held the boat close alongside. Ahead of the moving flagship a loud voice aboard YAG 326, a wooden nameplate fixed with brass letters, proclaiming her new name, Cumberland, and adorning her deckhouse, shouted out to let go forward, let go aft. The cacophonous echoes of Exeter's leaving had barely died away when Cumberland's slightly brassier horn assaulted the eardrums of the scurrying line-handling party that struggled to clear the heavy ropes from the iron bollards.
As Exeter moved stern first into the harbour, and the last of Cumberland's mooring line splashed into the water, fenders thumped against the wooden sides of YAG 328 as HMCS Nelson made ready for sea. Astern lay YAGs 321 and 325, new, low-watt fixtures illuminating their name boards: Achilles and Ajax. Jetty jumpers, each wearing an orange life jacket, manhandled the wooden brows onto the ships' decks. Other hands scurried back and forth, clearing away the lines, preparing the small ships for sea.
The YAG Squadron was leaving, returning to Esquimalt Dockyard for repairs, refit, and a new training schedule. The cadets would turn over their little ships to indifferent navies and Reservists.
Standing on the jetty, out of the way of the busy work parties, Commander Stockman and Lieutenant-Commander Hazleton watched with bemusement as the cadets hurried about. "I wonder if they will show as much enthusiasm at their next camp," said Commander Stockman presently.
"I rather think they might," replied Lieutenant-Commander Hazleton with a lazy smile. "Although it will not be the same, will it?"
Commander Stockman reached up and touched the flimsy folded neatly into the left breast pocket of his white shirt. He snorted angrily. "Fiscal constraints, indeed!"
Shrugging indifferently, Lieutenant-Commander Hazleton watched as the bow line of Achilles was deftly pulled aboard and her stern began to swing to port. "It had to happen, Frank," he said quietly. "We both knew it could. We lost the toss."
"I did want you to have your frock coat here in Aurora," said Frank Stockman. "You deserve it, and damn it . . ."
"Frank, it made no sense to keep two training bases open," said Charlie Hazleton without rancour. "Militarism, being in a military organization, everything connected to anything remotely military, is no longer fashionable. You know that."
"I might know it, I don't have to like it," returned Frank with a growl. "That damned war in Vietnam is what did it, that and that Fonda woman!"
"The media helped," said Charlie dryly. "It doesn't matter how it happened. All that matters is that it has happened and enrolments are down, and Corps are closing." He stared into the water and saw the YAG Squadron forming to steam forever from the harbour. "In a way, I'm glad it's happened."
"How can you be glad that Aurora is being closed, with everything shifted over to Quadra?" asked Frank, trying to keep his anger from his voice. "You're out of a job, you know."
"They've offered a staff position down in Esquimalt, and I'm still to be a commander," replied Charlie easily. His eyes scanned the slowly moving ships and the sound of the high-pitched "Still" being sounded on a Boatswain's call cut through the still, warm, night air. "You're being saluted," he said as he stiffened to attention.
Frank raised his hand to the visor of his cap, returning the salutes of each vessel in return as they proceeded down the harbour. As the stern of each YAG in turn passed the saluting officer the "Carry On" sounded.
Presently the only sounds were the soft slapping of waves against the weathered pylons that supported the jetty, and the low, growling noises of the engines that powered the YAGs. Behind the two officers the work parties stood, some at attention, others lounging, each cadet watching the stern lights of the YAGs disappear into the night.
"The end of an era, Charlie," murmured Frank as he made to leave the jetty.
"Yes, but then again, not quite," responded Charlie as they walked toward the landward side of the wooden structure, returning the salutes of the cadets. "The end will come tomorrow."
Frank nodded. "The Drill Shed is ready?"
"Yes," replied Charlie. "I wonder how many will keep the Vigil."
"All of them," replied Frank. "And two more as well," he added, nodding to where Peter Race and Eion Reilly stood talking to Sean Anders, Phil Thornton and Jérémie Larouche.
Charlie saw where Frank was looking and nodded. "If they are talking about what I think they are talking about, they will be the last. There will be no more Boys of Aurora, Frank, and I'm glad."
Frank stared at his friend. "You are?" he asked, the surprise he felt evident. "Why would you say that?"
"Because it's true," replied Charlie. "The era is over. Aurora is finished. The special time, the special gathering of boys, is over. What we had here this summer can never be repeated. That special aura will disappear and in time this place will be just another barren piece of sand jutting into the sea."
"Yes, but Dear God in Heaven, what a time we've had of it!" enthused Frank. "I see what you mean. The gods smiled, and the stars, shone down on us this summer. Never again will there be such a gathering."
As they approached the Drill Shed, Frank stopped and his eyes scanned the dark buildings and vacant parade square. "It would never be the same, Charlie. There would have been other boys, but they would not have been our boys. The sun will shine, yes, but not with that special brightness we saw this summer." He waved toward the buildings lining the Spit. "Come the morrow all this will just be a collection of broken down, condemned shacks." He nodded toward the Drill Shed. "I expect that I shall contemplate the wonder of it all whilst I keep the Vigil."
Smiling, Charlie said, "And Doc and his new assistant and I shall contemplate several large whiskys. They're waiting in the Wardroom."
"Are you, and they spending the night?" asked Frank.
"Someone has to be around to make sure that you and your new brothers behave," returned Charlie with a small laugh. "Or to make sure the place doesn't go up in flames."
"Everything is in place, then?"
Charlie nodded. "The ACOs did a cracker job in contacting the parents of the lads. It's amazing what doors open when the words 'death', 'cadet' and 'funeral' are spoken. One of the mothers, young Ray's I think, is organizing a prayer session for, as she put it, the repose of Sylvain's immortal soul. Apparently Ray's people are very religious."
"With all the prayers being said for him, Sylvain must surely be singing with the choir of angels!" responded Frank.
"We will need more than angels if this whole thing comes a cropper," replied Frank. "And perhaps I should contemplate the lies we shall have to tell if word of what is happening leaks out."
"Which it will not," said Charlie reassuringly. "The paper trail is secure, and everything has been approved by proper authority. The boys are authorized to proceed to Ste Anne de Beaupré for a funeral. Their leave forms are signed and sealed. Their parents have all been informed and have given verbal permission for the boys to attend the funeral, and take leave in Toronto. I had the impression that some of the parents were glad to have a few more days of peace and quiet, and when they were all assured that it was all on the Queen, nobody complained. All they were concerned about was that the boys be back home in time for school when it starts the day after Labour Day."
"They had better be, or the telephones will be ringing off the hook!" complained Frank. "And the ceremony tomorrow?"
"Chef is busy plotting. He and Doc have promised a 'proper, dignified setting'. I think they've booked that new hotel out on Admiralty Square."
Frank's eyebrows rose. "Really. It's a bit posh, isn't it?"
"It's available," responded Charlie. "And it's discreet."
"Will they have another band? Nightfall In Camp brought back some very poignant memories." Frank shook his head. "Not to mention a flood of tears and emotions."
"Which was Chef's purpose. Now all the tears are shed and we can all move on," said Charlie. "Chef is a canny old man, and knew what he was doing."
"Which means that tomorrow will bring trumpets and ermine!" Frank regarded his executive officer. "Full dress, I think. Swords and medals and all that."
"Not to mention the Grand Master, himself," responded Charlie.
There was a scuffle of leather soles on gravel and the Twins rounded the corner of the Headquarters Building. As they saluted, and passed the two officers, Frank Stockman could not help but think that Cory and Todd were extraordinarily beautiful young men. Not in the pretty boy, precious way some would expect, but with a special glow about them. They were hellions, to be sure, and a handful when they decided to be obstreperous, which they often did and were. But they were open, and caring, which made them beautiful.
And then he had it.
The inner beauty of all the cadets had been exposed. They were all of different hues and heights and weights, from Tyler, the tallest, to young Randy, or possibly Calvin Hobbes, who were the shortest and youngest. They were different, but the same. Their inner beauty, their inner strength, had been laid bare for all who had the eyes to see, as Chef, as Michael Chan, but more importantly The Phantom had seen.
Smiling, Commander Stockman gave Number One's shoulder a pat. "We'll be all right, I think."
With that he entered the Drill Shed to begin the Vigil.
In Toronto, a late summer thunderstorm rumbled from the western suburbs and a light rain began to fall over Sophie Nicholson's stone Rosedale mansion. Sophie had insisted that everybody take a break, and invited everyone to dinner.
Sophie had chattered away during dinner, detailing her doings. Her house would become a small convalescent home. The furnishings and equipment were on order and would be delivered by week's end, or she would know the reason why. If money talked, Sophie's bellowed. She had contacted two doctors; very good friends in their day, now retired, but ready to help out a lady. When she heard of the school The Gunner planned she offered an endowment, a library, whatever was needed.
Throughout dinner Chief Edgar held Sophie's hand, smiling and every so often shaking his head at her exuberance. It was apparent to all at the table that he was very much smitten with the talkative, handsome woman.
Aaron Edgar blushed, paled and stammered whenever mention was made of his newfound friend, Aaron Mark II. Lester, who sat beside Brett, had envisioned an evening of embarrassment. He was pleasantly surprised when Sophie, charming as always, told him that he reminded her of a certain young man from the Left Bank of Paris, whom she had befriended when she was mere child. He had been an artist and, she insisted with expansive exaggeration, that there were literally dozens of his works mouldering away in the attic.
The Rangers, all looking prim and very proper in dark suits, starched white shirts, and regimental ties, were treated to trips down memory lane. Sophie knew their parents, in some cases their grandparents, and of course she knew all the "boys". She did not let the opportunity slip by to remind Ace that none of the Rangers had piddled in her flowerbeds.
The Gunner, whom Sophie told was looking positively funereal in his dark suit, was quiet throughout most of the dinner. Ace, Lester, and he had finished their final planning. The hospital would be ready in a day or two, Sophie's house stood ready, and if all went well, Terry Hsiang would have made the final arrangements for the Bar of Justice. Terry had been invited to dinner, but had respectfully declined. He might be third-generation Canadian born, but his world was Spadina and Dundas, not Rosedale.
As the footmen cleared the final course from the long, polished table, The Gunner glanced at Chief Edgar. While the others scattered to use the loos, The Gunner and Chief Edgar had a disturbing job to do. Sophie had to be told about the house in Oakville. The anonymity of the men involved had enabled The Gunner, Ace, Lester, Brett, and the Rangers to keep their hunt in perspective. Sophie did not have that luxury. She knew the man, and both The Gunner and Chief Edgar, given Sophie's volatility, feared her reaction.
"I think I'll have that drink now, James dear," Sophie said unsteadily to Chief Edgar after The Gunner had told her everything. They were sitting in Sophie's library, a warm, book-lined room. As the Chief poured her drink, Sophie looked evenly at The Gunner. "You are absolutely certain, Stephen?"
The Gunner nodded. "I'm afraid so. He was followed from the house in the Bridle Path, to the house in Oakville."
Sophie's hand tightened around the glass of brandy that Chief Edgar handed her. "He was Oscar's best friend. They went to school together!"
The Gunner's voice turned very quiet. "Sophie, I know it's a shock, but what I've told you is the truth. The rot is very deep, and very widespread. Name, wealth, reputation are mere window dressing."
Standing abruptly Sophie walked to the large floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked her gardens. She hugged herself and said, "When the time comes, I wish to be there. The man betrayed my friendship, my husband's trust." Her eyes grew cold and hard. "There will be no negotiation, Stephen. I will be there."
"Sophie, this could get very rough," interjected Chief Edgar. "We have no way of knowing how these men will react. They could become violent."
Sophie's face was set as if it were graven stone. "James, I have come to love you, and I will make you a good wife. But I will not stand by and watch!" She turned to The Gunner. "If necessary, I will go alone."
"Sophie . . ." began The Gunner.
"Stephen, one day you will learn that a Jenny Wren bows to no man! It's done!"
Before The Gunner could reply there was a discreet knock at the door and Ace entered. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I've just had a call from my answering service. Troubridge says to come quickly. There's trouble."
The Gunner rose quickly. "Did he say what the trouble was?"
Shaking his head, Ace replied, "Only that he needed us. He also said that it was a medical emergency."
"It can't be Simpson," exclaimed The Gunner. "Troubridge would have called for an ambulance."
"One of the boys he's holding," offered Chief Edgar. "Something has happened to one of the boys."
"Jesus!" The Gunner all but charged the door. "Get the car. Aaron, Max! Where the hell are you? Lester, damn it! Shane, Gil, Jeff! Get the cars!"
Aaron appeared with Teddy Vian. "What . . .?"
"There's trouble at Simpson's," growled The Gunner. He pushed past the startled Rangers and Lester and gestured angrily. "Move!"
Sophie snatched up her purse with one hand and Chief Edgar with the other. "You're not leaving me behind, sonny!"
"Dear, sweet God," Sophie whispered as she lowered herself to the bed. Her eyes took in the pale, unconscious, naked body of Eugen, the blood-soaked sheets on which he lay, the boy's bloody thighs. She reached out to touch the German boy's forehead. "He's burning up."
The Gunner turned and railed at Troubridge, who was standing to one side, wringing his hands. "Who did this?" demanded The Gunner. His arm reached out and his hand closed around the English Butler's neck. "Who did this?" he growled through clenched teeth.
Teddy Vian had the quickness and common sense to reach up and grasp The Gunner's hand. "Steve, don't," he said with some force as he peeled The Gunner's fingers from Troubridge's neck. "This piece of shit isn't worth it."
Drawing back, The Gunner reached out and pointed a finger at the frankly terrified Troubridge. "I want to know who did this," The Gunner growled.
Troubridge's eyes slid over to Sepp, and then to Dietrich, who were standing in the hallway, wearing only their underpants. They had heard the loud pounding on the door downstairs, heard the thunder of heavy shoes on the stairs leading to the upper floor and the bellows of outrage. Both boys quailed as The Gunner's hard eyes bore into them.
Dietrich could not understand the question, but he knew enough to deflect as much of the blame for Eugen's rape from himself and Sepp. These men, and the crazy old woman, were almost incandescent with rage.
"Es . . . es war der Lieter," Dieter babbled. "Er tat und den englischen Jungen!"
"What did he say?" demanded The Gunner of no one in particular. "Don't they speak English?"
"They . . . they're quite illiterate," offered Troubridge. "They can't speak a word of English."
The Gunner snarled, "But you know, don't you?"
"I can speak German," said Teddy. He began pushing the two half-naked Germans from the bedroom. He glanced at Max and Gil. "We'll get every detail out these two little bastards."
Lester and Chief Edgar emerged from the adjoining bathroom with a bowl of warm water and all the towels they could find. "This boy has been raped," said Lester with great sadness. "By more than one man." He began to gently wipe away the blood that clotted Eugen's inner legs.
"And beaten," offered Chief Edgar. "Someone did a real number on this kid."
Sophie took the towel that Chief Edgar offered and shook her head. "Who could do this to a boy?" she demanded as she tried to wipe away the bruises that marred Eugen's wan, handsome face. She glared at Troubridge. "Simpson? Did he do this?"
"And where is the fat bastard?" demanded The Gunner.
"He didn't, he never touched Eugen," blubbered Troubridge. "And Mr. Percy is at his club. He dines there every Tuesday," he finished needlessly.
Sophie looked around the room and then gazed at Chief Edgar. "This boy is very ill. He needs a doctor." She nodded toward her purse. "Take my address book. Look up Doctor Langford. He's an old friend."
"Shouldn't we take the boy to a hospital?" asked the Chief as he looked through Sophie's bag for the address book.
"We may have to," said Lester as he slowly began to remove the soiled and blood-soaked gauze that Troubridge had used to pack Eugen's rectum. "I've seen this before," Lester said bitterly.
"You have?" asked Sophie as she continued to clean as much of Eugen's body as she could. Her had had gone out to this unfortunate, helpless young man. "Can he . . . is he . . .?"
"Dying?" Lester shrugged. "He's been raped by a . . ." Lester blushed. "A very . . . large . . . man, Miss Sophie. Someone who didn't care how much damage he did. The boy is torn up inside, I think, badly torn up, which accounts for the massive haemorrhage." He frowned. "What we have to worry about though is infection."
Chief Edgar, who had left the room to call the doctor, returned. "Doctor Langford says to bring the boy to his clinic. He can examine the boy there."
Without hesitation, Aaron scooped Eugen into his arms. "Let's go, then."
Sophie stood and her hand lashed out, slapping Troubridge's face with a crack that filled the room with her anger. "You bastard," she hissed.
The Gunner quickly wrapped his arms around the irate woman. "I'll take care of him, Sophie. You take care of the boy."
Pushing Troubridge aside roughly, Aaron carried Eugen from the room. Sophie and Lester followed. From down the corridor came the shouts of harsh, guttural German. Teddy was not being gentle with the two German lads.
The Gunner turned and stared at Troubridge. "You . . . you . . ." he began, all but overcome with anger. He took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down. "I want to know everything, and you had better tell the truth."
The Gunner's rage, and the anger-filled faces of the other men sent chills of fear up and down Troubridge's spine. "It was Stennes," he whined. "Eugen wouldn't . . ."
"Suck the bastard's cock!" yelled Teddy. "These little pricks were having a party with this German bastard, Stennes, and some kid he's got with him. I got the whole story out of them!"
"Tell me," ordered The Gunner, his voice cold.
"This Stennes is the head Kraut, which we knew. He came here to pick up a little boy, a Russian kid according to the little . . ." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the room where Sepp and Dietrich cowered. "He decided to have a party. He . . . when Eugen wouldn't play he beat the kid and raped him. The others . . . they were in on it, and you do not want to know the details." Teddy sat in a chair and hung his head in his hands. "You do not want to know the details," he moaned softly.
"I tried to stop them," whined Troubridge, lying through his teeth. "What could I do?"
The Gunner's lethal gaze silenced the butler. "You did nothing," snarled The Gunner. "You walked away and let a boy be raped! You're as bad as Simpson, as bad as Stennes!"
"No! I tried to help Eugen!" protested Troubridge. "I told you before, I was going to help him escape, to get away! I know where his papers are and . . ."
"Bullshit!" spat The Gunner. "You've been feeding off of Simpson's perversions for years! You've taken hush money, and turned a blind eye. You're a thief, a blackmailer and a coward. The worst day's work Chef ever did was when he pulled you from the sea!"
"Perhaps we should call Terry Hsiang," offered Max grimly.
The Gunner was tempted. Terry was Michael Chan's trusted confidant, and . . . but no. "I want it all, Troubridge, papers, records, everything. When I have them you're taking a trip. You're going to disappear, and so are those two German . . . whores!"
Troubridge knew better than to protest. He could disappear, somewhere. As for Sepp and Dietrich, he could dump them or he could call . . . and . . .
The Gunner seemed to know what the butler was thinking. "One word, Troubridge, to anyone, and I promise you will be hunted down. If anything happens to those two little pricks, and I hear of it, and I will, I will hunt you down." He pushed his face close to Troubridge's, his eyes flaring. "Do I make myself clear?"
His own eyes filled with terror, Troubridge drew back. "I can give you Mr. Percy's papers, documents," he whined. "I'll take care of Sepp and Dietrich. I can give them money."
"Fuckin' aye," snapped The Gunner. "Now where are all these papers?"
"In the safe, downstairs," Troubridge replied in a rush. "I know the combination."
The wall safe, hidden behind an oil portrait of Simpson's mother in the small downstairs room he used as an office, offered up its horrible secrets: books, ledgers, loose documents, and the passports and travel documents that had allowed Eugen and Sepp and Dietrich into the country. There were also a large sum of cash in large denomination American notes, and a cache of gold coins, Kruggerands.
"So, Percy covered his ass, eh?" The Gunner asked Troubridge as he leafed through the documents.
Jeff, who was standing behind Troubridge, pushed the butler roughly. "Answer him," he growled.
"Yes . . . Mr. Percy . . . he was a very careful man," replied Troubridge lamely. Wringing his hands, he continued obsequiously, "Of course, I did as well, and I gave you . . ."
"You gave me what I paid for!" snapped The Gunner. He looked at Jeff. "Search his rooms . . ." he nodded his head at Troubridge. "I want every scrap of paper." He turned and looked at the Englishman. "This is everything?"
Troubridge nodded. He was cornered, knew it, and was prepared to make the best of his situation. "Except for my own papers." He looked at Jeff. "They're in my desk, in my room." He fumbled in the fob pocket of his waistcoat and found a key. "Everything is there, in the desk," he said as he offered the key to Jeff.
"Bring everything," instructed The Gunner. As Jeff turned to leave there was a commotion in the hall outside.
"Look what slithered home," said Teddy as he pushed an irate, flustered Simpson into the room.
His jowls quivering, Simpson tried to pull away from Teddy's hard grip. "What is going on?" he demanded loudly. "How dare you invade my home . . . and what is my safe doing open?"
Teddy slapped the back of Simpson's head, knocking the man's black homburg flying. "Shut up, asshole," he growled.
Staggered, Simpson fumbled with his overcoat. "I . . . demand to know . . ."
Again, Teddy's hand flashed. "I told you to shut up," he said in voice filled with rage. "I won't tell you again."
Holding up his hand, The Gunner smiled grimly. "You are hardly in a position to demand anything, Simpson," he said coldly. "You are a paedophile, a molester of little boys, and I shall destroy you!"
"You wouldn't dare," hissed Simpson, recovering. "You have no idea whom you are dealing with, no conception of what you are dealing with! There are men who will crush you as they would an ant if they thought for one minute . . ."
"Oh, but I do," returned The Gunner, rising from behind the desk. "I know names, places, dates." He shrugged towards Troubridge. "And I will know much more before I am finished."
Stepping back, Simpson snarled at Troubridge, his eyes filled with hate. "I will . . ." He shook his head and slowly unbuttoned his overcoat, revealing the back tuxedo he wore when he visited his club.
"You cannot expose me," Simpson said calmly as he fiddled with his bow tie. "In exposing me, you expose the Order." He laughed caustically. "You might be the Chancellor, but that Chinaman in Vancouver would never allow you to bring disrepute on the Order."
His heart was pounding, but Simpson remained outwardly calm, his mind racing. He had been in worse spots than this, and he would not allow this upstart of a peasant to dictate terms to him. He smiled slyly. "Let's be reasonable, Chancellor. You don't want the Order's dirty linen dragged into the glare of publicity, now do you? Michael Chan would never allow that. The men who are involved, and there are many, would see you in hell before they allowed you to . . ."
Holding up a battered ledger, The Gunner asked calmly. "You mean these men?" He flipped open the ledger and scanned the pages. "You mean . . ." He began reading the names listed in the book.
Simpson paled. He had been too careful. "They are powerful men," Simpson insisted. "You can't touch them!"
The Gunner ignored Simpson for a moment and then said evenly, and emotionlessly, "I have called a Bar of Justice."
Simpson's reaction was immediate. He drew back and as he saw the determination in The Gunner's eyes his mind reeled. A Bar of Justice! No, not that for that would mean . . . "You have the documents," he said in a quavering voice. "I can . . . I can give you money . . . whatever you want!" He reached out quavering hands in a begging gesture. "We can come to an accommodation."
Slowly closing the ledger, The Gunner regarded Troubridge. "You will pack your things and be prepared to move. The two boys are to do the same." He turned to Teddy. "Reach out for Terry Hsiang. We will need a safe place to keep this . . ." The Gunner gave Troubridge a disgusted look. "This thing, and the two Germans for a while." He turned to look at Simpson. "And a place to have a nice, long chat with this piece of shit before we hang him."
A long, shrieking wail filled the small room as Simpson clawed at Teddy's gripping hand. His eyes were bulging and his arms reached out, his hands rigid, disfigured claws . . . Simpson took one step, clutched at his throat with one hand and balled his fist against his chest. Before any of the others could act, the ancient paedophile slumped to the floor and the smell of his evacuating bowel seeped into the room.
"Holy Christ!" Teddy knelt down and pressed his fingers against Simpson's throat. "The fucker is dead!"
Troubridge, his face as white as the starched shirt he wore, stared at the untidy lump that had once been his employer. "He . . . he can't be!"
"Looks like it to me," said Teddy impassively. "Smells like it, too."
The Gunner, who had not moved when Simpson began his aborted attack, was as impassive and unfeeling as Teddy. "A pity. He could have filled in the gaps." He looked down at Simpson's body and shrugged. "At least he's spared us the price of a rope. A heart attack?"
Teddy nodded. "I'm no expert, but yeah. The fucker is as dead as yesterday's fish."
"An unexpected complication," offered The Gunner. "But one that can be easily fixed."
"You're very calm about this, Steve," said Teddy, rising. He rubbed his hands together, as if scrubbing away filth.
"Simpson died of a heart attack," said The Gunner. "He came home and died."
"But . . . but what about . . ." began Troubridge.
"It will take some work, but it can be done," said The Gunner. "You will clean the upstairs room. There is to be no trace of Eugen, or the other two. Strip the beds and make it look like they've not been lived in. There is to be no trace, do I make myself clear?" he asked Troubridge.
"I will need help," replied the butler. "I'm the only one here! The other servants left their positions and I've had to rely on day staff."
"All the better," responded The Gunner unsympathetically. "The two Germans can help you. When you've finished we'll replace any of Simpson's personal things in the safe. I want this room, and Eugen's bedroom, all the rooms, to look as normal as possible when the police come."
"The police?" exclaimed Troubridge. "What police?"
"The police you will call to report finding your employer dead!" replied The Gunner. "Simpson was at his club, came home and dropped dead. You were in bed, or wherever you hide, and found him when you came down to start your day." He smiled thinly. "Do it right, Troubridge, and I'll let you live." He turned to Teddy. "Set those two upstairs to working. I don't want to spend all night at this."
Teddy nodded and quickly departed. Troubridge, his nerves in tatters, began to tidy up the desk, setting aside this or that paper or ledger for return to the safe. The Gunner's low voice stopped him.
"Where is Stennes? And who is this young boy he's with?"
Troubridge shook his head. "If I knew, I would tell you. Stennes comes and goes to no set schedule. He just appears. He took the young Russian boy when he left and he did not say where he was going. He never does."
The Gunner frowned. "And this mysterious boy?"
"He's not one of Stennes' . . . boys," Troubridge replied firmly. "I can only tell you what I know, and I've seen enough to know that the boy was with Stennes because he wanted to be with the man. There was no hint of coercion, none at all. In fact, he participated in what . . . what was done to Eugen."
"Rape," supplied The Gunner icily. "You have no idea who the kid is?"
Shaking his head, Troubridge replied. "He's young, no more than 16 or so. He's short, very slim, with almost white-blond hair, which he keeps cut very short. He's a vicious, uncaring little git. He's just like Stennes." Troubridge looked at The Gunner. "He has the same cold, dead eyes, slate grey eyes without a hint of compassion or feeling. Whoever he is, the boy is pure evil!"
For the first time The Gunner was rattled. It could not be possible, could it, he asked himself silently. But the description, the similarities were too obvious, to close . . . "Was there a name mentioned?" he asked, not wanting to hear the answer.
"Paul," Troubridge answered immediately. "No last name, but then there are seldom last names. I only know that he was with Stennes. He was not one of Stennes boys, of that I am sure. Stennes was in Quebec on business . . ."
"Quebec?"
Troubridge nodded. "Quebec. I have no idea where. They came here to collect the Russian boy." The butler's voice was flat. "After raping Eugen, they left."
The Gunner gestured for Troubridge to continue with what he was doing. He sank into the chair behind the desk and stared at the far wall. His mind raced with unanswered questions. Was it possible? Could the boy have hooked up with Stennes? What was his relationship with the odious German? How deep in this whole mess was he? And where was he? Where was Stennes?
When the concert of Nazi fight songs and revisit to the Nuremberg Rallies finally ended, Paul managed to extricate himself and return to his room, leaving Shem and Shoo to entertain Stennes.
In his room, Paul showered, had a nap, showered again, pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and went downstairs where he joined Nhan in a late supper. Looking around the quiet elegance of the dining room, Paul remarked that the place did not resemble the preconceived notions of what a whorehouse looked like.
Giggling, Nhan opined that Paul had been reading too many Police Gazettes. There were, Nhan knew, houses of ill repute that fulfilled every lurid fantasy that pulp writers could ever think of. This house was different. There were no honky-tonk pianists, or painted ladies in the parlour, waiting for a maid to shout "Company, girls!" In this house everything was as low-keyed, as discreet, as possible. The nature of the business of the house demanded it.
As Nhan explained it, the clients who frequented the upper rooms, were all men of substance, and very anxious when it came to their reputations. Homosexual relations between consenting adults might be perfectly legal; the same conduct between adults and teenage males was not. In fact, Nhan pointed out, Paul was jailbait, as was Nhan himself. Neither was 21 years of age, the legal age of consent for homosexual relations.
"That doesn't stop Stennes, though," returned Paul. "He's making a mint!"
Nhan opined that the business was very profitable. There were many men who enjoyed sex with young boys. These men were willing to pay huge sums to spend a few hours with a pretty young thing who would gratify their every wish. The boys who worked the house treated their "clients" as if they were gods and princes.
As they ate their dinner, which was surprisingly good, Nhan chattered on. The house was officially an upscale boarding house for visiting Chinese students, and all the boys had the papers to prove their status should someone from Immigration come calling. No one had and Nhan hinted that money changed hands frequently to ensure that no one would. The two biggest problems for Hung, whom Nhan confided was really Stennes' front man, a Chinese face to show the Chinese customers, many of whom distrusted Westerners, were the local police, and whichever gang controlled the area.
"The Circle K Boys?" Paul ventured.
"Oh yes," Nhan replied with a shudder. "They are very bad. They control this side of Spadina." He shrugged expressively. "Drugs, women, gambling, loan sharking, they control it all."
"Stennes pays them off?"
"Every month a man comes and Hung gives him a large parcel," replied Nhan. "It is filled with money." Once again he shrugged expressively. "It is the way of doing business."
"An expensive way," replied Paul sourly.
"But we must do it," said Nhan. "You must understand that what we do is very bad in the eyes of the police. The men who use our services would be ruined if it were revealed that they came here. The house, the boys, all must be very quiet."
Paul understood the need for discretion. Still, it rankled and he became even more determined to talk Stennes into relocating to a country where men could satisfy their basic needs, a country where there were no laws against man and boy sex. Looking around the room, Paul repeated, "Still, Stennes makes a mint."
"Yes. He pays all the expenses, and still he makes money, because the men who come here value our discretion."
"They pay big bucks?" asked Paul, probing. If he was going to help Stennes run a cathouse, he needed to know the internal workings of the business.
Nhan nodded and explained that there was a definite scale of fees for services offered. There was also a hierarchy. Nhan, together with Nieh were the princes (or princesses, Paul thought unkindly) and were much in demand. They were, to heighten their allure and desirability, limited to, at most, two clients an evening, although frequently they entertained only one. Nhan much preferred this arrangement. In New York he had been required to service as many as four or five men a night, which had left him exhausted and sore in places he did not care to think about. For their services Nhan and Nieh charged $500 per hour.
Next came the older boys, who were available to anyone at any time, although this being a Tuesday, Nhan expected that business would be slow. Monday, he told Paul, was their busiest night. The men who used the house were all family men, and spent the weekends at home with their wives and children. At the lowest end of the spectrum were Shem and Shoo, new to the business, and frankly, Nhan observed with distaste, primarily servicing those baser clients who preferred what was known in the business as "rough trade".
Paul, after seeing Stennes in action, could well believe that particular statement. Stennes liked his boys rough and ready. "Still," he said after a few moments of thought, "you must all be making money for yourselves."
"We make money, yes," Nhan agreed with some sadness. "But, for every 100 dollars I earn, Hung keeps 60, so that I may pay my debt."
"What debt?"
Smiling ruefully, Nhan waved his arm around the dining room. "I told you, Hung pays all expenses with the money I earn. We lack nothing. We have fine rooms, beautiful clothing, and good food. We live well and it is very expensive." He frowned. "Then there is the money I must pay for my freedom."
Paul's face remained impassive. "Explain, please."
"Hung paid my former owner a sum of money, a very large sum of money, and wishes to recoup his investment. The other boys were smuggled out of the mainland, or Hong Kong, by Skinheads. There is nothing back home for them but poverty, and perhaps tweaking the ears of a water buffalo!" He laughed caustically. "Even the Communists cannot feed everyone. For a young man in China, a peasant, with no connections to the Party, there are very few options. He can follow his father's trade, join the army, become a farmer, or a bricklayer, or work in whatever low-paying trade he can find. Selling one's body is not as bad as it sounds, and the rewards are such that many are willing to do it."
"A dangerous trade," remarked Paul. "If you're caught, you get deported. You do know that?"
"Of course I know," replied Nhan with a scowl. "We all know what might happen. The reward is worth the risk. Soon, very soon, I will have repaid the debt, and will leave this life. I will approach the Circle K Boys and purchase papers. They will be expensive, but I will not return to Vietnam, just as the others will not return to China."
Nhan looked around to ensure that no one was listening. He leaned across the table and whispered, "A courtesan is not just some brainless fool offering his orifices. We are not stupid, friend Paul. We know how to take care of ourselves, and to prepare for the day when we will no longer be attractive, when we are forced to leave."
"You have money," said Paul flatly.
"Of course," replied Nhan, his voice a low murmur. "We are allowed to keep our gratuities, our tips. This money we keep safe, hidden. And we know which clients will help us when the time comes. Stennes is not the only one who knows the benefits of blackmail!"
Paul sat in silence for a few moments, looking at Nhan, his steely eyes blank. He decided to test Nhan further. "There are also the movies," he said pointedly. "Movies, which, shall we say, could be very embarrassing to certain people."
Nhan looked embarrassed. "You know about the movies?"
Paul laughed harshly. "Nhan, I am not a fool. Did you, or Stennes, really think I would not wonder why we fucked with all the lights on, or why you kept glancing at the mirror?" He deliberately raised his foot and pressed it into Nhan's crotch. "You're a lousy actor."
Nhan could feel Paul's foot gently pressing against his rising penis. "Do you wish to come to my room? I have no clients tonight."
"No," replied Paul. "At least not just yet." He continued his massage of Nhan's crotch as he asked, "Do they film everybody?"
Nhan shook his head. "Only the most important of the Chinese clients. Some are merely rich, but without influence. Some save for many months to spend an evening with me. Hung films only those who have reason to want their activities kept secret, those who would pay anything to keep their privacy." He winked knowingly. "Those who have the money to keep what they do here private."
Withdrawing his foot, Paul toyed with the remaining food on his plate. Stennes had a good scam going. He made money from the boys, and more money from the services such as food, wine, beer, or liquor. He guaranteed his business by filming the clients, which was no doubt another source of income. It was obvious that Stennes had his grubby fingers in more pies than Paul had learned about. He sighed heavily as he wondered how many times he would have to sleep with the German to ferret out all his secrets.
Nhan had heard Paul's sigh but before he could inquire into his blond client's seeming melancholy - Paul did not know that Nhan was being paid a little extra to extract any pillow talk he could when they were in bed together - Nieh came into the room and chattered away at Nhan in Mandarin.
Looking inquiringly at the two Chinese, Paul asked, "Is there a problem?"
Shaking his head, Nieh responded with a salacious grin. "Oh, no, chance to make big money. Very special clients come, want nice Chinese boy to make them happy."
Paul looked coldly at Nhan. "Special clients?" he asked, wondering what Stennes was up to now.
"White men," said Nhan, pushing away from the table. "We have them from time to time." He turned and spoke to Nieh. Paul understood only one word, "Stennes". When Nieh finished replying to whatever it was Nhan had asked him, Nhan turned back to Paul.
"Three young men, special friends of a friend of Stennes'. They are new to the house and all we are told is to make them happy." He grinned and winked. "I suspect we will be once again preserved for all time on celluloid."
Paul grunted noncommittally. Knowing the man, he reasoned that Stennes would not let a golden opportunity such as this slip by.
"Stennes, he says you come," said Nieh with barely hidden anticipation. Three clients at once meant a generous gratuity from happy clients, with a promise of much more from Hung if he performed well. Nieh was also hoping that one of the clients would allow him to fuck him, as Paul had allowed Nhan to fuck him. Nieh had spent an unhappy hour listening to Nhan's boasts of his prowess and virility, and knew that the session with the new clients would be filmed. Nieh knew all about the special rooms, thanks to Nhan's chattering and bragging. Nieh was also very much in debt to Hung and the Snakeheads and needed the extra money he could earn if a session with a client was filmed, which it would be, given the room he had been told to go to.
Nhan rose to his feet and gestured for Paul to follow him. "Come. Stennes is waiting. Apparently he has something to show you."
"Yeah, three new dicks," returned Paul venomously.
Nhan led Paul to a room on the second floor, a different room from the one where they had frolicked. "How many of these damned places are there?" Paul snapped when Nhan stopped before a door.
"My room, this room, and one more," replied Nhan. "The clients are told that these are the 'best' rooms in the house. They are flattered and expect a certain luxury, yes?"
Paul nodded. "So much luxury that they pay little or no attention to the details." He smiled thinly. "Very good."
"And of course, once Nieh or I join them, they have no interest at all in the room. All they are interested in is what we will do for them." Nhan smiled wickedly. "And you know what I can do!"
Despite himself, Paul grinned. "Yeah."
Nhan returned the grin, pleased that he had finally drawn some recognition of his many, and varied, talents.
Inside the small, dark room, Paul saw Hung and Stennes peering through the large, square window that opened onto the huge room beyond. They were studying three young men who were sitting on a long sofa that dominated one side of the room. Beyond, separated by an archway, was another room, this one dominated by the largest bed Paul had ever seen.
In front of the sofa was a large, square basket, an "accent" piece used as a coffee table, on which were empty beer bottles, bottles of rye whisky, and a bowl of white powder. There was also a small pile of what looked like crimped cigarettes. Paul's eyebrows rose. Obviously the house offered many amenities.
As Paul closed the door softly, Stennes' raised a finger to his lips and nodded for Paul to come forward. Hung handed the young man a set of earphones, which Paul slipped over his head.
" . . . This is some good shit," came clearly through the earphones. Paul looked into the room and saw one of the young men dragging on one of the "cigarettes" and smiled knowingly.
"I told you, Swede, this place is great! The captain doesn't fuck around when it comes to making his boys happy," came a different voice. Paul looked to see the man sitting at the far end of the sofa speaking.
Paul studied the three men carefully. They were all young, Paul thought in their mid-twenties. They were dressed casually, the man called Swede wearing dark shorts and a white T-shirt, the man at the far end of the sofa also in shorts, but his were multicoloured, all red and green and white. He was also wearing a T-shirt, red, and plain. The man in the middle was wearing faded blue jeans and as Paul watched he stripped off his T-shirt, which was yellow. The three men looked liked college students out on a tear. But . . . Paul looked closer.
There was something about the three men. Their clothing was too neat, their bodies too trim, their hair too clean cut. Then he recalled the casual reference the man called Swede had made to "the captain" and he knew. He studied the men much more closely as he listened to their banter.
"I thought all he was interested in was that dick of death of yours, Damian," giggled Swede as he took another toke of marijuana.
The man at the far end of the sofa, Damian, nudged the man beside him. "Naw, he's real partial to Cole here." He laughed and slid his hand under his T-shirt and into his shorts. "And I ain't heard you complaining about my dick of death!"
"Now this sounds interesting," thought Paul. His steely eyes scanned each man in turn. Damian and Cole were slim with, so far as Paul could judge, well-muscled bodies. Both were handsome, although Damian was clean-jawed, and when he smiled Paul's heart thumped. Cole's hair was slightly lighter than Damian's coal black, close-cropped, slightly curly hair. He too had slipped his hand into his jeans and was rubbing his genitals slowly.
"The captain prefers quality to quantity," said Cole with a laugh. "And I don't recall you complaining about the dick of death when Damian and you had bayonet drill in the QM Stores last night!" He grimaced humorously. "Shit, Swede, you sure made enough noise when ol' Damian here slipped you the pepperoni."
All three men broke into unrestrained laughter at that remark and Paul studied the third man, the man called Swede, who did not in any way resemble a Swede. He was stockier than the other two, darker-complexioned, and unlike Damian or Cole, his muscular arms were tattooed, a snarling tiger and some sort of runic design on the one, a lion, equally snarling, on the other.
"Can I help it if he knows right where the button is?" asked Swede.
"You're lucky the Quarter Guard didn't hear you," returned Cole. "Or the Sergeant Major."
The references to a captain, a Quarter Guard, and the Sergeant Major confirmed Paul's suspicions. He looked enquiringly at Stennes, who removed his earphones and motioned to the door.
In the corridor, Stennes' smiled. "Yes, they are soldiers." He named a regiment and Paul started.
"From Petawawa?" Paul asked. "Or Gagetown?"
Impressed at Paul's knowledge, Stennes shook his head. "Wolseley Barracks. They are a part of the Headquarters Company."
"And they can afford this place?" asked Paul.
"Not on their pay," returned Stennes. He smiled. "Their captain is a friend, and wished to reward them for services performed."
Paul cocked his head. "Or for turning their heads whenever he brings a new 'nephew' home?" he asked, frankly curious, and frankly probing.
Stennes laughed quietly and shook his head. "The captain is a man of some substance, but his tastes are more conventional. No, the captain is one of us and has had more success than you had."
Paul frowned at Stennes' veiled criticism of his activities in Aurora. Seeing the frown, Stennes said, "I was opposed to your mission because I felt that the young cadets would not be fertile ground. They were much too young."
"But it hasn't stopped you from recruiting, has it," responded Paul.
"Liebchen, there are more things in heaven and earth," Stennes began. Then he stopped speaking and rubbed his chin reflectively. "Paul, you complained about my financing certain organizations in Germany, and here. You reminded me that my motives were only for self-preservation. They were, but they are also political."
"Really? And here I was thinking all you wanted to do was to make money and cover your ass," retorted Paul.
"I do, and I do," returned Stennes easily. "But, I also have a dream." He reached out and placed his hands firmly on Paul's shoulders. "You wish a National Socialist society. You are not alone, liebchen. The dream did not die with the Fuehrer. It lives on in Germany, in France, in England, in America, and here! I am, as you say, 'covering my ass', that is true. But I am also helping those true men who believe as I believe, as you believe, in attaining that dream."
Paul thought a moment. "You've infiltrated the army!" he said with a slight gasp. "Now I understand!"
Withdrawing his hands, Stennes nodded. "I thought you would," he said. "I also think that you are smart enough to realize that we will never gain power through brute force."
"You'll do it through the ballot box, just as the Fuehrer did." Paul nodded. "This is deeper than I thought."
"Of course it is," replied Stennes. "I am not working alone and my friends and colleagues have been very busy. The Nazis are too often dismissed as mindless thugs, bent only on the destruction of world Jewry. They were not and are not! They began planning long ago. Heydrich, Himmler, were men of foresight. They began planning as far back as 1933! They had agents in every civilized nation, agents who identified men, women, organizations that were sympathetic, who saw their world being overrun by godless hordes of sub-humans, Jews, niggers, the scum of all mankind! We did not suddenly appear, young Paul. We have always been here! We have always worked slowly, carefully, gaining a recruit here, an ally there! We have people in high and low places, in government, in the armed services, in the police, in many places! We are legion!"
Stunned at Stennes' fervour, and impressed with the man's fanaticism, Paul drew back. He understood, now, Stennes' methodology. "And you use their secrets against those who would oppose you."
"Of course," agreed Stennes. "We use people, I admit. We pander to their fears, and satisfy their greed, or their perversions." He thought a moment. "You despise the General."
Nodding, Paul replied. "He'll stab you in the back if you give him the opportunity," he said frankly. "He has one interest, a so-called 'Free Quebec'." Then he added, "And diddling little French boys."
Stennes was neither insulted nor angry. "Of course. The General is a separatist. He hates the English and spends his time burrowing into the nests of the disenchanted. He lavishes money, secretly, on the separatist movement. He has people everywhere who support this movement. His dream is a free Quebec with a Free Quebec Army, and he as their Commander-in-Chief."
"Which he will never have or be!" snapped Paul. "For every dollar he spends, the Federal Government spends two!" Paul knew his history, and the demographics. "The Liberals need Quebec because combined with Ontario they can control the country. Ontario and Quebec combined form the power base. The government has been shitting razor blades ever since the FLQ crisis! Trudeau might be a slimy politician, but he's no fool! And the people of Quebec will never bite the hand that feeds them!"
"Quite right," returned Stennes briskly. "The Liberals have opened the flood gates and the unwashed are pouring in, from Africa, from the French-speaking islands, from all over. They owe their lives, and their futures to the Liberal Party - which Trudeau constantly reminds them - and vote the Liberal ticket!"
"If that is the case, why are you pouring money down a rat hole?" asked Paul pragmatically. "The General can't win."
"No, but he can garner enough votes to be a constant thorn in the side of the ruling party in Ottawa. So long as there is a Parti Quebecois the government will continue to live in fear. Which is exactly what I want."
"You do?"
"Listen, Paul. You were quite right when you said that I pay money, as do others, to these fringe groups. They are useful because they make a great deal of noise and draw attention to themselves. This is what I want them to do. I want the Neo-Nazi skinheads to parade in the streets of Berlin, the American Nazi Party to hold rallies in whatever place will permit them. Let them howl and beat their drums, occasionally shoot a Jew or hang a nigger from a tree! Remember the old saying? The squeaky wheel gets the grease!"
Paul laughed quietly. "And while you are greasing the louts and thugs and nut cases, the real Party grows, infiltrates. I like it!"
"I thought you might," replied Stennes dryly. "Just understand that all our dreams will become reality. I will not see the new Reich, but you will! And you will be an important part of it."
"I will?" asked Paul, his eyes widening.
"Yes. Your wisdom belies your youth and I will make of you something powerful!" Stennes' hand grazed Paul's cheek. "We are so much alike, dear Paul. I see the future, and so do you."
Paul smiled coyly and raised his hand. He smoothly ran his hand down Stennes'. "We do work well together," he said.
Stennes was no fool, and knew that while Paul's loyalties to the Movement would never waver, his true loyalty lay with Paul. The boy held deep secrets, true, but he was a fanatic and the fires burned hot deep within his thin body. "I would have you know Germany, Paul," he whispered. "The true Germany."
"I'll see it soon enough," complained Paul. "Or have you forgotten?"
"I have not," replied Stennes as he withdrew his hand. "Your father is already in Lahr, and you and your family will soon follow. I would like you to go sooner rather than later." He regarded Paul. "You will be sent to a very special camp. It is modeled on the SS Orden castles. You will learn a great deal and become a man of steel!" Then he shrugged indifferently. "If you wish it."
"I do. And please, do not play games," growled Paul. "You have my loyalty and I will do what I have to do."
"I believe you," replied Stennes. "Which is why I have made arrangements for you to go to the Hartz Mountains. There you will receive proper training." He frowned. "You will need a passport."
"I have one," replied Paul. "Not that I need it. I'm a service brat. I can travel on my Dependent's ID card."
"But not to the places I shall take you," returned Stennes' mysteriously. "Now, let us enjoy the evening. I have a new toy."
Stennes' new toy turned out to be a video camcorder. It was small, compact, and recorded everything on magnetic videotape that was contained within the body of the machine. The tape came in convenient cassettes and did not have to be developed. One simply pointed the camera and recorded. The tapes could be viewed on a separate player, and duplicated easily. The new toy was much more efficient than the 16mm film equipment he had been using.
"The news media have been using these for years," Stennes' told Paul as he peered through the viewing lens. "Sony, which sadly is a Japanese firm, are far ahead of the Americans. They introduced a commercial viewer last year."
Paul, while interested, and determined to learn more about this new technology, was more interested in the performance in the bedroom. He snickered and nodded through the false mirror. "It's show time."
Stennes grinned lasciviously as he picked up the headphones. It was indeed "show time" and what was happening in the room beyond looked to be very interesting, indeed.
All three men had stripped off their clothing, revealing their slim, trim, smooth bodies. Damian, he of the "monster dick", had a smile on his face as he slowly stroked his superb, long, well-formed, circumcised penis. From time to time he glanced over and watched as Swede sucked slowly on Cole's erection while at the same time slowly masturbating his own not unsubstantial organ, which Paul immediately noticed was not circumcised, the pink glans all but hidden by a thin sheath of foreskin.
Cole was squirming with delight and his voice drifted low through the earphones. "Jesus, Swede, you sure can suck a cock! This feels sooo good!"
Swede withdrew, revealing Cole's equally impressive erection. He was not as long, or as thick as Damian, but came a close second. Like Damian, he had been circumcised. Taking another toke, Swede complained mildly. "You got a nice dick, Cole, but I thought we came here for some boy pussy. I can suck your dick anytime."
"Yeah," Cole said as he looked at Damian. "Where's the entertainment? I could have stayed back in the barracks! Corporal Johnson was giving me the eye in the showers this morning and the guy has a real smooth ass on him!"
"And tight!" offered Swede with a leer. "Likes it hard, too!"
"Jesus, Swede!" exclaimed Damian, shaking his head. "Is no one safe?"
"Nope," responded Swede as he squeezed his erection and retracted the foreskin slowly. "Loved the old skin and begged for more."
Damian sniffed. "Like you do?" he asked.
Before Swede could reply the bedroom door opened and Nhan, with Nieh, entered. The two Orientals were naked and paraded slowly in front of the hungry-eyed men. "We have come to please the Great Lords," murmured Nieh, kneeling and taking Swede in his mouth.
"In all things," said Nhan, kneeling and taking Cole in his mouth.
Groaning, Swede thrust into Nieh. "Hooee! This kid is good!" He glanced over at Damian. "You can have him when I've finished!"
Damian looked sideways and a small frown crossed his face. "I can wait."
In the small recording studio Paul saw the look. He glanced at Stennes. "It would seem that the young man does not share Swede's enthusiasm for Orientals," he murmured.
"It is all we have to offer, and I am sure that Nhan will change his mind," returned Stennes, his eyes riveted on the scene in the bedroom. He reached down to adjust his rising penis. "Meine Lieber Gott! The boy is well endowed," his eyes widening as he watched Damian stroke his penis, causing it to enlarge even more.
Paul looked hungrily at the dark-haired infantryman and licked his lips greedily. "Still, we must afford them every courtesy of the house, mustn't we?" he asked as he moved toward the door.
Damian was breathing heavily, nearing orgasm, resigned to fucking either Swede or Cole, and determined not to put his dick in any Chinaman's hole, when the door opened. He looked up to see a thin, blond-haired white boy, naked, his thin, but still impressive, erection jutting upward sharply.
Paul walked slowly to stand in front of Damian. "Like what you see?" he asked huskily.
Damian reached out to gently grasp Paul's tumescence. He grinned as he ran his thumb around the smooth glans. "Looks like good things come in small packages," he said, smiling.
Paul reached out and snatched up a marijuana cigarette. He settled himself in Damian's lap and pressed his smallness against the dick of death. "Give me a light, soldier, and I'll make all your dreams come true."
Laughing, Damian wrapped his arm around Paul's waist. Holding the boy close, Damian wordlessly reached for the lighter sitting on the table. "All my dreams?" he asked as he flipped the cover.
"I have a splitting headache," complained Paul as he reached for the breakfast eggs. "And my asshole feels as if King Kong has been up there!"
Stennes ignored Paul's crudity. He buttered a piece of toast and observed with quiet humour, "Your performance was quite impressive. The young man seemed quite pleased."
"He was," returned Paul, not rising to Stennes' bait. He glared at Stennes. "You got it all?"
"Every inch," confirmed Stennes. "No pun intended."
Paul grimaced and made a horrible face. "I get my cut." Then he added, "No pun intended."
"Of course. And speaking of 'cut', where is the young, and very lusty, Lothario?"
"In my room, sleeping. He doesn't have to be back in barracks until tonight. He wants to show me Toronto."
Smiling inwardly, Stennes thought, "That is not all he wants to show you." He said aloud, "Enjoy your day. This evening we have a loose end to take care of."
"We do?" Paul gave Stennes a searching look. "Don't expect me to fuck him!" he growled.
Stennes shuddered at the thought of the "loose end" and Paul together. He hastened to reassure the boy. "I expect nothing of the kind! I would not, in any case, allow it."
"You 'allowed' Damian," reminded Paul.
"No, you allowed him. I merely watched."
"And recorded every minute," said Paul. "And I still want my cut of the action. Knowing you, you've already got copies of the tape out."
"The master is, shall we say, being processed as we speak," said Stennes. "And an appropriate sum will be deposited in your bank account."
Paul looked sharply at Stennes. "I don't have a bank account," he observed tartly.
"No, but you will. While you are busy entertaining your new friend I shall be making arrangements." He looked pointedly at Paul. "Some very pleasant and rewarding arrangements."
Paul returned Stennes look. "I suppose that you will tell me when you're ready?"
"When I am ready," replied Stennes. Like Paul, he would play his cards close, and only lay them down when he had a winning hand.
Seeing no point in trying to pry any further information from his patron, Paul returned to eating his breakfast. Stennes poured another cup of coffee, and then began stirring the dark, aromatic brew reflectively. "You know, liebchen, I wonder now if perhaps had you applied your, um, shall I call them heretofore hidden talents in that dismal camp for little boys, you might have met with more success."
Paul's eyes flashed briefly. Then he very deliberately laid his knife and fork across his half-eaten eggs, folded the napkin that had lain in his lap and covered the plate. He knew exactly what Stennes meant, and would make very clear to the German just what he was prepared to do, or not.
"Edmund, I do not fuck losers," Paul hissed venomously. "Nor do I fuck around with losers!" He pushed back his chair and glowered, his face flushed with well-banked rage. "I slept with you because it suited my purpose. I fucked with Damian because I wanted to learn more about him, and his friends. I will screw Cole because he screws Damian. What Damian does not tell me, Cole will."
Somewhat taken aback by Paul's vehemence, Stennes hesitated before asking, "And Swede?"
Paul snorted disdainfully. "He is a very handsome, muscular man. I am sure that if he strolled up Church Street every queen in sight would immediately go into heat." He made a dismissive motion. "Swede is not interested in the movement. He enjoys the sex he has with Damian and Cole." He looked directly at Stennes. "He enjoys it too much! He knows he is handsome, and desirable, and he would fuck a snake if it could wiggle its hips!"
Surprised at Paul's assessment of Swede, Stennes' eyebrows rose. "You learned all that in one evening?"
"I did," confirmed Paul. "Damian is the leader. Cole is a follower because he is in love with Damian and will do anything Damian asks of him. Swede is merely in lust." Pushing back his chair, Paul continued. "If I bothered to think about my time in that 'dismal camp for little boys', which I don't, I suppose I could have joined in their little games." Paul shrugged. "At the time I was in denial and refused to acknowledge that I wanted them, and much more concerned with my mission."
"One still wonders what might have been," observed Stennes. "Seed corn and all that."
"They were losers," Paul all but spat in reply. "They were, and are, nothing but a bunch of fags getting each other off and pretending to be doing what all boys do if the opportunity comes along. They ran around kissing each other, hugging each other, patting each other on the ass and telling themselves that they were all 'brothers'." Paul's thin lips curled. "And it was all bullshit!"
"For lack of any further information, I shall take your word for it," responded Stennes.
"Take my word, or don't, Edmund. I don't give a fiddler's fuck one way or the other." Paul reached out for the silver coffee pot. "I spent two months out there, and I know what I am talking about." He poured a cup of coffee and took a small sip. "The Arundel twins managed to seduce half the ship's company, my dear brother included. The other cadets discovered that getting their dicks sucked, or their butts fucked felt good. They were all thinking with their dicks, not their heads."
"You make it sound so simplistic," observed Stennes. "Sugar?" He pushed the small bowl of sugar closer to Paul.
"No. And it is simplistic." Paul looked reflective for a moment. "I watched them, Edmund, those cadets who think that they are so superior. I watched them, I listened, and before very long only an idiot would have considered them to be anything other than a bunch of losers. They have no interest in anything but getting off. Which will end tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
Paul nodded. "Their training period is over tomorrow. They will all go home." He sniffed. "Oh, they will promise to write, to call, to remember, but that will last perhaps a month, perhaps two. The Twins will return to their posh school and lord it over their schoolmates, and definitely return to being the sluts they are. Harry will go back to his cows and dream about the little boy he fucked. Phantom will cross the causeway and resume his position in Comox as a nonentity. They will scatter to the winds and spend the rest of their lives grubbing for a living in dead-end jobs and worrying that someone might come along and remind of what they really did in dear old HM-fucking-CS Aurora!"
"And will that person be you?" suggested Stennes.
The laugh that rose from Paul's lips was so cold, so filled with evil that it sent shivers down Stennes' spine.
"I won't go out of my way, Edmund. I don't fuck around with losers remember? But if any of them cross my path in the future, I shall crush them under the heel of my boot, and crush them for the insignificant little bugs they are!"