The Knights of Aurora is a work of fiction set. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead is entirely coincidental in nature, and is not meant to accurately reflect persons in towns, cities, or governmental areas, in which the story is set.
The Aurora series are works of homoerotic fiction and contain scenes of sexual activity between consenting teenage boys and men. If reading or possessing such material is prohibited by local, state, or provincial law, or if you are not of legal age (18 or 21) to read or possess such material, I will not tell any reader not to follow his or her interests and instincts. I am required to warn potential readers of the content of my works, and ask that they move on.
The series is set in 1976 Canada. As such the social mores, traditions and practices might be offensive to the new age reader. I cannot and will not change the past to pander to modern fancy or foible. If you are looking for a fable filled with modern fetishes, you are asked to move on. The road is long and filled with stories.
I also strongly remind readers that the series is set in a time and place before AIDS. "Safe sex" in 1976 meant using a rubber so you didn't get your girlfriend preggers. Safe sex has a much deeper meaning now, and I urge everyone to practice it always.
The Aurora Series are copyrighted by the author and may not be downloaded or posted on any site, except for personal enjoyment, without the author's written permission.
Lost Trails - I have been an avid reader of Nifty for years and from time to time I come across a well written, well thought out series. They are few and far between, but the author has taken the time and effort to make his or her story readable and enjoyable. What is annoying, however, that for reasons best known to the author, the story stops abruptly! Do the authors die? Do they become disinterested? Who knows? I am therefore starting this "Lost Trails" note. I would like to know what happened to:
Taming of the Night (The author's e-mail address has been discontinued)
Order of the Rope
Agenais.
Agenais was not published on Nifty but it was a cracking good story and I hope it was continued somewhere, perhaps on a different site.
If anyone has any information, I would appreciate hearing from you.
On a final note, would it be too much to ask that when an author finishes a story he let his readers know? A little note at the end, "Finis" or "The End" would do.
The Knights of Aurora
Chapter 8
Daniel Bradley-Smith awoke from his nap, stretched languidly and giggled happily. There was nothing like a bit of afternoon delight to set the blood to singing and the spirits soaring. Being pleasured by an anonymous stud added a hint of danger and erotica.
Rising from his bed, Daniel stood in front of the floor-length mirror fixed to an ornate stand in the corner of the room and admired his figure. He was, as he admitted to himself, much to thin - skinny, really. And much too . . . hairy! He ran his hand down his chest, feeling the rough hair that gave him, in his opinion, a caveman appearance. He really must shave again, and look into electrolysis. He had heard several of the nurses on the ward talking about it and thought that if it worked for a woman, why not a man?
Hefting his genitals, Daniel frowned. He was really quite small, he thought, and compared to Bogart the footman, minuscule! Thinking of the footman, Daniel smiled. The man had been worth every penny! And the moves he made! Giggling like a schoolgirl, Daniel all but floated into the bathroom to shower.
Feeling euphoric, Daniel luxuriated in the steaming spray and wondered who his next conquest would be. He had no idea who had arranged for the footmen, but whoever it was certainly had an eye for the boys. All the footmen were enough to make a girl drool and wet herself.
Then Daniel frowned. He had begun to think of the others, the arrogant, insolent others, with their disapproving looks and sneering lips, especially that upstart everyone called "Phantom" and that fat, supercilious blowhard Chef! They hated him, of course, and had no respect for a fellow knight. They needed to learn who was the boss and Daniel thought himself the man to teach them.
Oh, not through Michael Chan, whose days were numbered, but in other ways. Michael might hand out specious titles from a defunct Empire, and arrange for cosmetic commissions that had no credence or authority in Canada, but at the end of the day he was weak, and a man who lived in the past, puling about past glories and trying to revive a moribund Order filled with little boys - and Daniel had some thoughts about that - and dirty old men.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, Daniel returned to his bedroom and began to dress for the day. As he chose just the right colour of silk boxer underpants, just the right shirt and complementing trousers, he considered his relationship with General Minh. That the general was a thug was of little consequence to Daniel. The man had power, exuded strength, and had buckets of money to spend. Daniel liked money. It brought him pretty clothes and pretty boys. It also brought him what he really craved, strong, muscular men in leather who would allow him to worship their sweaty bodies and tumescent organs, and treat him with utter contempt. He loved the role of a slave to a strong master and as he drew his shirt over his shoulders he shuddered with anticipated lust-filled sessions in the brothel, where everything was permitted, and nothing denied, so long as one had the money to pay for the services offered.
It had been Daniel's secret, near uncontrollable urges that had first drawn him into Minh's web. He had been in a bath house, being serviced by a particularly well-hung piece of rough trade, demanding more, more, rougher, harder sex, when the slut had ejaculated and withdrawn, telling Daniel that if he wanted something rougher he should go to a certain warehouse where he could get as much leather and pain as he wanted.
Intrigued, Daniel had gone to the Dallas Road warehouse, and tasted the wares offered on the lower floors and then was introduced to the hard-core, no-holds-barred sex in the rarely spoken of rooms on the upper floor. The services were costly, of course, and Daniel could only avail himself of them rarely. But the cost was justified for he always came away feeling fulfilled and satisfied. He told himself that every bruise on his thin body added an extra spring to his step and an added incentive to life.
At first Daniel thought little of the men who owned the establishment. Most of the boys who lounged about the parlours were Oriental, Chinese and Vietnamese, with an occasional black youth of exceptional girth and staying power. Daniel considered them mere appetizers to the main course offered upstairs. He paid willingly, because he needed what was offered. He saw, of course, the bouncers, all large, silent men, who scowled and cracked their knuckles, but he paid them no heed. He was surprised when, leaving one of the upper floor rooms after a particularly taxing session with two leather-clad brutes, he was approached and asked to come "to office".
In the office Daniel met Diem, who seemed to know everything about him. Daniel suspected that his wallet had been rifled while he had been playing and that the large, hulking Vietnamese was about to blackmail him. This as it turned out could not have been further from the truth. Diem was more interested in Daniel's easy access to the facilities - and sailors - of the Esquimalt Naval facility, so much so that Diem offered an arrangement Daniel could not refuse.
What controls, Diem had asked Daniel, did the Navy have on the jetties? Were there sailors who might, for a consideration, deliver a small package to friends serving on board the warships? As a doctor, Smith had advance knowledge of visiting foreign warships, did he not? Did the hospital not receive advance copies of operation orders in order to assign staff?
Diem's questions went on and on and every so often he had paused to offer access to the upper floors - gratis, of course - with a small payment for services rendered.
Having accepted Diem's offer, Daniel was soon well in over his head. He very quickly learned that the information he supplied was used to establish a very active drug ring with dealers in every ship and in Nelles Block, the main junior ranks barracks. Visiting foreign warships, Aussies and Brits and Americans were met and a dealer on board almost before the gangway was set in place. Minh's tentacles extended to every jetty, every barracks, and every section and part ship.
Daniel's conscience bothered him not at all. If a matelot was stupid enough to ingest a narcotic, or stick a needle filled with China Gold in his arm that was his business. Daniel had other interests, and there was also the small band of enforcers that Minh had assembled, tough, ruthless thug-like creatures that would, and had, made every problem disappear.
As his bank account grew, and his visits to the warehouse brothel increased, Daniel had learned a few things. He knew enough to keep his mouth shut, but he also kept his eyes and ears open and was not surprised just how high in the chain of command Minh's influence went. Daniel had also learned that an anonymous tip to SIU made life very uncomfortable for certain cretins and hard-liners.
Noting that one of Michael's footmen had unpacked his toiletries and neatly arranged them on the dressing table, Daniel reached for his bottle of British Sterling after-shave, and slapped some on his high-cheeked face. He should have shaved, but then he thought that a little bit of bristle looked masculine, and sexy!
As he completed his toilette, Daniel felt . . . unsettled. He could not at first put his finger on his unease and then he realised what it was. The house was quiet, too quiet. The place should have been throbbing with the noise of twenty-odd boys. Yet it was not.
Wondering where everyone had gone, Daniel peered out of the window, but saw nothing but a passing patrol. Sniffing disdainfully, he wondered if "the boys" were all in their rooms, doing what boys usually did in private, even that snot-nosed little bastard with the green eyes. The adorable, hunky Lieutenant Arnott was probably drilling him.
Sighing, Daniel for a brief moment thought about inviting one of the young men for a late night supper. There were several prime, ripe specimens to choose from, and he wondered just what it would take to entice the hulking boy called Harry, whom Daniel thought would look adorable in a leather codpiece, into his lair. Or one of the Americans, perhaps? What was the boy's name . . . Mark? Yes, Mark, was an Adonis, and although Daniel had no way of knowing, Daniel imagined him to be hung like a bull.
Licking his lips, Daniel winked at his reflection. "So many men, so little time!" he told himself. Then he shook his head, dismissing such foolish thoughts. He was not at all bothered that the young men were fellow knights. They had balls and dicks, and that was all he was interested in.
Daniel had learned very early on to use the information he gathered - freely offered information - to his own advantage, particularly in his predatory search for boy dick. His family farm was located miles outside of Kingston and he rode the bus every morning, first to elementary school, and then to high school. As a freshman in high school he had surveyed the terrain and discovered an undercurrent of sexuality. Not with him, for he was just a freshman, to be ignored by seniors, unless they deigned to dismiss him as a "queer" or a "faggot".
At first Daniel was hurt, and wept bitter tears. Then he realised that sooner or later the objects of his lust would beat a path to his door. On the bus he always sat at the back, with a gaggle of senior girls in front, senior girls who gossiped and giggled, whispering secrets about their boyfriends, and what they would not do with their boyfriends. As he listened, Daniel came to understand that while the girls talked a good fuck, almost none of them did the deed, and the furthest any of them would go was a quick hand job in the car. Daniel's eyes gleamed with anticipation - there was a world of sex-starved boys out there! He also learned from the girls the length, girth and colour of half the dicks in school. He learned who had skin, and who didn't, and which boy had tried to get his girl to give him a blowjob.
Being venal and amoral, Daniel decided that with so many horny guys out there - and too few girls to help them out - he would happily take care of their needs and they would just as happily take care of his.
Daniel had moved carefully and slowly and it was all so ridiculously easy. Because of his grades he was asked to tutor one of the hunkier jocks, whom he knew to be deeply involved with one of the cheerleaders, a cheerleader who did not put out. The boy was putty in Daniel's hands. Daniel not only tutored the boy, he listened to him complain about his lack of a sex life. Daniel used flattery, a most potent weapon, opining that he could not understand any girl could fail to be attentive to as handsome a jock such as his student was, and a very handsome jock, who had so much to offer. Daniel also mentioned, artlessly in passing that sometimes buddies helped each other to "get over the hump" as it were. By their third tutoring session they were in bed.
Daniel loved the sex! The jock, not unexpectedly, for he was a jock, would never reciprocate, which did not bother Daniel at all. He enjoyed oral and anal sex, always giving. He knew that there was more to come, and from some very surprising quarters. Both boys had sworn each other to total, uncompromising secrecy. The watch words were, "Don't talk about it, ever." But of course the jock, who was getting constant, more than satisfying sex for the first time, could not keep their secret. He simply had to tell his best friend, another jock. Before Daniel knew it he had seven "students" needing his special brand of tutoring.
Later, as he walked across the stage in the school auditorium to collect his diploma, Daniel's eyes scanned the crowd and saw upwards of a hundred of his "students". High school had been very educational and satisfying.
During his high school years Daniel had learned about the habits of his classmates, and had learned what turned them on, and what made them tremble with utter terror. At first his students had been the dominant partners, the so-called "Alpha Male", happy to fuck Daniel senseless, and strut and preen about it afterward. What they feared was disclosure of what actually went on during the study sessions. And this allowed Daniel to control his partners. It was better if the student reciprocated, which many did, including two of the jocks who, much to Daniel's surprise, were even bigger queens than he was, at least in bed! They wanted to be fucked, and while Daniel much preferred to be on the receiving end, he managed to keep them happy. Once one of his students performed a "forbidden" act, Daniel had him. He could, and did, withhold his favours, and could pick and choose whom he would tutor.
Daniel knew that he was playing a dangerous game, but he also knew he had an ace in the hole - public abomination of homosexuality. Queers were anathema, beneath contempt - and not fit to associate with "normal" people. A queer could be beaten with impunity - it was something he deserved just for being queer. A queer could be thrown out of school, out of his home and ostracized. He deserved it by being a queer.
Being basically unscrupulous, and without a conscience, Daniel played the card. When one of his "students" stopped coming around, and seemed to be paying a great deal of attention to one of his buddies, Daniel had thrown a private hissy fit of jealousy, not so much because "Tom" had stopped coming around - he was a lousy lay and had a small cock - but because "Dick" had spurned his offers of private tutoring sessions. Slyly, Daniel started a whispering campaign. His opportunity had come during one lunch hour when one of the girls remarked that "Tom" didn't seem to date much any more. Daniel had sipped his milk, smirked and replied that "Tom" was much too involved in his sports routine, as was "Dick", "Tom's" best friend. After all, they spent all their time together. Not that there was anything going on, of course. "Tom" and "Dick" were jocks, and just interested in doing jock things.
Daniel's deliberate doubting tone set tongues to wagging. That, as it turned out, "Tom" and "Dick" were not doing anything other than jock things, meant nothing. They were awfully close, were always together and, did you know, during the away games they always slept together in the same bed! Where there was smoke . . . Although nothing could ever be proven, because nothing had been going on, both boys, their reputations irredeemably smeared by the whispers, had abruptly left school. One went to Toronto, and never returned to Kingston. The other had driven over to Watertown and visited the US Army Recruiting Centre. There was a war in Vietnam and he would prove his manhood. He came home, eventually, but with an escort of one officer, six pallbearers and a delegation from the VFW to play Taps and fire the three volleys over his grave that military protocol entitled him to.
Ruining two young lives had bothered Daniel not at all. He had proved his point (at least to himself) and had put the fear of God into his partners. If they treated him badly, he would destroy them. His partners took the hint and Daniel was very grateful for their consideration.
Daniel also learned something about himself. He had learned that each boy reacted differently to his seduction. Most lay back and enjoyed. But some had to justify what they had done. They could not allow anyone to know that they had given in to their more prurient desires. They had to assert their masculinity, they had to be the male and they lashed out, with their fists, or with whatever was at hand. These boys usually left after beating Daniel, warning that worse was to come if he opened his mouth, and most never came back. But some did, revelling in the role of the master, demanding sex, belittling Daniel, making him suffer for the affront of making them want to have him suck their dick, or let them fuck him. And Daniel loved it. His personal satisfaction was heightened when his partner dominated him.
After leaving Kingston, Daniel had been discreet, and avoided the more physical partners. He could not explain away bruises, not during his time as an Officer Cadet, or on any of his courses where he had to share a barracks or a room with another officer. But he craved the domination, needed to be the slave. He needed rough sex and the rougher the better.
Leaving the mirror and his narcissistic preening, Daniel sat at the writing table and found a sheet of heavy, cream-coloured notepaper. He chuckled malevolently as he picked a pen. He tapped the pen against the desk, thinking. He was an officer in the Canadian Armed Forces, a Doctor of Medicine, and he had been ignored and insulted. He had been treated like dirt! He was a knight of the Order, which really meant nothing to him. He had only joined at the urging of that dippy Anglican priest at the Cathedral back home who, when he wasn't dressing up like the Empress Josephine, was recruiting choirboys for his circle of friends.
Sighing, Daniel thought of those heady days and then shook his head. He was digressing and that was then. His knighthood aside, he returned to his original thought: he was an officer, and should have been greeted by his fellow officers as one of them, which he thought his right, and only his due. Yet they had all but turned up their noses at him, ignored him, and while none had expressed it he could see the contempt in their eyes. Oh, it had been there, that look that said that while he might wear the lace, he was not really one of them.
That none of the officers, not Andy or Kyle, or Commander Stockman had done anything but greet the doctor with politeness was not the point. They had allowed him to be treated with disrespect - the look in that little bastard's eyes as his hand was stitched had said it all, so far as Daniel was concerned. And Stockman had sat there, smiling like a geriatric ninny! Hadn't said a word and allowed that obese caricature to babble on about "Anteaters"! Daniel had seen the sneer the old fuck had given him. Daniel knew! He always knew!
Well, he thought, there are ways to repay a slight! The Bible might say that vengeance was the Lord's, but when he was finished vengeance would Daniel Dane Bradley-Smith's!
In the course of his military duties, Daniel had attended at two suicides, and three attempted suicides, all the end result of investigations of alleged homosexuality by the Special Investigations Unit of the Military Police. A particularly inept organisation, which Daniel thought incapable of finding its collective ass in a dark room, SIU specialized in rooting out "queers". The agents spent so much time sniffing sheets and looking under the beds in the barracks that General Minh's drug dealers had free run of the base. Drugs were, or so it seemed, secondary. There were queers about, and that could not be tolerated. The merest hint of homosexuality would set the Esquimalt SIU off on a feeding frenzy, and it did not matter if the man were guilty or not. It did not matter if there was no evidence.
SIU would gladly fabricate whatever was necessary, add a sentence here, a paragraph there to the written confessions they always demanded, and which they always got in the end. The Gestapo and KGB had nothing on SIU when they were on a witch-hunt for queers. The agents used Medieval intimidation, and terror tactics, which was not surprising as their "training" manual for interrogating suspects, a gift from their counterparts in the US Navy's NIS, was based on a book published in 1484, the Malleus Maleficarum, and used by the Inquisition to conduct witch-hunts and interrogations of suspected witches. Nothing was forbidden and the ends justified the means. The agents knew that they could get away with lying, with forgery, with terror, because nobody wanted a queer in the Armed Forces. They were only fags, and were guilty and only getting what they deserved anyway.
An anonymous telephone call would do it. So would an anonymous letter, suitably embellished of course. Daniel began to draft a letter. He doubted that SIU could do anything about the pack of faggoty Sea Cadets. But, Commander Frank Stockman, Sub-Lieutenant Kyle St. Vincent and Ensign Andy Berg, they were a different kettle of fish. SIU just loved snaring officers in their net. That they might be as innocent as cherubs bothered Daniel not at all. Nor would it bother SIU. Where there was smoke . . . And what made the whole thing even better was that the Americans were more Draconian. He had heard stories about NIS, stories that made his blood run cold. Yes, a short, concise anonymous note in the post would do the job nicely.
Daniel wrote for perhaps half an hour and then carefully folded the piece of paper filled with innuendo and falsehood. He would have an opportunity later to post it. But then he thought, no. He would wait until he returned to Esquimalt. Let the knock on the door come when it was least expected.
Finished, Daniel then regarded the telephone that sat on the bedside table. He should have reported in hours ago, but that delicious footman had distracted him - Daniel wondered if Bogart might be available later in the evening, or if he knew of any other of the footmen who might like to play. Leaving the writing table he sat on the bed and lifted the telephone receiver from its cradle, and began to dial.
"Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, fifteen-six, six is twelve and . . ." Patrick Tsang deftly advanced the plastic peg along the cribbage board. He grinned at Frank "The Horse" Campbell. "Cribbage!"
Frank glowered at Patrick. "You're cheating," he accused.
"Why Francis, are you suggesting that I am manipulating the pasteboards to my advantage?" Patrick asked innocently as he gathered the cards.
"You're cheating," grumbled Frank. Then he asked, "How much do I owe you."
Patrick quickly totalled the score. "Five for the game and seventeen for the points. And I take cheques."
Ignoring Frank's dark look, Patrick began to deal the cards. He had thought, when Michael asked him to help supervise the basement control room, and monitor the comings and goings of the catering staff, that he would be bored. Patrick also knew that Michael wanted him to get his hands dirty. It was one thing to sit behind a desk and give orders; it was another to actually see how the orders were carried out.
The experience was doing Patrick a deal of good. He learned that every yard of the grounds was monitored by closed circuit television. Frank, who had been with the Security Force for almost three years, showed Patrick the system, and pointed out areas of interest, areas where trees overhung the wall, small, seemingly insignificant gaps in the system. He also showed Patrick how to monitor the telephones.
While the incoming calls came through a central switchboard, outgoing calls could be dialled directly from the rooms. The Major had included a monitoring system when he first designed the security protocol for the estate, but it was little used. When Michael, and the Major, had first learned of Captain K'ang's treachery the Major had called for the telephone bills, which showed every call from the house. There were two calls to Taipei recorded, not surprising given K'ang's suspected ties with the Taiwanese CIA. Disturbing, however, were three other calls, one to Hong Kong, two to Shanghai! Michael suspected that the Captain had been in contact with the Triads. The telephone calls could not be ignored.
Not knowing who was involved in K'ang's plotting, Michael had shipped all of his Chinese guards home. The Major, blaming himself for the security breach, had quietly ordered the telephone monitoring system activated. A transcript of every outgoing call was sent to the Major every evening. The only exceptions were those calls made from Michael's seldom-used telephones. Michael rarely spoke about his business over anything that might have a recording device attached to it.
So far, the calls had been boring, and devoid of anything of interest. The Maestro had called out to his suppliers, the calls filled with threats for the most part if the needed foodstuff or wine was not delivered within the hour. One of the footmen called out, and Frank had an interesting half-hour as he listened to the footman trying to con his girl friend into meeting when he got off work.
The console that sat behind the desk had been quiet since the guests had arrived. The catering staff, the Maestro aside, was much to busy serving to make telephone calls. The cadets were much too busy eating and enjoying themselves to telephone anyone.
Patrick's presence did not bother Frank at all. He enjoyed the young man's company during a very boring duty, and when Patrick suggested a game of cribbage, Frank had agreed. Losing to Patrick was not as onerous has Frank made out. And at least he did not have to worry about Patrick putting the moves on him. Frank had never met a straighter guy, and he had learned his lesson after the unfortunate incident with Kuang Hsu.
Patrick had just finished examining his hand when a light on the console blinked yellow. He looked over Frank's shoulder and said, "Someone is calling out."
Frank turned and flicked two switches. One activated the reel-to-reel tape recorder and the other allowed him to listen in, using a set of earphones. He placed one of the earphones against his ear, listened, and then quickly handed the set to Patrick. "You'd better hear this," he said with agitation. "It's that doctor!"
Patrick, who had been briefed by the Major, quickly placed the headset over his ears.
"You are late in reporting," complained Diem. His voice was low, and emotionless. He had learned a long time ago that it did not do to antagonize a field agent, particularly a white. They were all secret racists. As a "Saigon Cowboy", Diem had sped through the dusty, crowded streets of Saigon, which were filled with Americans looking for what Diem sold: drugs and prostitutes. The soldiers were all smiles and openness if Diem had what they wanted. If not, he received a curse and a smack upside his head. Whites could not be trusted but, as he had told his general, at times they had their uses.
Daniel ignored Diem's whining. "I told you that I would be arriving late," he snapped. It was bad enough that he had to put up with the arrogance and disrespect of the cadets and officers; he did not have to take any crap from some Chink.
Stifling his anger, Diem growled, "So you did. What have you seen?"
"Not much," replied Daniel. "The place is a fortress, but then you knew that."
"Yes. You have the patrol schedule?"
Nodding, Daniel said, "It's very intensive. I counted a patrol about every three or four minutes around the perimeter. Two man patrols, each armed with what looks like an automatic rifle. There are four guards at the main gate, two outside, two in the gatehouse."
"Internal patrols?" asked Diem. "We understand that there are two security forces, one that patrols the outside perimeter, and one that patrols the grounds and the house."
Without thinking, Daniel shrugged his indifference. "The house is overrun with caterers and waiters," he sniffed. "None of them are carrying weapons . . ." At least not the kind you'd be interested in, he thought. "And none of them look like security guards."
"You can hardly miss them!" snarled Diem. He felt his anger rising at the doctor's obvious stupidity. He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. "The outside force is composed of white men, Americans and British for the most part. The inside force is exclusively Chinese," he informed Daniel.
Feeling a note of contempt in Diem's voice, Daniel flared. "I can tell the difference and there are no Chinese anything around here, except for Michael Chan and two or three others."
Diem started. "What . . . where did they go? We were reliably informed that all the inside force was Chinese!"
"How would I know?" retorted Daniel. "I'm telling you that there are no Chinese guards!"
All but biting his tongue, Diem reluctantly apologized. "It would seem that we were misinformed."
Once again Daniel shrugged. "All the guards are white. I haven't counted too many though. Most of the men are detailed to act as minders for Chan's guests."
"Guests? What guests?"
Daniel sighed. Did he have to do everything? "Chan has a group of knights - young ones - who are enjoying his hospitality. You know that he is the Grand Master of the Order . . ."
"A foolish affectation," interrupted Diem. "It does nothing. What are these knights doing?"
"Enjoying themselves," replied Daniel. He grimaced and added silently, "And insulting their betters!" He continued on. "They hardly pose a threat. Most of them are schoolboys. They're leaving on Saturday, early."
Diem remained silent, thinking. Then he asked, "Can you get a count of the guards? Will the guards accompany these 'guests' when they leave?"
"I can't see why," replied Daniel with a yawn. "The kids are on their way to a funeral in Québec, Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré actually."
"You must get a count of the guards," instructed Diem. He had no interest in schoolboys going, or coming from a funeral or a fun fair.
Daniel thought a moment. "Well, so far I would say about 50, perhaps a little more, certainly no more than seventy-five or so. I've seen the same guards patrolling."
Diem was silent. He had to consider every aspect of the planned operation. Without the Chinese guards, the outside security force would be brought inside - or at least a goodly portion of it. That meant that the patrols would be sporadic and undermanned. That was good. The location, however, was bad. The house was surrounded by acres of gardens and lawns. Access to the estate was a relatively simple matter. But, given the open spaces any attacking force would be spotted long before they ever hit the house. He also had to consider the estate to the south of Michael's house. It was filled with Chans and Chiangs, and whatnot, all kin to Michael, and there had to be some sort of a security force there.
"Are you still there?" Daniel asked impatiently.
Diem frowned. "I am weighing my options - and yours!" he replied harshly.
"Mine?" Daniel paled. "What have I got to do with whatever plans you have?"
"You are part of this! Our future is your future! Remember that!"
"Are you threatening me?" demanded Daniel as his stomach heaved.
"Frankly, yes," retorted Diem. He wanted to slam down the telephone receiver but that would serve no purpose, except perhaps to make him feel better. "Now listen. Give me an exact count of the guards and, if possible, go for a walk outside the compound and see if the area is patrolled. Also, the house to the south is the ancestral home of the Chans. Find a way to visit there. If there are guards I must know it. Certain events must occur and you are the point man, you understand the term?"
"No."
With gritted teeth Diem repressed an urge to throw the telephone across the room. "You are there, you must observe and report everything you see. There is a great deal at stake. The general has invested a great deal of time, and money, and he does not suffer fools gladly." Diem paused, and added unthinkingly. "Nor do his business acquaintances. A pipeline has been established, a pipeline that will bring wealth beyond counting to those who are fortunate enough to participate in our plans." He laughed harshly. "The Soongs can be very generous to their friends." Then he added ominously, "And relentless to their enemies!"
Daniel had no idea what Diem was talking about. Still, "wealth beyond counting" intrigued him. He had never known wealth - his family owned their farm, but little more. He had only joined the Navy's University Training Program to take advantage of the benefits offered. His parents were of modest means, and he had two younger brothers, both of whom needed to be educated. Then there were the other fringe benefits, a large, discreetly located house, the security that only money brought, the men that would worship him if the price were right.
"Don't worry," Daniel soothed as dollar signs danced in his eyes.
"I must worry," returned Diem. "What else is happening?"
Daniel thought a moment. "There is to be a dinner at Michael's restaurant tonight. Everybody will be there."
Shaking his head, Diem considered this option and rejected it. There would be too many guards - the Tsangs kept order in Chinatown and even Diem feared that particular clan. There were also too many tourists about. There could be no "collateral damage". The general would not allow it. "You say the guests leave on Saturday?"
"Yes. Early in the morning as far as I know."
"And then?"
"I have no idea," responded Daniel truthfully. "I am going with them."
"And Michael, and the guards?"
"I told you, no. So far as I have heard the minders will stay here," said Daniel, talking off the top of his head. There were no plans for anyone other than the cadets to leave for Quebec that he knew of.
"Very well, keep me informed. And do not fail!"
Diem terminated the conversation.
Patrick, slightly pale, removed the headset and looked at Frank. "Where is Michael?" he asked.
Frank wheeled in his chair and scanned the bank of screens. "There," he said, pointing. "He's sitting on the terrace with Mrs. Arundel and that boy they call The Phantom."
Rising from his chair, Patrick issued his orders. "Find the Major and inform him. Make a copy of the tape and have it delivered to Michael's office." As he turned to leave the small room he added, "And Frank, tell no one."
Frank nodded but did not reply. He had no intention of mentioning anything to anyone. He was loyal, and swallowed the pique he felt at Patrick's' words, and inexperience in dealing with men. "And then," Frank thought as he began to make the copy Patrick asked for, "I do like my balls exactly where they are!"
Patrick forced himself to smile as he approached the small group sitting on the terrace. His news was important but he could not give any indication that anything was amiss. Michael, knowing that something had caused Patrick to leave his post, glanced quizzically at Patrick but gave no sign of anything but pleasure at seeing his protégé.
"Mrs. Arundel," began Michael, "allow me to introduce the newest member of my staff, Patrick Tsang."
As she rose, Catherine gave Patrick a strange look. She had been around long enough to know about the Tsangs, and this young man certainly did not look like one of them! She smiled winningly. "How very nice to meet you Mr. Tsang." she said, "or may I call you Patrick?"
Patrick, much taken by the still-beautiful woman, returned her smile, this time with purpose. "The pleasure is mine and yes, please call me Patrick."
Michael turned to The Phantom. "And this is Philip Lascelles, of whom I have spoken," he said to Patrick.
As he extended his left hand, The Phantom saw a slim, rather handsome young man. Patrick, before he took The Phantom's hand, gave the younger man a proper, correct neck bow. "I am honoured, Your Imperial Highness," he murmured.
Both The Phantom and Mrs. Arundel stared at the young Chinese, both wondering where "Imperial Highness" had come from. Mrs. Arundel shot The Phantom an enquiring look, but the blank stare in his eyes told her that the young man was as much in the dark as she was.
For his part, The Phantom recovered quickly. He was aware that Michael had something planned but aside from the broad hints that Chef gave him, he knew nothing about highnesses, or lownesses for that matter! He decided not to press the matter and smiled winningly. "Please, my friends call me 'Phantom'. Will you join us?"
Patrick returned The Phantom's warmth as he sat down. "I am afraid I am only able to stay a short while." He looked purposefully at Michael. "I am afraid we must finalise the details for this evening," he lied.
Michael, who had already given his instructions for the dinner at his restaurant, pretended to follow Patrick's lead. "Ah, yes. Details, details," he said with a smile. He turned to Mrs. Arundel. "Perhaps you and your ladies would care to join us?" he asked politely, more or less expecting her to decline the invitation.
"Why, Michael, how very kind of you," Catherine replied. "We would be delighted." She turned to Patrick. "I have so little opportunity to see my sons, and of course my husband is very busy with his new appointment . . ." She looked pointedly at Michael. " . . .And other things."
Michael took the hint and waited for the other shoe to drop. Mrs. Arundel was a perceptive woman and it would seem that she had picked up some hints of what was going on.
Catherine, however, saw no point in bearding Michael at the moment. She began to rise - the others, as became gentlemen, rose with her - and said, "And if you will excuse me, I shall speak to Mabell and Mary. They will be ever so pleased."
As they resumed their seats Michael asked The Phantom, "And what shall you do, my young friend? Perhaps join the swimmers?"
Shrugging, The Phantom replied. "I think I'll just wait for Alex to return." He sniggered boyishly. "A session with the Proctor can be very unnerving!"
"At least Chef doesn't treat a man as if he were a horse up for auction!" thought Patrick with a secret grin.
Michael, who seemed to know exactly what Patrick was thinking, smiled knowingly. "Chef knows what to do," he said. He heard a footfall and saw Alex coming out of the garden room. "And here is our latest candidate - I hope."
Alex looked pale, but his step was firm and his back was straight. He greeted Michael and was about to step aside, to take up a position near the windows of the house, when Michael gestured for him to sit down. "Patrick, we must attend to your problem and I am sure that Phantom would like to speak to young Grinchsten."
Having been the recipient of Chef's act in his role as Proctor, The Phantom definitely wanted to speak to Alex. As Michael and Patrick withdrew he looked at Alex. "Well?"
Alex smiled a crooked smile and said, "Wow!"
Chuckling, The Phantom nodded. "There's a lot to absorb."
"Does he, does Chef speak to all the candidates?" asked Alex.
"No, at least not right away. He's supposed to, but we sort of inundated him," replied The Phantom with a smile. "Of course, we also came highly recommended by The Gunner. He's the Chancellor of the Order."
"Yes, Chef explained that." Alex lapsed into silence and seemed preoccupied and then blurted, "I have a problem with the 'professing' thing."
"You don't understand?" asked The Phantom, stalling for time. He had no idea what Chef had said to Alex, but obviously some of what was said did not sit well with the young American. The Phantom wanted to help Alex, in any way he could, but he had to be very careful in how he went about it. There could be no pressure.
"I understand," replied Alex glumly.
The Phantom began thinking quickly, trying to understand what was behind Alex's reluctance. Was he gay, but could not admit it? The Phantom could understand this. Hell and sheeit, he only had to look to Greg Carroll, who was madly in love with Harry, and had slept with the Drum Major, and had later, in the Ship's Office, all but written an appendix to the Kama Sutra with Jimmy Collyer, but insisted that what he was doing was just two guys fooling around and that he was in no way a fag!
Could it be that Alex was not gay and resented the inference, no matter how carefully put, that he was? The Phantom looked inward for an answer. It had taken him a long to admit to himself the truth. He also admitted that had anyone, before he came to Aurora, asked him if he were gay, he would have denied, denied and denied.
The Phantom turned and saw that Alex's pink face was blushing pinker. All The Phantom's instincts told him that Alex was an honest, upright guy. Blushing furiously did not seem, to The Phantom, to be something one would expect from a decorated veteran. He wondered if there were something else, something that had happened in Vietnam, that Alex also would not talk about.
Thinking carefully, and wishing to put his minder at ease, The Phantom spoke carefully. "Chef told you that the Order is composed, for the most part, of gay men, that its whole purpose is to help gay men and boys?"
"Yes."
"And knowing Chef, he also told you that there are members - knights - who are not gay?"
Alex nodded, "Yeah." He looked puzzled, however.
"You cannot think why straight men might want to be associated with us," The Phantom thought sadly. "Was this Alex's problem?"
The Phantom nodded at the small group of ladies whispering at their table - plotting Mrs. Arundel's campaign to convince Michael to allow them to accompany the young knights, no doubt - and said, "Mrs. Arundel's husband, Bertie, is a very high ranking knight. He's not gay."
Alex seemed to relax a bit. The Phantom smiled warmly at him, and then continued. "The Order, and your brother knights deserve, no, are entitled to your complete honesty."
The Phantom's eyes - two emerald gems - looked evenly at Alex as he said, "It is a hard thing, to admit publicly, in front of witnesses, something that you know privately to be the truth." The Phantom then added in a low, soft voice, "As well I know."
Alex darted an inquiring glance at the young man. Could it be that . . .? Seemingly thinking aloud, The Phantom continued, "Alex, the Rule of the Order is clear. All it asks is that a candidate tell the truth." He smiled sadly. "Sometimes the truth is hard to hear, because once it is told, it can't be taken back. The rule on the outside is 'Don't talk about it', so nobody does . . ."
Alex's eyes widened slightly. He was hearing an admission, something he had never expected something that, as The Phantom had said, was never talked about. The Phantom, in his own way, was telling Alex a truth that, Alex suspected, until this moment had never been revealed aloud.
The Phantom was musing now. "In the Order a man can be himself. On the outside, once you say the words, once you say you're gay, you're a marked man." Alex's thin face tightened. He felt guilty, for The Phantom had just related one of his deepest feelings. Yet at the same time Alex felt a warm, strong bond developing between this strange young man and himself. It would seem that not only the Order sought honesty. Alex realized that in a way The Phantom was the embodiment of truth, and what the Order sought to be.
With an admiring glance at The Phantom - it took a hell of a man to admit to a relative stranger that he was gay - Alex decided to unburden himself of a part of him that had been festering for over two years, and to assure The Phantom of one of the reasons the Order, and Michael Chan, would never need to question the loyalty of the men of the Protection Service.
"I am already a marked man!" Alex said flatly. "I'm a Vietnam Vet! I killed babies. I burned peaceful, defenceless villages. I killed, without thinking, innocent peasants. I napalmed schoolgirls on their way to market!" His face was flush with almost uncontrolled rage. "I am all those things!" With clenched fists Alex continued. "If it weren't for Mr. Michael I'd probably be living under a bridge, lost in a fog of drugs or booze or both! Guys like me, we're the forgotten generation and nobody is in a fucking hurry to remember us. We . . ."
The Phantom raised his hand and placed it gently against Alex's warm face. "You are none of those things, Alex," he murmured softly. "You have killed, yes, but that was war. I understand your feelings, and I see in your eyes the hurt you feel. But that will change."
"No, it won't!" insisted Alex vehemently. "I won't tell you what happened to me when I came home because I'd just be repeating the same story a thousand times over." He waved his arm, his gesture encompassing the wide lawns. "Every American here, every swinging dick, is here because Michael Chan gave us something our own people wouldn't! He gave us a job, yes, but he also gave us back our self-respect, he gave us back our balls!"
"And he is offering you much more," said The Phantom. "He is offering you a purpose . . ."
"The Order," interrupted Alex.
"Yes." Emotionally, The Phantom took Alex's hand in his. "Your people will, in time, recognise the sacrifice you and your brothers made." He saw Alex about to argue and shook his head. "Oh, there will be the usual lowlife liberals who will jump on the band wagon because they have no choice, sort of like the Bubbas down south who will hate blacks until their dying day but pay lip service to prevailing wind, or the anti-Semitic hypocrites who don't dare express their hatred of Jews. Those people stay in their cesspools, and never come out. They've been with us forever, and will be with us forever. But I am not talking about them. I'm talking about the average American, who is kind-hearted, and generous. Sooner or later they'll recognise how badly you, and your brothers, were treated, and they'll make it right."
Alex snorted his doubt.
"It's true, Alex. One day you'll go home with honour. One day someone, when you least expect it, will come up and shake your hand and tell you he's sorry for the way he acted, for the way he treated you. It will take time, but it will happen."
"It will take a long time, sir," responded Alex glumly. "They might 'forgive' me for doing what I thought was my duty. I just don't know if I will be able to forgive them."
"You will, Alex," said The Phantom. "You're a good and honourable man."
"I'm glad you think so," replied Alex with a shy smile.
"The Gunner has a saying," The Phantom thought, "that says that a real man will do the harder right and not the easier wrong." Alex would do the right thing.
Looking into Alex's eyes, The Phantom decided to return to the main point. "Alex, you have been offered a knighthood. You don't have to profess at all. You don't even have to become a knight. You can be a Companion."
"If I accept, I will go the distance," replied Alex.
"I know you will," replied The Phantom. "I am only concerned that you understand that if you do join the Order you become, well, queer by association. That is what I meant by saying that you would be 'marked'."
"I know, Phantom, I saw it in Vietnam, and I saw it at home. I come from a small town, a dairy farm, actually," said Alex. "I joined the Marines to get away from the cows!"
"You don't like cows?" asked The Phantom. "I always thought them to be rather gentle creatures."
"Not at four o'clock in the morning in the middle of an Iowa winter!" grumbled Alex.
Laughing, The Phantom continued. "At least cows don't judge you, which is what people will do. People won't know you, won't know what you've done, what you will do, but they will happily judge you and condemn you."
Alex looked sad a moment. "You know, when I was in Vietnam, there were . . . gays. Most of the guys didn't care and nobody gave their being gay a second thought. They were our buddies, and they fought and died like all the rest of us."
"Which is the way it should be," responded The Phantom, his voice taking on a deeply emotional timbre. "But that was war, that was Vietnam. Out there . . ." he pointed toward the far wall. "Out there, no matter what good and wonderful deeds you do, your God, my God, will condemn us, or so the Church says He will. It will not matter that you dedicate your life to healing, or teaching, you are marked as unfit. It does not matter how well you champion your country, or offer your body in its service, your country, and my country, will disgrace us. Military regulations tell us that 'homosexuality is incompatible with military service'. The military will cast us aside, dispose of us." A wry grin split The Phantom's face. "Better, it would seem, to fall on one's sword, to devour one's young, than give lie to the fiction that gays cannot serve with honour!"
Alex understood The Phantom's meaning. He gently punched the young man's shoulder. "Nobody ever said that the military possessed anything as simple as common sense."
The Phantom reached out and gently squeezed Alex's shoulder. "We'll go on, Alex. We'll do the harder right"
Nodding firmly, Alex said, "Damn straight!" His eyes became soft. "Times are changing, sir," he offered. "People are tired of being told half-truths and lies. People are learning . . ."
"Yes, they are," agreed The Phantom. "But not quickly enough."
"You've told me that there is hope, that in time I will be forgiven for being a Vietnam Marine," said Alex kindly. "Maybe, in time . . ." His voice trailed off. Then his face brightened. "And if all else fails, I can always go back to the cows!"
The Phantom laughed and slapped his knee. "Hell and sheeit! I knew there was a reason I liked you!" He stood up. "Come on."
"Where are we going?" asked Alex as he walked beside The Phantom.
"I thought I'd go over and see how the guys are doing," replied The Phantom. "Maybe take a swim."
"What about your hand?" Alex asked as he pointed to The Phantom's bandage.
The Phantom had no intention of going for a swim, but he had decided to have a little fun at Alex's expense, to chuck some shit and see how Alex reacted. After all, if Alex was about to join the ranks of the knights he had better get used to having shit chucked at him, especially with Harry, the Twins, and Randy and Joey around. Particularly Randy and Joey around!
"Well, that so-called doctor didn't say anything about me not being able to swim."
"He didn't say you could, either," returned Alex. "And I don't notice you wearing a swimming suit."
As they approached the gate that would give them access to the estate next door, The Phantom winked at Alex. "Never been skinny dipping?"
Alex pulled up short. "Of course I have," he said as he followed The Phantom through the gate. "I didn't spend all my time with those goddamned cows!"
"Then there's no problem." The Phantom stopped and turned to Alex. "But then again, I may have to tell Phil Thornton to tie up Randy and Joey and put them in a corner. There's no telling what they'll do if they see you . . . nekkid!"
"Who said anything about me being 'nekkid'?" demanded Alex. "If you think I'm going to strip off in front of that bunch of perverts you're sadly mistaken and who in the hell is Phil Thornton."
"Big, beefy guy, with dark hair," replied The Phantom as they approached the Orangerie.
"I thought that was Harry."
"Well, he's also big and beefy, but he owns the Pride of the Fleet, which he'll be very happy to show you!"
"What in the hell is that?" demanded Alex, more confused than ever.
The Phantom turned and grinned. "Why the Pride of the Fleet . . ." he laughed and slapped Alex on the shoulder. "One day, if you are lucky, you will tell your grandchildren that you saw it!"
"Assuming I have any," returned Alex. "I may profess, you know."
The Phantom did not quite absorb Alex's words. "Well, maybe one day you can adopt . . ." He stopped abruptly. "What did you say?"
"Assuming I have any?"
"Alex!"
"Oh, I may profess." Alex grinned at The Phantom. "And don't look so shocked."
"But I thought . . ." began The Phantom.
"I know," said Alex, still smiling. "And maybe I'll tell you why I think I should profess." He looked toward the classical outlines of the Orangerie. "But not right now. I feel like a swim . . ." He sniggered at the obviously nonplussed knight. "And I just might do it . . . nekkid!"
Michael listened to the recording again and then nodded his head. He looked first at Pete, and then at Patrick. "So, now we know," observed Michael flatly as Major Meinertzhagen turned off the tape player.
"And now that we know, what do we do about it?" asked Pete.
Michael noted Pete's use of "we" and smiled slightly. "Diem works for General Minh, who plans on eliminating me, and taking my place," he said with a scowl. "Minh will not stop at sending me to join my ancestors." His eyes darted toward Patrick and Pete. "Anyone associated with me is a target. He wants complete control and will not be merciful to those associated with me."
Patrick looked perplexed. "What I do not understand is Diem's reference to the Soongs! Did I not just spend five excruciating days negotiating a marriage contract for you with them?"
Michael did not immediately answer. He stared out of the window, looking into the distance. Then he said, "Gold, and heroin."
Pete and Patrick exchanged a glance.
Not turning, Michael continued. "The highlands of the Golden Triangle, the area where the borders of Laos, Thailand and Burma meet, are little more than one huge poppy plantation. The sap of the opium, when it is harvested, is a valuable commodity. It can be sold raw, or refined into heroin.
"The poppy fields are controlled by warlords, who maintain armies to protect their territory. These armies must be maintained, paid, fed, dressed, armed and so on." Michael sighed. "In order to supply their armies the warlords sell the opium crop - for gold, or U.S. dollars."
"The Soongs buy the crop?" asked Pete. His knowledge of the heroin trade was minimal, but he knew what disasters it had brought to the American army in Vietnam. He also knew from friends who were still in the Army, that drugs, narcotics, were a huge, and seemingly unsolvable problem that still plagued the U.S. military.
Michael smiled wryly. "The Soongs? They would never soil their hands with the trade. They are much too much a part of the establishment, well respected for their good works." He shook his head. "The Soongs are the bankers. They have connections in South Africa and India. They are well-known gold brokers and currency traders."
Michael returned to his seat and tapped the top of his desk reflectively. "The warlords will sell only for cash, or gold bars. There is no bargaining. The Soongs charge a commission to the men they lend the gold or dollars to. The refined opium, now heroin, is smuggled through Hong Kong and Bangkok to the United States and Canada. There it is sold through a network of dealers. The profits, which are phenomenal, must then be laundered."
"Which the Soongs are happy to do as merchant bankers. They have banks in San Francisco, New York, and here!" said Patrick.
"Quite right. When Diem promised Bradley-Smith great rewards he was not lying." Michael pointed a finger at Pete. "There is enough for everyone. A kilo of Number Four Grade heroin sells for 12,000 US Dollars in Thailand. It is approximately 70 per cent pure. The dealers 'cut' the heroin with lactose powder, until it is perhaps five percent opium, and then it is sold in packets for twenty dollars a gram."
Pete let loose a long, low whistle. "Jesus," he gasped. Running the figures quickly in his head he pronounced, "That's almost three million dollars from just one kilo! No wonder Minh wants you out."
"I will not be a part of the trade," responded Michael, his face darkening. "I am aware that the profits are mind boggling. I am also aware that all my work will be for nothing if I agree to deal narcotics. The judges, the politicians, the police, look with tolerance on the sins of men. Men will gamble, and drink, and chase women. That is understood and a wise man knows that trying to halt these petty vices is like trying to push back the sea. Because they understand they look away. But . . ." Here Michael pounded the desk. "Drugs are the bane of man! The authorities will never be a part of the trafficking and will do everything they can to stop it."
The Major, who had been sitting quietly, spoke quietly. "Pete, you have become a very valuable member of the Firm, so to speak, and I think it is time that you understand our enemies."
"The Soongs?" asked Pete.
"And the Triads," interjected Michael.
Patrick nodded his agreement. "They have to be in this up to their necks."
"They are." Michael snapped. "They have a product which they wish to sell, and there is a ready market both here and in the United States. Minh, who was deeply involved in the trafficking of narcotics when he was a general in Vietnam, wishes to reconstitute his power base."
Pete looked angry a moment. "The man is . . ." For a moment he could not find the words to express his disgust. "We were fighting for his country and he was smuggling out tons of heroin in coffins disguised as American war dead! He was so corrupt he gave the other corrupt generals a bad name!"
The Major could not help smiling at Pete's unintentional facetiousness. "Sadly true. But what is important is that he had, or has, and I think the latter, a distribution network in place. This network will only grow - one has only to watch the television news to see the masses of Vietnamese refugees clamouring for a new home. Countries are falling over each over to provide a safe haven for them! The fools!"
Seeing the quizzical look on Pete's face, Michael continued where the Major had left off. "While the bulk of the refugees are poor peasants, or ethnic Chinese, Diem is bringing over his henchmen. Through them he will contact his friends here. Setting up the distribution network is not his problem."
"It's already in place, more or less," said the Major. "And there are criminal elements lining up to take his product."
"Yes," agreed Michael. "Neither the government agencies, nor I, will ever stop the trade. It has been going on for decades. I am, however, a bottleneck, a potential stoppage in the system. Minh cannot allow me to block his shipments, which I will do. He must eliminate me. His friends in Hong Kong and Taiwan demand it."
"The general has no choice," agreed the Major with a firm nod of his head. "He is the linchpin, so to speak, of the whole operation." He regarded Pete a moment. "The Triads buy the opium, refine it, and ship it here. Minh's organization distributes the heroin and collects the money. This he, or his agents, gives to the Soongs, who launder it and pay the Triads. Ideally, Vancouver would be the port of entry for these shipments. However, we control the docks on the North Side and in North Vancouver. We would know whenever Minh had a shipment coming in." Then he added ominously, "And we would take steps to prevent its landing."
"Why do the Triads not just set up shop here?" asked Patrick. "They are here, you know."
Michael chuckled. "They are here, yes. But they are not here in force and thanks to the Hong Kong Police the authorities here have a Watch List. If they are busy watching suspected members of a Triad they are not watching Minh. The Triads would love to get rid of him - they do not trust him - but they are not as powerful or as numerous here as the news media would have us believe. Minh provides a smoke screen, and being as vicious and unscrupulous, not to mention disloyal as they, he satisfies their demands. So long as Minh keeps the profits rolling in - in collaboration with the Soongs - he will be allowed to continue."
Pete, in his naiveté, suggested, "Why not just drop a word in the right ear at Justice? Hell, if the Soongs are laundering money, and there must be millions involved, the bank regulators must have clue as to what they're doing."
Michael was kind in his reply. "What we know, and what can be proved in a court of law, are two different things, Pete. Minh keeps a very low profile, and works through a series of agents and legally registered companies. As for the Soongs . . ." he shrugged resignedly. "They are merely playing the game by the rules."
"Rules? What rules?" asked Patrick, his voice registering his surprise.
"The rules of international banking," supplied the Major. "They are registered gold brokers and merchant bankers based in the financial capital of the Orient, Hong Kong. They have offices in London, in New York, in San Francisco, in Ottawa, in Cape Town and Durban, to name only a few places. So long as they play by the banking regulations, and keep the bureaucrats happy, they can, and do, move hundreds of millions in gold and currency with complete impunity."
Seeing the strange look that came over Patrick's face, Michael added, "The Hong Kong merchants ship goods all over the world. The merchandise is paid for through merchant banks such as the Soongs'. Sometimes the payment is made in gold, more often now in U.S. dollars. The bank presents the proper papers to the regulatory agency, and is allowed to purchase the gold, or the currency. So long as the paperwork is in order, with all the right signatures and stamps, no one questions them. Why should they?" Michael shrugged. "Bureaucrats live in a world of properly stamped paper. If all is in order, and all the fees paid - taxes, and whatever the central banks charge for the gold or currency - the bureaucratic world is in order."
"The Soongs make money both ways," said Pete sourly.
"Yes." Michael frowned. "And to keep the money and the profits flowing they will sleep with anyone, or contract a marriage that they know will never occur, because the groom will be dead before the first ounce dowry is paid."
"They hope," snarled the Major. His tone suggested that the Soongs would regret their choice of bed partners.
Patrick caught the Major's tone. "Are you . . .?" His voice trailed off. He knew that Michael could not allow the affront to his honour go unpunished. Michael was being played for a fool, knew it, and that would never be allowed.
Michael gave Patrick a slow nod. "But first we must deal with the 14K Triad."
Both Patrick and the Major started. "Why them?" asked Patrick.
Michael sighed. Patrick had much to learn. "There are eight major Triads, of which three are the most important. They all have fairly well established spheres of trade and interest, organised along geographic and ethnic lines. The Sun Ye On control the film industry and so far have shown no interest in narcotics. They are the largest of the Triads but they are also of Chao Zhou and Hakka origin and the Soongs consider them lower than peasants. They would never deal with the Sun Ye On. The Wo Hop To control the Hong Kong entertainment industry, prostitution, gambling and the like."
"Which leaves the 14K," said the Major. "Not only do they have branches world-wide, they are aligned with the Tian Do Man Triad in Taiwan."
"Which explains who was actually paying Captain K'ang," observed Patrick.
"And which explains why there has not been a massive explosion of rage in Hong Kong in our sending the Chinese guards home," said the Major. "The Hong Kong lads can blame the Taiwanese for bungling the operation and thus not risk rousing your suspicions about them, Michael."
Michael rose from his desk and returned to looking out of the window. He knew what must be done. "Major, you and Patrick will go to Hong Kong. Cousin Tommy will accompany you. He knows whom to contact."
Neither Patrick nor the Major made a comment. They knew what Michael wanted done. It would take time, but the Soongs and their allies would learn that Michael Chan never forgot an insult or forgave an injury.
"There is still Minh," said Pete. "He won't rest until you're dead."
Michael shrugged his agreement, but said nothing. "We have to hit him before he hits you, or us," countered Pete.
Once again, Michael nodded. Then held up a finger. "Pete, the general never moves without massive security. He has enemies, men from the old Saigon regime. The Italians would love to encase him in concrete and dump him off Royal Roads. The list is long, my friends."
"Then what do we do?" asked Patrick. "We know where he lives, we know where he keeps his office." He shrugged. "The Tsangs can . . ."
Michael's face grew hard. "We do not make war on women and children," he said coldly. "And Minh's office is a fortress, his house in Richmond a citadel!" He shook his head. "No, we must draw him out and present him with a situation so tempting that he will lap at the bait."
"Easier said than done," observed Pete dryly. "Minh is no fool, and if he so much as smells a rat, he will . . ."
Michael frowned. "I cannot act until the young gentlemen knights have left. I also cannot wage all out war with Minh! You are right, Pete, Minh must be eliminated. But we cannot have Chinatown, or the docks, littered with bodies! Minh has no scruples and will retaliate in kind. I do not want to draw any more attention to the Order than is necessary. If there is an all out war, Minh will be ruthless and that I cannot risk."
"Then Minh must be dealt with carefully. With him eliminated his whole organisation falls apart." Pete, who had some experience with ambushes, added, "Minh, and Diem, have to be drawn in." "Diem most of all," interjected the Major. He looked at Patrick. "Diem is a sly, cunning creature. He is Minh's enforcer, and a key player in all of the general's little games. More importantly, while Minh, like all generals of my acquaintance, is too busy studying 'The Big Picture', Diem, on the other hand, is a muck and mire man. He's been in the trenches and will spot a fiddle a mile away. We must come up with a scenario that Diem cannot resist."
The Major then looked purposefully at Michael. "It would mean setting you up, I'm afraid. Minh won't stir from his fortress unless he can be assured that he'll have you in his sights."
"And just how would you go about assuring General Minh that he has been issued with a hunting license?" asked Michael with a tone of scepticism.
Pete jerked his thumb upward, toward the ceiling. "The conduit is resting after his tryst."
"Actually, he is taking the walk Diem suggested," said Michael toward the window. He could see Doctor Bradley-Smith strolling nonchalantly down the driveway toward the gatehouse.
"Checking out the outside patrols," said Pete. "Which is good."
"How can his reconnoitring the grounds, and the outside, be good?" queried Patrick.
Pete smiled. "Diem will not attack the compound if he knows that the security force has been strengthened. He will want to do the dirty deed away from all the security."
Michael thought a moment. "He will need to know that the new men are completely loyal to me."
"I think I see it, " said Patrick. "If we present him with a tempting scenario, away from all the guns and men here, Diem will jump at the chance. Killing you will not only increase his stature in Minh's organization, it will give him even more influence than he already has, more power."
"Rather," drawled the Major. He was beginning to reassess his opinion of young Patrick Tsang. Perhaps the boy just might be a candidate for the Derby after all! "We would also, I think, need to tell the traitor that there are new men coming," conceded the Major. "He's been ordered to observe and while I know that Pete will take every precaution, I am also worried that Minh, in his eagerness to eliminate Michael, just might overrule Diem and decide that with half our security force shipped back to Hong Kong now might be the right time to strike." He shrugged. "The question arises, how? Whatever we do, we must be very careful to arouse no suspicions in either the doctor, or Diem."
Pete squirmed, and looked embarrassed. Then he said slowly, "There is a way."
Michael turned slowly. He saw the look in Pete's eyes. "You cannot mean . . ."
"I can, and I do. We can use his weakness to our advantage."
"There is no one!" growled Michael firmly.
"Yes, there is." Pete looked evenly at his employer. "Me."
"I will not ask that of you!" snapped Michael. "Do not even think it!"
"And I am not asking you! There is no one else!" replied Pete calmly.
"Really, Pete, Michael is right," began Patrick. "It is too much to ask! Think of what you are suggesting. Think . . ."
Pete rose slowly. "I owe you, Michael. And I know what I am doing."
Seeing the determination in Pete's face, Michael nodded reluctantly. "We will not argue over what you do not owe, Pete." His face grew sad. "But I do understand why you wish to debase yourself."
"Every man in the Security Force would do it," replied Pete without emotion. "We all owe you. I won't ask them to do something I would not do myself." He looked at the Major and Patrick in turn. "It will work, given the right scenario. There is no danger."
"I hope you're right," muttered the Major.
"I am. All he's interested in is sex and money. He's a coward and will lap up whatever I tell him."
"I admire your determination," said Patrick. "I do not think that I could do . . ." His voice trailed away.
"It must be done," replied Pete. He regarded the Major. "Perhaps you could lend your expertise in baiting the trap?"
Unwillingly, the Major nodded. "Let us start, then."