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The Knights of Aurora
Chapter 10
As Michael watched, Daniel Bradley-Smith strolled nonchalantly along the far wall of the estate. It seemed obvious to Michael that the doctor was looking for some point of entry, a weakness to serve as a sally port, such as a gate or an opening. Perhaps he was looking for a break, an open culvert, a forgotten opening, in the high walls. He would find nothing, of course, for there was nothing to find. The walls were well maintained and topped with broken glass. The gateway onto the street was kept closed, the gilt and glitter disguising hardened steel and there were always four men inside the gatehouse, fully armed with automatic weapons. The small gate that Laurence and Logan had used to infiltrate the grounds was still there, but well hidden behind a flowering bush and, as was the gate leading to the family compound to the south, alarmed and under constant observation via CCTV.
With narrowing eyes, Michael watched as one of the roving patrols came into view. Daniel waved at the two men and engaged them in conversation. Checking out the weapons the men carried? Michael assumed that was exactly what the doctor was doing. Michael knew that the doctor had a passing knowledge of arms and ammunition - he knew that every member of the CAF was required to qualify on the small arms range each year. The doctor, it seemed, might be an amateur spy, but apparently an amateur spy of some competence.
The Major followed Michael's gaze and observed tartly, "We must think of something to keep him busy - and add to the misinformation he will convey to Diem."
Michael thought a moment and then rubbed his chin reflectively. "We must keep Diem, and Minh, focused on the compound. So long as they are watching me they will not be not paying too much attention to our other . . ." He smiled grimly. " . . . Activities."
"And how do you plan on doing that?" asked the Major. Michael could be extremely devious when he had to be.
"I have given what I wish to be done much thought," replied Michael flatly. "I cannot risk an attack on the compound, not with the young knights here." He looked evenly at the Major. "We must project a show of force so formidable that Diem will not consider attacking us here."
"There are the new men," the Major suggested. "They will have to be brought out of hiding sooner or later."
Michael nodded. "At first I had thought to let Diem think we were undermanned, but that was wrong," he said. "Minh is determined to eliminate me and a few innocent casualties will not concern him in the least. I . . . we . . . must ensure the safety of our young gentlemen."
"And how do you plan on doing that?"
Smiling tightly, Michael nodded toward the slim figure of Doctor Bradley-Smith. "We will overload him with information. Let him see our strength, and report it!" A hulking figure appeared in the doorway. Michael raised his hand, bidding the man to wait. "The new men will need to be examined." Once again Michael nodded toward the doctor. "I also would like his input in setting up a sick bay, a clinic."
The Major laughed quietly and nodded enthusiastically at Michael's muted suggestion. "A short arm parade! I love it!"
"Given the doctor's . . . proclivities . . . I am sure he will enjoy the experience," Michael answered dryly.
Frowning, the Major could not help adding, "If that is the case it could be the longest short arm parade in history! There are 50 new men and . . ."
"It is to be hoped that the doctor will remember his professional ethics," interrupted Michael. Then he added, "And behave himself! The main point is that he knows that we have 50 new men, strong, healthy, ex-servicemen, and that he passes that information on to Diem."
"And Minh?"
"Soon," Michael replied as he motioned for the man in the doorway to come onto the terrace.
The Major's eyebrows rose slightly as the man bowed low to Michael. "So, Michael has brought in the Tsangs," he thought. A small shudder of trepidation coursed through the Major. If the Tsangs were involved Michael was about to launch a war of extermination and Minh's days were numbered.
Tsang Lin Shao was the go-between between Michael Chan and Tsang Su Shun, the Elder Brother of the Tsangs. Shao was a huge man, with a broad, impassive face. He had a phenomenal memory and was valued for it. Shao could be told something and would repeat it back once, word for word. He would then return to the Elder Brother and repeat the message. Nothing was ever written down and thus far Shao had never made a mistake.
Michael began speaking in Hakka, which few Chinese, except for Hakka people, spoke or understood. The Major listened, not understanding a word, at the rapid-fire instructions Michael wished to be conveyed to Tsang Su Shun. When Michael finished speaking Shao repeated every word the Serenity had spoken.
"Amazing," gasped the Major. "He is truly amazing!"
For the first time Shao's broad face softened and a smile formed on his lips.
"Shao is a valuable, and valued friend," replied Michael as he bowed his head slightly to hulking Chinese.
From the corner of his eye the Major caught a movement. "The doctor is heading this way," he warned.
Shao stepped back, about to return to the house. Michael stopped him. "Wait, I want the man to see you," he said to Shao. He waited until he was certain that Doctor Bradley-Smith had seen the Chinese man and then gestured slowly. "Su Shun is to prepare," he said quietly. "Do not fail me."
Shao bowed. "It shall be done, Great One," he murmured and disappeared into the shadows of the house.
Daniel had seen the Chinese man, someone he had never seen before and wondered what, or who he was. He greeted Michael and the Major with a false smile. "What a lovely estate, Michael," he burbled insincerely. He pointedly did not mention seeing Shao. "The flowers are lovely."
"Yes, they are," agreed Michael. He had a smile on his lips but his dark eyes were cold. "I hope that my poor attempts at hospitality are pleasing to you."
"Oh, they are!" exclaimed Daniel. "And my room is gorgeous!" He looked around and asked, "Where are the kids?"
Wincing inwardly, the Major was hard put not to growl at the ninny. "They went swimming. Perhaps you would care to join them?"
The last thing Michael wanted was Doctor Bradley-Smith to have an opportunity to drool or ogle the scantily clad young knights. "Alas, I must ask him to forgo his pleasures," Michael said hurriedly.
Daniel saw The Phantom, with Colin and Alex, followed by Chef, come through the gate in the wall. He had no desire to put himself in a position to be insulted by some fat old fraud and his whelps. "That's quite all right," he burbled, the narrowing of his eyes telling both Michael and the Major that it was not all right. "I forgot my swimming costume." He looked at Michael. "Did you have something else in mind?"
"Why, yes," said Michael, pretending friendship. "I hesitate to ask, but you are a physician, after all."
Daniel cocked an eyebrow. "Yes, I am. Are you ill?"
Forcing a laugh, Michael shook his head. "I am in excellent health, thank you," he said. "What I would like you to do, well, we have had a staff problem of late."
"Really?" Daniel feigned ignorance.
Michael waved a hand airily. "Some dismissals. A sad affair, actually." He pretended to frown. "We have had to hire some new security officers and while I am sure they are all what they claim to be, I would be much obliged if you would examine them."
"Physicals?" asked Daniel, surprised. This was too easy!
"Yes," interjected the Major. "When they were discharged from their respective militaries they were certified as hale and hearty. However, as they have all seen combat, and been away from the military since their discharge we wish to be certain that they bring no baggage with them - a disability, perhaps an injury they might have suffered afterward." He looked sternly at the doctor and added, "We do not want to be saddled with damaged goods, as it were."
"I would also presume on your professional experience," continued Michael. "I have many live-in employees, as I am sure you have noticed, and we have no medical facilities. The nearest hospital is quite a distance away and in the event of an accident, or a serious illness, we have nothing and must rely on outside help."
Daniel could well believe that statement. He could also believe that Michael would want to keep his staff, and their problems, close to home. He also thought that Michael's having the new men examined medically a sensible precaution. From what he had seen thus far the men of the Security Force were prime specimens, very fit and alert and it stood to reason that Michael would not want to take any chances with the men guarding his home. Daniel, on a less altruistic level, also mentally calculated how generous Minh would be upon learning this little bit of information. He feigned a serious, professional mien. "How may I help?" he asked.
"I would like you to assist the Major," Michael said smoothly. "Inspect the facilities in the villages and find a place for a clinic." He forced himself to give Daniel's hand a quick pat. "You will know what will be needed."
"And set up a schedule for the new lads," said the Major. "There are 50 of them."
Daniel's eyes grew wide. "Fifty?" he asked. "Fifty men?" He thought a moment. "I'll need some supplies, disposable tongue depressors, thermometers, minor stuff. I don't have enough in my bag."
Michael's open-handed gesture signalled his complete understanding. "You will also need an examining table, other equipment?" he asked, leading the doctor on.
"Well, yes."
"Could I presume upon you to visit a medical supply house," Michael asked earnestly. "Nothing but the best will do, and I know you will want the best anyway." Michael, while he had every intention of actually setting up a medical clinic, cared little about the cost. He needed the doctor to go into the city and make the one mistake that Michael was counting on him to make. Away from the scrutiny of the house, Daniel Bradley-Smith would no doubt scurry to report to his master. "Of course," Michael continued, "you will need funds." He nodded to the Major who returned Michael's nod and left the table.
Chef and The Phantom had seen the doctor sitting at the table with Michael and Major Meinertzhagen and had suddenly found the activities of the footmen and catering staff busily breaking down the pavilion and trundling away the portable barbecues, very interesting.
The actions of The Phantom and Chef were not lost on Daniel Bradley-Smith. They were snubbing him, and were making no effort to hide the fact. Daniel's eyes narrowed as he watched The Phantom and Colin laughing together about something, and Alex pointing out the height of the wall between the estates to Chef. He seethed inwardly, but there was nothing he could do about the insults. He could, however, send a little note to SIU. Both Chef and Colin were still members of the Canadian Armed Forces. SIU would be very interested in their activities with a moribund, dust-blown so-called "Order" of Knights, most of whom who were as gay as ducks. Daniel had no fear about SIU investigating him. He had kept a low profile and in any case planned to be far, far away when the shit hit the fan.
" . . . Do not skimp, Doctor," Michael was saying. "I am sure that there is enough to outfit any decent clinic." Michael pushed a thick manila envelope toward Daniel.
Daniel regarded the envelope. He lifted it, feeling the weight of the banknotes inside. "I can outfit a hospital for this kind of money," he said, trying to make a joke.
"Just a clinic," said the Major impatiently. "Perhaps now would be a good time to make your inspection?"
Daniel viewed his "inspection" as a perfect opportunity to ascertain just what sort of security existed outside the walls of the compound. He agreed readily to the Major's suggestion and followed him into the house.
The Major had made sure that everything Michael wanted the doctor to see, he would see. The men were in place, the villages prepared. The doctor would see a great deal. The doctor would see little. The doctor was being given sufficient rope and the Major was more than happy to unreel the hemp.
As the doctor and the Major went inside, they passed Joel and Patrick. Patrick had been downstairs in the under croft, listening to Joel arguing with his computer. He had then stopped in the adjoining office to speak with Joe Hobbes and Gabe Izard, bringing them up to date on what was happening up top and was about to request a search of the records for information on the leading members of the Triads when Joel let out a triumphant whoop.
"I got the bastard!" Joel crowed. As Gabe, Patrick and Joe crowded the doorway of the computer room, they watched, amazed, as Joel leaned forward and actually kissed the mainframe! He then cooed endearments at the mass of wires and whatnot (none of the three actually understood what made up a computer), patting the metal casing and smiling like a loon. "I got the son-of-a-bitch traitor!" Joel waved a long sheet of printouts in the general direction of the three men. "Where's Michael?"
"What a maroon," Joel hissed scathingly, referring to Bradley-Smith. "He's been on Minh's payroll for over a year!" He tapped the printouts that he had laid before Michael. "More, I think, but the records only go back that far."
Michael made a "calm down" gesture at Joel. "I am aware of that. Please explain."
"Well, I was intrigued where the money in the BC Building Society came from, so I did a little digging. The Building Society is updating its records and I noticed that every deposit was a transfer from another account - an account held by the Toronto Dominion Bank. I managed to get into their computer and cross-referenced and found out that the money comes from an outfit called the "Anglo-Oriental Trading Company." He looked at Michael and grinned. "Would you care to hazard a guess who owns the Anglo-American Trading Company?"
Not waiting for an answer, Joel continued. "I decided to dig a little deeper. The TD's files are all computerized and it was a snap." He gave himself a metaphorical pat on the back, saw the flint in Michael's impatient eyes, and hurried on. "I saw something that really intrigued me. Every few months, at irregular intervals, there were large sums, all under 10,000 dollars, all made to look as if they were bonus payments, I think, and all transferred to Doctor Bradley-Smith's account."
Michael understood what Joel was saying. The amounts would be under the limit for money transfers, and thus would not draw the attention of bank - or Federal Treasury regulators. Irregular amounts would draw even less attention.
"I added all the amounts and they came to 257,500 dollars!" exclaimed Joel.
"But you said he had less that 15,000 in his bank account," countered Michael. "Where did the money go?"
"I haven't found that out . . . yet," replied Joel. His tone said that he would, though.
"Keep looking," Michael ordered, thinking that the doctor was smarter than he looked or acted.
"No danger," assured Joel as he stood up to leave the table. "Here's the Major and Pete," he added as he walked toward the house.
"Well?" Michael asked as the two men sat down.
"The creature has found a place to set up a clinic," replied the Major, his voice bland and devoid of expression. "He's off to purchase his supplies."
"We've got a tail on him," added Pete. "Wherever he goes, we'll be there."
Michael nodded. "You are determined, Pete, to carry out your plan?"
Pete lowered his eyes. "It's the only way, Michael. Please don't . . ."
Holding up his hand, Michael spoke softly, "I will not say more." He sighed. "I must consider, however, what to do with him when this is over."
Pete's eyes hardened. "Doctor Bradley-Smith betrayed you, Michael. He's feeding information to your sworn enemy. Do you think he would have a second thought, knowing as he does that every scrap of information he gives Minh, or Diem, will be used against you?" Pete snorted angrily. "The son of a bitch would smile that evil grin of his and spit on your corpse!"
The Major, who could not bring himself to refer to the doctor as a human being, blurted, "A firing squad is too good for the creature! He is willing to betray you, us, the Order!" The Major's eyes blazed with righteous anger. "For what? Money! You offer him honour, you gave him a knighthood, will give him a title, and all is for nothing!"
Michael had no choice but to agree. "I think that is what hurts the most." Michael suddenly rose and walked to the edge of the terrace, his dark eyes taking in the peaceful gardens. He saw The Phantom, with Colin and Chef, Alex in tow, laughing about something as they walked about, admiring the beds of flowers. "I could understand his betrayal of me," he said finally, his voice low, but loud enough to carry to the two seated men. "I chose my life, and I expect that men will try to destroy me." He turned his head sharply and his dark eyes bore into Pete. "I live by the gun," Michael said. "I therefore expect men to come with guns to take what I have away from me."
Neither the Major nor Pete responded. There was no point.
More of the young cadets emerged from the gate and Michael sighed. "I am trying to build something that will allow those young men to live their lives free of hatred, and discrimination. The Order has existed for 800 years, and for 800 years men have betrayed it." Michael turned and faced Pete and the Major. "How can I offer those young men succour and honour, as the Rule compels, when even its own members betray their oaths?"
The Major gestured impatiently. "You can hardly blame yourself for the actions of another!" he insisted heatedly. "You can hardly be held accountable for something that did not happen on your watch." He shrugged. "I grant you that you have inherited a cesspool, but you are cleaning it. Hunter, Willoughby, the unlamented Simpson, have been found out, and stopped. In time you will know the others."
Looking thoughtful, Michael nodded. "But how many are there?" he asked pointedly. "How deep is the cesspool? And what do I . . . we . . . do with the offal we dredge up?"
Pete interjected. "Michael, Major, I'm not a part of your Order. But I have been a part of something akin to it. Every group of soldiers, whether in a section, a platoon or a company, must depend on each other! We must trust each other without question. Our lives depended on our fellow soldiers. It is ingrained in every grunt and gyrene almost from the first day of their training: trust your brothers, never betray your oath, no matter how bad it gets you look out for each other and you never turn your back on them."
"It is the law of the military," said the Major. "It is the law of the Order. Time and time again men have gathered to face adversity. History is replete with 'Last Stands' and 'Heroic Sieges'. Men have stood together to face horrible adversity and stood the test. It is the same now." He thought a moment. "To quote G.K. Chesterton, 'we are all in the same boat in a stormy sea, and we owe each other a terrible loyalty.'"
"The Order must be protected and defended," responded Michael firmly. "We must remove those who have proved disloyal! Treachery cannot be ignored or go unpunished!"
Both the Major and Pete knew that Doctor Bradley-Smith's ultimate fate was decided.
"When?" Pete asked.
"When the young gentlemen leave," Michael replied.
There was nothing more to be said. The Major saw The Phantom approaching and asked quietly, "Are you to tell him then?"
"No," said Michael. "The doctor's treachery is directed more at me than at the Order."
"He is still a knight," observed the Major.
"And I am still the Grand Master." Michael's tone was one of finality. He turned abruptly and smiled sincerely at The Phantom. "Ah, my young friend, you are back."
Returning Michael's smile, The Phantom joined the others at the table. "The guys are having a ball. Thanks, Michael."
"No thanks are necessary," said Michael as he returned to his seat. "You are my guests."
"A pity you could not join in the swimming," observed the Major. He regarded The Phantom's bandaged hand. "I do hope that the injury will not prevent you from being a member of your school's swim team."
It never ceased to amaze The Phantom how much the Order seemed to know about him, and the others. "Oh, I think I'll be all right," countered The Phantom. He held up his hand. "It doesn't hurt at all and the cut is not that deep." He opened and closed his bandaged hand. "It doesn't hurt that much and swim team tryouts don't start until mid-September. I'll be healed by then."
Michael was about to caution The Phantom about not using his hand too much when Chef, with Colin, lumbered up the steps and pulled up a chair. "Ah, faith, and it's a fine day," he began. "The lads are swimming like the otters of Lough Derg, so they are." He looked around for a footman and when one appeared almost by magic, asked, "A drink would be delightful, for I'm that parched."
The footman took their requests; The Phantom and Colin stuck to Coca-Cola. Alex, who was still, officially, The Phantom's protection officer, stood to one side, keeping watch. Nobody asked Chef what "The Otters of Lough Derg" were, or even if they existed, for fear of setting him off on one of his meandering flights of fancy.
"Still, to sit to the sides and watch others doing something you enjoy so much must have been disappointing," observed Michael.
The Phantom recognized an opening when he saw it. "Oh, I had a fine time," he replied with a smile. "I met some very nice guys. And Cory and Todd met two of their fellow schoolmates."
Michael looked askance. "They did? You did?"
Taking a slow, deliberate drink of his Coke, The Phantom moved in for the kill. "Yup." His green eyes sparkled as they regarded Michael. "You have some very nice cousins," he said. "They were a little stand-offish at first, but you know guys. Before you know it they're all mucking in and having fun."
Michael did not know guys. He had not been allowed to be "one of the boys", since his youth he had never been allowed to form friendships.
The Phantom continued in an off-hand manner. "Todd is going to see that Alistair is brought into his house at school, and I think Arden fell in love with Harry!" He laughed off-handedly. "Harry is a born Sea Daddy. Anyway, they're all having a good time."
A small smile formed on Michael's lips. "Are you recruiting new candidates?" he asked.
"Oh, no, not really," responded The Phantom. "Just making friends." He frowned slightly. "I sort of got the impression that they're pretty insulated, except for school."
Chef's eyebrows rose slightly. Phantom darlin', the wee devil, was up to his old tricks. He decided to help out. "Fine, stout lads, so they are," he boomed. "Sure and once the young cousins discovered that our lads were not barbarians, and wanting nothing more than to eat them, why they were bosom companions! Like the Seraphs of Cobh, so they are, too. A fine, handsome family you have, Michael darlin'." He sipped his whisky. "Such a fine family."
Michael tried to think. Because of his position in the criminal underworld he had deliberately avoided contact with his cousins. They were safer if he stayed on his side of the wall, and they on theirs.
"They are," agreed The Phantom. "The boys are getting along great." He looked at Michael. "It's going to be a chore to have to break away."
"Break away?" asked Michael.
"Well, you know, we have to leave soon, and everybody's having so much fun." Once again he pretended to frown. "But I guess that's the way of it. You make friends and then you have to go away."
"You can hardly have known them that well," grumbled the Major, unwittingly giving The Phantom another opening.
"True, but I would like to get to know them better, especially Alistair." He saw Michael's eyes widen slightly and continued on. "He seems, well, lonely. He doesn't have anyone else but his brother, and his cousins. He seems very nice."
Michael could not reply for he did not know Alistair, really. The boy was just another cousin.
"It must be a bitch, being stuck at home all the time," continued The Phantom, "with just school to look forward to."
"I am sure that my cousins have plenty to amuse themselves with," returned Michael tightly. Was The Phantom taking him to task for ignoring his family?
"I'm sure they do," countered The Phantom. "But look at it this way. They're young, and want to explore. I did when I was their age."
Michael could not help smiling. He sniffed silently. Their age indeed! The Phantom was not yet eighteen!
"You know," began The Phantom, trying to look thoughtful, "young guys need to get out and see the world. Why, back home I wander all over the place. You'd be surprised what you can see if you go looking. And it's great to just hang out with the guys. You learn a lot about them when you do."
The Phantom's unwavering green eyes caused Michael to squirm slightly. He had neglected his family and knew nothing about them. He had also seen how well the cadets interacted together, and how devoted they were to one another. He remembered the days of his youth, the days before he had been taken under Uncle Henry's wing, the days when he and his cousins had gone off to swim at Wreck Beach, or climb Burnaby Mountain, trips to Grouse Mountain, and Whistler.
Michael also remembered that they always travelled in a group, always seemed to be surrounded by minders, and never allowed to make friends outside of the family. Perhaps, Michael thought, he had been too protective. As much as he hated the thought Michael realized that his younger male cousins were just that, males, and if the cadets of Aurora were any indication, inquisitive, curious young males wanting to explore the outside world. They needed the company of other boys. And who knew, they might also form useful friendships, which he had not done. He was related to his cousins by blood, and yet he had never made a friend of any of them.
"Well, perhaps we can arrange something," suggested Michael. "An outing . . ."
At that moment Harry, surrounded by a gaggle of black Speedo-clad Chinese boys, all chattering and playing grab ass, abetted by Harry, of course, came into the garden. The Cousins, none of whom had ever been inside Michael's compound, stopped and stared around, somewhat in awe. Then, in the manner of bloodhounds sniffing the air, the Cousins collectively turned to where the barbecues and refreshment pavilion were being dismantled.
The Twins, with Alistair and Arden in tow, appeared next. Arden was all but scampering with joy as the Twins poked him and laughed at his antics.
Michael had never seen the young cousins so . . . animated. He had never seen them except in the most formal of situations; a choir of grim-faced, black clad boys who spoke only when spoken to, and never seem to laugh, gravely accepting his gifts, never allowing their true feelings to show.
Watching the boys, Michael mused, "Yes, an outing together?" he asked no one in particular. He saw Harry gesturing toward the now collapsed pavilion, apparently regaling the boys with tales of magnificent food and drink. Michael turned and gestured for the footman, who had been standing quietly to one side. "Ask the Maestro to bring something for the boys to eat. They have been swimming and will be hungry."
"Cake!" rumbled Chef. "Lads like cake!"
"I am sure they do," replied Michael smoothly. He smiled at the footman, who was also smiling. "Please ask the Maestro to do his best and yes, bring cake."
The Phantom smiled his secret smile and observed artlessly, "You know, I just had a thought."
"Surprise, surprise!" murmured Colin, hoping that Michael had not overheard.
Giving his lover a dark look, The Phantom continued. "We're all going out to dinner, right?"
"Yes. I have arranged for my restaurant to be available," replied Michael, suspecting that he would be hosting more than just knights at table.
"Well, perhaps we might invite your young cousins?" asked The Phantom. "They did give up their pool for us after all. Maybe it would be nice, a thank you, sort of?" The Phantom cocked his head and grinned at Michael.
Shaking his head, Michael laughed inwardly. A service for a service, a favour for a favour, he thought. "I don't see why not," he said presently. "If you wish it."
The Phantom regarded Michael a moment. "If you wish it," he said softly.
Michael could not bring himself to break the spell of camaraderie that filled his back garden. He could also not bring himself to deny The Phantom. He suspected that the young knight was up to something, something that involved one or more of his young cousins, but had no idea - yet - just what the boy was up to. He made his decision. "I wish it."
Turning to the Major, Michael asked, "Will you make the arrangements with the restaurant?" He smiled grimly. "The chef will pitch a fit when I add a dozen extra seats."
"All chef's are as mad as hatters," retorted the Major, deliberately looking at Chef.
Chef was not impressed. "At least we don't go crawling through rice paddies, slithering along like salamanders."
Before the Major exploded with indignation at the veiled slur on his beloved Royal Marines, Patrick Tsang came onto the terrace. He nodded ever so slightly at Michael. Doctor Bradley-Smith had left on his shopping trip and the surveillance teams were following him.
The Dallas Road brothel was very quiet. Thursday was always a slow day and few of the courtesans were in evidence. They used the down time to shop, or sleep. When Daniel was admitted there was only one boy, much too young to appeal to the doctor, lounging in the parlour.
"Is Diem here?" Daniel asked the hulking retainer who had answered the door.
"Upstairs," the man grunted. "You wait." He turned and reached for the house phone, spoke a few words in Vietnamese and then grunted again. He hung up the telephone and told Daniel, "In office. You go up."
Dismissing the doorman, a flunky of no importance in Daniel's opinion, with a wave of his hand, the doctor climbed the stairs and rapped officiously on the office door. He heard a muffled reply and entered.
Diem was seated at his desk, working on some cabalistic figures written on a long sheet of paper. He looked up. "Why are you not at your post," he asked without preamble.
Ignoring Diem's rudeness, Daniel helped himself to a drink from the array of bottles on the sideboard. "I'm out shopping. And I have news." Crooking his little finger, Daniel sipped his drink. "Since I was out I thought I'd report it." He simpered. "So much more intimate than the telephone, don't you think?"
Scowling, for he had no interest, intimate or otherwise, in the doctor, Diem waved his hand dismissively. "Then report," he growled.
Daniel languidly reported everything he had seen; including how well armed the security force seemed to be. He also informed Diem about the staff dismissals and the expected reinforcements.
"Chinese?" asked Diem.
Daniel shook his head. "No, or at least I don't think so. No one mentioned anything about Chinese. I was told that all the new men are ex-military and I had the impression that they're white." He smiled languidly over the rim of his glass. "Chan has asked me to give the new men physicals. I'm supposed to be shopping for medical supplies."
Diem looked on disapprovingly as the doctor draped his free hand across the back of his chair, looking like some over acting Summer Stock ingénue.
"I'll know more tomorrow," Daniel said.
"No doubt more than I wish to know," thought Diem. He asked, his face impassive. "You are certain that there are no Chinese guards?"
"None that I saw," replied Daniel with an airy wave of his hand. "I did see one, a large, very ugly thing. He was getting some orders, or something from Chan. Then there's Chan's new secretary." He looked conspiratorially at Diem. "If you ask me, he's more than a secretary."
"I did not ask," responded Diem, his face impassive. "He is Chinese, though?"
"Yes. His name is Patrick Tsang and . . ." Daniel stopped speaking abruptly, surprised at the reaction Patrick's name had caused in Diem.
"A Tsang!" whispered Diem in horror. His face seemed to drain of blood. "A Tsang!"
"Are you all right?" Daniel asked, not really all that interested, but he had to say something.
"You do not want to know!" replied Diem in a whisper. Abruptly ignoring the doctor, Diem began to write down what his spy had told him.
"A Tsang!" Diem thought. "Dear God, a Tsang!"
Years before, in Saigon, Diem began his career as a criminal, employed by General Minh as an enforcer. The General had fingers in many pies, all of them profitable, and all of them with debtors who were slow in paying. When he was not tooling around the streets of Saigon on his Citroen motor scooter, trying to impress the merchants and girls, Diem would visit delinquent shop and stall keepers who had failed to meet their weekly or monthly payments for "protection". He specialized in deftly removing, with a sharp knife, small pieces of flesh from the arms and buttocks of stubborn peasants who claimed poverty while squealing their inability to pay.
With plenty of money, dressed in tight American blue jeans and a body-hugging white T-shirt, Diem swaggered through the streets, enjoying the fear he engendered wherever he walked. General Minh's patronage opened doors that would have been firmly closed in Diem's face. He even enjoyed the amenities of the Circle Sportif, an exclusive sporting club with a pool patronized by Saigon's military and civilian elite, and their arrogant, handsome children.
Before the betrayal, as Diem viewed it, the sporting club had also been a favourite cruising ground for American officers. Diem could have supplemented his income many times over but, not being at all interested in the lowered looks that scanned his near-naked body every time he appeared poolside, at least from the men, he did not. He sometimes considered it ironic that he now spent much of his time in a brothel, populated by males, and patronized by males.
As Minh's enforcer, Diem was sometimes teamed with the General's chief lieutenant, a slim, arrogant man named Van, and another, younger man who bore the unfortunate name of Ho Chi Minh! Poor Ho was castigated from all sides for his name and compensated for it by being particularly vicious when it came to northern sympathisers who were behind in their payments.
Diem was not surprised or worried when one morning Van announced that he, Diem, and Ho had a special collection to make in Cholon, the "Large Market", the Chinese section of Saigon.
Located on the right bank of the Dong Nai, Cholon was a warren of alleys and winding byways, a place where smart Vietnamese rarely went, even the dreaded QC, "White Mice", as the Vietnamese military police were called. The Chinese loathed the Vietnamese and viewed any outsider with suspicion.
With the true contempt a Vietnamese held for a Chinese, Diem followed Van's car as it wended its way through the narrow streets of Cholon. Diem had been told only that the trio was to make a collection, and impress upon the shopkeeper, a man named Tsang, that one would always pay one's debts, on time, and without falling back on the old Chinese custom of settling accounts on New Year's Day.
Secure in his arrogance, Diem had entered the ramshackle warehouse that housed the business enterprises of the Tsang clan. The place reeked of very old, very dead fish and, except for a thin, reedy old man, appeared to be empty. Van, as spokesman, demanded payment, an exorbitant sum, which the old man disputed. At a glance from Van both Diem and Ho brought out long clasp knives and flipped them open. The old man did not move. He regarded the three Vietnamese with contempt and then barked a word, which none of the Vietnamese understood.
Out of nowhere there appeared six of the largest, ugliest, men Diem had ever seen and before two seconds had passed not only had he lost his knife, but the small pistol he had secreted down the back of his jeans. He, Van and Ho tried to fight, but it was a lost cause. Van shouted and screamed dire threats while blows rained down on his head and torso. Ho, a braver soul, fought back but was soon doubled over, vomiting violently from a blow to his groin.
Diem, more afraid that he had ever been in his life, found an inner strength he did not know he had, and managed to break the hold on his arms. He ran, ran as if all the devils of the Celestial Kingdom were screeching after him, across the crowded roadway and dove in panic into the river. He swam frantically downriver, ignoring the cries and shouts of the boatmen of the dozens of fishing boats and barges that crowded the river. He only stopped when a long, low, grey patrol boat manned by Vietnamese Marines threatened to shoot him.
Pulled aboard, Diem was taken to the local military compound where he was threatened and beaten, suspected as a VC sympathiser. Only after screaming out General Minh's name was Diem released. It was well after midnight and rather than try to find his way through the maze of streets, Diem spent the night huddled under a cart.
When he reported the failure of his mission to the General, Diem was again beaten. The General did not like failure. Diem had protested and protested, but Minh was unsympathetic. Minh was about to pass final judgement on the quivering, weeping Diem when two street coolies, army deserters who owned an ancient truck, delivered two large, tin-lined tea chests. They did not know the contents of the chests. A man had stopped them near the Marine Monument and paid them well to deliver the chests. They knew nothing of the stranger except that he spoke Vietnamese with a Hakka accent. He had paid well and given the address. That was all the men were interested in.
Wondering how the address of his secret villa, which not even his wife or his current mistress knew could be known to some stranger, Minh ordered the tea chests opened. What he saw was a fetid, stomach churning mass of what looked liked chum, the bait fishermen used to attract sharks. Fearing a bomb, Minh ordered Diem to poke about in the mess and then stood well back. Diem did as ordered and turned over what looked like a mass of bloody seaweed. The sightless eyes in the severed head stared into nothingness. Van had been returned.
Diem, screaming and soiling himself, fled in panic. That night he visited a whorehouse and drank himself into oblivion. Two days later the General contacted him and Diem returned. Nothing was ever said of the fate of Van and Ho and General Minh quietly wrote off the debt owed by the Tsangs.
Shuddering at the memory of the Cholon Tsangs, Diem returned, reluctantly, to his business. "You are certain that new men are in place?" he asked.
Daniel shrugged his indifference. "From the way Chan was talking I think so." He rubbed his crotch reflectively. The urge was returning and wanted to go upstairs. "Be very careful," Daniel warned. "The place is crawling with guards, well-armed guards. They seem to be Yanks and Kippers, all ex-service, Marines, SAS, SEALS, well-trained and dangerous." He emphasized the last word. Daniel finished his drink and stood.
Diem looked at Daniel. The information he had given was valuable, even if useless. It was obvious that the Chan compound was too well guarded. He sighed inwardly. "Does Chan ever leave that place?" he asked impatiently.
"I have no idea," responded Daniel. "He's hosting a dinner tonight at his restaurant for his guests." He simpered importantly. "I'm invited."
Making a face, Diem waved Daniel away. "Go. Continue your work."
When Daniel closed the door behind him, Diem rose and walked to the array of bottles. He poured a large scotch and sat back down. He could not recommend an attack to the General, not yet. The time was not propitious. He could not attack the restaurant. He did not dare attack the restaurant. Chinatown was Chinatown, filled with tourists, the life-blood of Vancouver. Attacking anyone in Chinatown would bring down the wrath of the police, the civic authorities, and invited too much unwanted attention. The Elders of the Tongs would not be pleased. No, there was too much to lose, too many imponderables.
The doorkeeper entered without knocking. He jerked his thumb toward the ceiling. "He go upstairs," he said without inflection.
Diem nodded. Let the man enjoy his fun.
The room was dark, the only light coming from the black candles flickering around the room. "Be gentle, Master," Daniel pleased in mock humility as he began to strip off his clothing. "I have only a little time."
The "Master" was not prepared for a customer. His leather vest was open and his codpiece was open. He quickly donned the black leather mask and picked up the light, cloth-covered whip that he knew the doctor favoured. "I am never gentle, slave," The Master snarled. "On your knees!"
Whimpering his anticipation, and all but licking his lips, Daniel sank to his knees, his hand reaching out to touch the long, thick, cylinder of flesh hanging from the Master's codpiece. Before he could take the object of his desire in his mouth, the Master pushed Daniel's hand away. "Wait," he commanded. He gestured and from out the darkest shadow came another man, large, burley, and seemingly covered in body hair.
The Master leaned down. "I have a treat for you slave. I have promised him that you will be most compliant." He brought the whip down on Daniel's bare back, not hard enough to break the skin or draw blood, but hard enough to sting.
Wiggling with pleasure as the pain rippled through his body, Daniel moaned his acceptance.
The strange man stood beside the Master, who quickly unsnapped the red leather cover of the man's codpiece, revealing an impossibly thick, slug-like penis with a long, dangling ferrule of skin. Daniel's eyes lit up and without asking permission he skittered forward on his knees. He took the stranger's dangling bit of skin into his mouth, suckling happily.
"The slave will please you," the Master rumbled at the stranger. "He's queer for skin."
As the foreskin in his mouth began to shorten, and the penis harden, Daniel groaned ecstatically. The stranger looked down at the slight figure devouring his cock and grinned. "Fucker must breathe through his ears!"