Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental and/or used fictionally.
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This story is copyright by the author and the author retains all rights. Expressly prohibited is the posting of the story to any sites not approved by the author or charging for the story in any manner. Single copies may be downloaded and printed for personal use provided the story remains unchanged.
Correction Notes: The last chapter posted, Chapter 8, was shown as Chapter 7 in the manuscript. This was a typographical error. The timeline was shown as "EST", which is of course incorrect. It should have been "EDST", or Eastern Daylight Savings Time. I apologize to and ask that you put it down to "Old Timer's Disease". The timeline in this chapter is shown in military 1300T (for local daylight savings time) and civilian time (1:00 PM EDST).
Thanks to all my readers who write with their comments, and encouragement. I reply to all e-mails (except flames) and your comments are to be directed to my e-mail address: paradegi@sympatico.ca
My thanks, as always to my editor, Peter, who takes valuable time away from his very busy life to make my work better.
Aurora Crusade
Chapter Nine
At one point in time conventional wisdom held that wealthiest community in the Dominion was a small, leafy enclave of wealth and Anglophones on the Island of Montreal, known as Westmount. An independent city, the broad, well-kept streets lined with majestic oaks and maples, stretches down the slopes of Mount Royal to St. Catherine Street. Conventional wisdom holds that it is an English island in a sea of unwashed French-Canadian peasants, who are dismissively referred to by the English residents, more often than not, with an accompanying sneer, as "The Jacquerie"
Westmount is home to some of the wealthiest families in Canada, most notably the Bronfmans and the Molsons. They, together with their wealthy friends and neighbours, built their homes on Summit Circle, which, as the name suggests, is a road that circles around the summit of Mount Royal. Other mansions are located throughout the enclave, notably on The Boulevard and select avenues running off it.
In addition to the tree-lined streets, Westmount boasts and points with pride to its parks, notably Westmount Park, which had been designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, and King George Park, where many of the trees, shrubs and flowers had been imported from the Old Country.
Westmount was insular, xenophobic and frankly prejudiced. It was conventional wisdom in many of the 5,215 households that made up the small city that, come the Revolution, the Jacquerie would descend, torches and pitchforks in hand. It was conventional wisdom among the teeming Jacquerie that come the Revolution that is exactly what they would do.
Here, in a late-Edwardian red brick and limestone townhouse, at the corner of Westmount and Belmont Avenues, abutting King George Park, was the home of Thomas Lyon Hunter, Knight of Profess and Justice of the Priory of Lower Canada of the Sovereign and Noble Order of St. John of the Cross of Acre.
Westmount, Quebec, Sunday, August 29, 1976 - 0032T (12:32 AM, EDST)
Aside from the occasional passing car, Westmount Avenue was empty, the houses that lined the street dark. Just inside the gate to King George Park, the young Chinese sat patiently.
Paulie Tsang was bored. He was also uncomfortable wearing a baggy pair of shorts and a shirt that all but screamed "Hawaii" at anyone who looked in his direction. Around his neck were hung two cameras, the better for him to pass as a tourist, albeit one who had drifted somewhat from the normal beaten paths recommended by Tourisme Montréal.
From time to time Paulie reached down and squeezed his crotch. Little Paulie had been tingly all day, and the near-constant parade of young ladies, strolling the avenue, or lounging in the park, had not helped at all! Not that the girls would have anything to do with a Chinaman, even if he was good looking and built! Still, one could hope, and Montreal did boast of having the most beautiful women in the world.
Paulie shook his head abruptly. He was here, sitting on a splintery wooden bench, in a dead quiet park for a purpose, and picking up nubile maidens was not the purpose! He was here to observe, to listen, and await instructions. As a Tsang, Paulie knew what would happen if he let Little Paulie do his thinking. Big Paulie knew about Cousin Joey. He didn't know all the details, but he knew enough to know that he did not want to end up on some barren, rock-strewn beach south of the US/Canada border as dead as a sun-baked flounder.
As a Tsang, Paulie, as had his brothers, had been sealed to the service of the Serenity, a man who could be generous to a fault, but also a man who demanded absolute and undying loyalty. Paulie's eldest brother, Eddy, head of the Victoria Clan, had made it very clear what would happen to a Tsang who let his little head think for his big one.
The park was quiet now. Earlier there had been a band concert, courtesy of the local militia unit, The Royal Montreal Regiment. There had hardly been a standing room only audience, but the music had been well played, and Paulie had enjoyed himself. There were still a few people about, a few strolling couples, and from the bistro across Westmount Avenue came the sounds of laughter and music - Jazz, which Paulie didn't particularly care for. Montrealers delighted in living in an open, cosmopolitan manner and late night partying was an accepted, and normal part of life, even here in stodgy old Westmount.
Behind him, Paulie heard the soft scuffling of walking feet and cringed slightly. There were walkers in the park, taking a stroll from the St. Antoine Street entrance, or the Forden Circle gates, to Westmount Avenue. Usually the strollers were couples, a boy and a girl looking for a quiet place to rest. However, twice now, strollers had paused ever so slightly and slowed, and given Paulie the eye. The first time it had been two young men, both dressed in too tight walking shorts and singlets that showed off every muscle they owned. The second time it had been an older man, also dressed in shorts. All three had eyed Paulie appreciatively.
Paulie knew that he was a damned fine looking young man, although even he admitted that he'd been a little short-changed in the dangly bits department. In a way, Paulie had been flattered, but he rode a different bus. Except for a few early teenage "indiscretions" with Andrew, which were never mentioned, Paulie much preferred the female of the species. The three men had walked on, much-disappointed Paulie was sure.
As new footsteps grew nearer Paulie looked up to see his brother, Andrew, and Ru Yee Chung, called "Cousin Ray", and acknowledged Viceroy of Montreal's Chinese community, approaching. It was time to begin the settling of the Serenity's accounts.
"All quiet?" Andrew asked as he settled himself on the bench beside his young brother. Silently, Cousin Ray sat on the other side of Paulie.
"Yeah, like a graveyard at midnight," responded Paulie. He nodded toward the lighted windows on the first floor of the house he'd been watching most of the day. "He's alone."
Andrew turned and regarded the house. The ground floor, built of blocks of sandstone, was pierced by dark, black iron-barred rectangles. Where the fabric of the house ended a red brick, blank wall continued on to join a low-roofed building - the garage of the house, although in this part of Montreal there were no garages, only "mews". Save for three bright rectangles at the front of the house, the first and second floors were dark.
Paulie saw where his brother was looking. "His office," Paulie said, referring to the soft glow of light. "He arrived home at about 7:30."
"Servants?" inquired Andrew.
"He has none," interjected Cousin Ray. "He uses a cleaning service during the week. He does have two secretaries, which is a kind way of describing them." Thinking of the two, slim, fey young men who shared the house with the owner, Andrew smiled grimly. "I wonder if either of them can type," he murmured to no one in particular.
Paulie shrugged. "They left around 10:00. Except for the subject the place is empty."
"There is no need to worry about the 'secretaries'," Cousin Ray said with a thin smile. "One will not return much before dawn." His smile broadened slightly. "He is at present enjoying the waters in a particularly disreputable bath house."
Andrew looked closely at Cousin Ray. He knew that Cousin Ray had many tentacles; he did not know just how far they reached into the various communities that made up cosmopolitan Montreal.
Cousin Ray ignored Andrew's enquiring look. "The other 'secretary' is about to board the night train to New York. He has decided that an ocean voyage will help him forget his time of employment here in the Colonies."
Cousin Ray's voice had been bland, almost dry, and devoid of any emotion or inflection. Andrew regarded him a moment. "He was on your payroll?" he asked presently.
With a shrug, and a jerking nod of his head, Cousin Ray answered, "He was compromised when the Serenity discovered the financial malfeasance with the Order's accounts."
Andrew chuckled dryly. "He was milked for all he knew?"
"Which was not much," replied Cousin Ray. "Both he and his . . . colleague, were employed more for their, um, physical attributes. Both were well paid for their willingness to dally a while in Mr. Hunter's boudoir." He sniggered. "The Serenity pays much more, and is far less demanding."
"Still, you must have learned something," hinted Andrew directly.
"Hunter has been a busy man. At the moment he is worried about the losses he, and his friends, incurred during the recent downturn in the market. He has been busy buying and selling, trying to cover his patrons' losses and has spent much of his time downtown in his brokerage house." Cousin Ray reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and withdrew a fat envelope, which he passed to Andrew. "Our man was not directly involved in any of Hunter's business dealings - the old man trusts no one, no one at all. However, our man did manage to find some very interesting documents, which he copied and gave to me."
Andrew leaned forward and opened the envelope. In the dim, overhead light shining from one of the standards that lined the walks of the park, his dark eyes scanned the blurry paragraphs. "Does Michael know?" he asked presently.
"He knows," replied Cousin Ray. "He has given his instructions."
Paulie, who had been told very little about what was really going on, leaned forward and saw that Andrew was holding a list of names, together with what appeared to be addresses. His curiosity was naturally aroused. "Ah, Elder Brother, are you ever going to let me in on what I'm really doing here?"
Andrew regarded his younger brother a moment and shook his head. His reply ignored Paulie's question. "You are here to observe, and report. Soon you will be asked to do a further service for the Serenity." He glanced down and saw Paulie's bare knees. "You had better go and change." Then he added, "You do have a change of clothing? You are somewhat conspicuous."
Paulie sniffed, somewhat miffed. After all, Andrew was the one who had told him to dress so that he "fit in" with the tourist crowd. "In my car. I parked over on Murray Street."
"Go and change," directed Andrew. "There is no need to hurry. Move the car to the back of the house, if such a thing is possible."
"It is," said Paulie as he stood up. "There's a laneway leading directly from the mews to Belmont." He began to walk away. Andrew's voice stopped him.
"Paulie, when you return I will explain everything."
Mollified, Paulie nodded. It was nice to know that he was at last being trusted. It was even nicer to know that he was no longer just a soldier.
"Are you really going to tell him everything?" Cousin Ray asked as they watched Paulie walk away.
"Yes," replied Andrew. "He's a good kid, deep down, and he's come a long away. I think it's time." He gave Cousin Ray a searching look. "And so does Elder Brother."
This was good enough for Cousin Ray. He tapped the papers that Andrew was still holding. "Perhaps Paulie should participate . . ." His voice trailed off. The list contained the names of men holding boys. If Paulie were to be brought further into the Clan, and if Andrew was prepared to reveal the Clan's association with the Order, he had to know what was truly happening.
Andrew shook his head. "Paulie is young, and he has served the Serenity well. He knows that he has been sealed to the service of the Serenity - your father's gift at his sealing has a place of honour in my father's house. Paulie knows that he has been set apart from mere, garden variety Tsangs. He has served well, but there is one more thing that he must do."
Cousin Ray nodded. He understood what Andrew was saying. "It comes to all of us," he said flatly.
"Yes, tonight Paulie becomes a man."
Without reply, Cousin Ray turned to look at the dark house. He did not voice his thoughts: "No, tonight Paulie truly becomes a Tsang."
Westmount, Quebec, Sunday, August 29, 1976 - 0118T (01:18 AM EDST)
Thomas Hunter leaned back in his chair and smiled. The downturn in the market had been short lived. His personal investments were basically untouched. More importantly, the assets he oversaw for Stennes were intact and, if Stennes' latest buyer paid in full, would increase. Hunter closed his eyes and nodded slowly. The commissions on the sale soon to be negotiated would be more than satisfactory, and more than worth Hunter's involvement. Stennes had telephoned earlier to announce, somewhat smugly Hunter thought, that he had found the Grail!
Hunter's smile changed to a frown. Stennes might not be so smug down the road. He would be dealing with priests, sly, lying, mistrusting, distrusting priests! Hunter had always avoided dealing with the clergy. Stennes, however, would do business with anyone and the priests in Rome had better watch their collars. Stennes would take them for everything he could, and then some.
Although Hunter secretly despised Stennes, thinking the German to be a loathsome, despicable creature, the man did know how to make money. He had found a business that was practically a branch of the Mint. Stennes bought and sold boys. Hunter had no particular interest in bedding young boys. He much preferred the young men who came and went at almost predictable intervals. Hunter preferred teenage boys, no one younger that 18 or 19. Stennes, when he found out about Hunter's little peccadilloes, gave the stockbroker what he wanted. The young men were all but useless to Stennes once they lost their prepubescent slimness. Puberty to a Stennes boy meant obsolescence, much like a black and white television, now replaced by colour. Or an old car, rusty and knocking. In Stennes' business age meant the rubbish tip, or a brothel.
Hunter had no conscience and seldom thought of what happened to the boys after Stennes could no longer sell them. His only concern was what had driven him all of his life: the accumulation of money. When Percy Simpson had first brought Stennes to meet him, Hunter had doubted that they could do business. He had no objections to what Stennes did. After all, a man needed to relax, to enjoy life, and if having a little boy with him was what was wanted, so what?
What Hunter doubted was that the profits were worth the risks. The authorities frowned on white slavery, and it did not matter if the "slaves" were male or female. Stennes also was headquartered in Germany. Many, but not all, of his clients, were in Europe. But the North American market was opening up and Stennes intended to cash in. He had the merchandise ready for delivery. What he needed was a way to launder the vast sums of cash his business generated. It was one thing to sell a boy for say, 100,000 dollars. It was quite another to move the money out of Canada, or the United States, where more and more clients were popping up.
Stennes could take care of business in Europe. The safeguards, checks and balances the authorities used to track the movement of massive sums of money were much weaker than in North America, particularly with the Americans. The U.S. Treasury was relentless when it came to tracking money for which there was no logical explanation of how one came by it.
At first Hunter had paused. Simpson, as loathsome as Stennes, had been his usual oily self, and promised anonymity, and discretion. He would also guarantee any losses. Stennes, more practical, and knowing his man, had presented a balance sheet. The numbers were mind-boggling. Hunter at first did not believe that the figures shown were true. Simpson, prepared by Stennes, presented a sheaf of bank transfers. Now Hunter was impressed. His greed rose and he had nodded. He had not yet had cause to regret his decision.
Percy had been the first contact. Hunter knew that Percy's hands were not clean. Hunter had heard the whispers about Percy's collusion with the Nazis, both before and during the war. How Percy had managed to avoid prosecution for collaboration with the enemy during wartime Hunter did not know. He really didn't care. What he cared about was money, and Percy had plenty of that. He also had the golden touch. Everything he touched turned to gold and he was prepared to share it with his fellow knight. If anything, Hunter was as venal as Simpson, and he was prepared to at least listen to what Percy had to say.
As it turned out, a friend from what he called "the old days" had contacted Percy. The friend, Edmund Stennes, had been a playmate and was now involved in a very lucrative, but very dangerous scheme: he bought and sold boys. Hunter had no interest in little boys, although he knew that Percy did, as did more than one of the knights. Hunter had attended very few conclaves, and never attended any of the "meetings" at the old Grand Master's estate in Coquitlam. Hunter had no need to travel 3,000 miles. There were his "secretaries", always young, and fey or, if he was in the mood, he could always creep into his stepson, Georgie's, room. Georgie would weep and whine, but kept his mouth shut for fear that his so-called Daddy would make good on his threat to send him away to boarding school.
Hunter had listened to Percy's Syren song. The scheme was really simple, if a little complicated. Stennes had an abundance of money, all of it in cash, which he kept in safe deposit boxes in half a dozen banks. As the market in North America grew, so did Stennes' cache. His major problem was that he needed the money in Europe, to pay expenses. A boy, at cost, went for pocket change, a few thousand American dollars. His suppliers in East Germany, Poland and Russia demanded cash, up front. Without the money to pay his suppliers, Stennes could not replenish his stock.
At first Stennes had used the services of his patrons, primarily the East Germans, who supplied the paperwork necessary to get the young boys into the United States and Canada. Unfortunately the FBI and RCMP kept a sharp eye on Eastern Bloc diplomats. The method was slow and, much to Stennes' chagrin, the diplomats were as hungry for Western currency as their masters in Berlin and Warsaw, and more often than not only 50 per cent of the money found its way back to his accounts, scattered in banks across Europe. It was most annoying, which is why he contacted an old customer, Percy Simpson.
Percy was a Merchant Banker and moving vast sums of money in and out of the country was child's play. The West German economy was booming and Percy's bank, representing consortia of wealthy investors, was a recognized player. He had accordingly set up five dummy "investment" accounts, each of them in a different name and company. As he could not arbitrarily transfer monies to the accounts Stennes had in Germany (all in different banks), he needed a vehicle, and Hunter was to provide it.
Hunter, as a stockbroker, bought and sold thousands of shares of stocks, and millions of dollars in bonds and T-Bills on behalf of legitimate investors, including banks and trust companies. He would negotiate the purchase of stocks in the fictitious companies that Stennes had registered in Germany, France, Spain and Great Britain. They were all "Research and Development" companies, and all private stock companies, which meant they were not traded on the Exchanges. They also did not have to make public any of their financial dealings. Hunter would negotiate the purchase of stock, which his firm held in trust for the "investor" and remit the funds, minus a commission fee, to a bank in Europe, mostly in Germany. As Stennes' operations in North America grew, and his need for money to support his various projects grew, Hunter's firm would negotiate a sale, again for a hefty commission. That the stock certificates were not worth the paper they were engraved on was not the point. They would be held on file to prove purchase, and conveniently "mailed" when sold. Actually, Hunter would burn them in the furnace of his house.
Hunter's friend, Willoughby, another knight, and principal stockholder in his own bank, was brought in to oversee the distribution of money to Stennes' projects, including his clandestine support of a dozen or so neo-Nazi groups, an anti-Semitic Christian Evangelical lobby group, the Separatist movement in Québec and the growing anti-circumcision movement in the United States.
To sweeten the deal, Percy's bank deposited sufficient funds in Willoughby's bank to keep his Board, and the bank's investors, happy. He also established a brokerage account with Hunter, which kept him happy.
At first, everybody had been happy. The money rolled in and Stennes was all smiles during his infrequent visits to Montreal. His smile changed to an angry frown when he discovered that the transfers from Hunter to Simpson or Willoughby were just a little delayed from time to time. He was not pleased to discover that Hunter, with so much money available to him, had unwisely chosen to speculate on the foreign currency market.
Stennes had been livid and angry beyond belief. Only Percy Simpson's intervention had prevented the German from doing something he might regret to Hunter. Hunter for his part was frightened beyond belief. He knew who Stennes was, what he was, and what he was capable of doing. He offered to stop all speculation, to pay to Stennes all the money he had made (a little over a million US, give or take) and, as an expiatory gesture, his stepson. Stennes, who knew that killing Hunter would be counterproductive, and not terribly desirous of finding a new broker that he could trust not to steal him blind. He accepted the terms of the settlement, and raped Georgie Hunter.
Hunter, faced with a moody, intransigent stepson, shipped the boy off to a private school in Toronto, and ignored his wife's pleas and tears. His venality did not include a conscience and when word came that the boy had taken his own life, hanging himself in his room, Hunter was unaffected. He buried the boy and moved on. His wife, unable to cope with the loss of her only child, went into what was politely called "a decline". Actually, she had lost her mind, and was confined in a small, private hospital, in the care of the Sisters of Mercy. Hunter complained about the fees, but paid them, and moved on.
Moving on for Hunter meant never again being in a position to suffer Stennes' wrath. He began keeping records, records of financial transactions, transfers, stock sales, and names. In his safe were kept ledgers containing details of everything. He knew more about Stennes' business dealings than anyone else, except Stennes. If and when the time came, Hunter felt that he would be in an unassailable position. He had the goods on Stennes, on Percy Simpson, on Willoughby, on all of them.
As he worked into the night in his study, Hunter had reason to smile. He had just added two very prominent names to the growing list of "clients". He was also waiting news of Stennes' latest transaction.
For years Stennes had been trying to find a set of twin boys, fraternal or identical, to satisfy a standing order. The client, an incredibly wealthy Arab oil magnate headquartered in London, was prepared to pay one million dollars, in gold. Stennes had been searching for years, and finally, he had found them.
Stennes had well-paid agents all over Europe, so it was not surprising, at least to Hunter when he learned of it, that Stennes had agents in the Church. The Roman Catholic Church administered the old age homes, hospitals, and orphanages in many of the Western European countries. Italy, while hardly the "Most Catholic" nation in Europe - France, or was it Spain, Hunter could never remember, claimed that distinction - was the cradle of Roman Catholicism and it was in Italy that Stennes had found his Grail.
According to the notes that Hunter had made of his telephone conversation with Stennes, the boys were eight years of age. Their mother was dead: post-partum sepsis. A street whore in Napoli, she had had no idea who the father was - not surprising - and when her time came she had turned to one of the innumerable nunneries in the port city. The boys were now housed in a grimy, dark, damp and ancient orphanage. The priests who "cared" for the orphan boys in their charge were hurting for money and were willing to part with any scruffy urchin that Stennes might be interested in.
Stennes had said that he was "negotiating" the price. Hunter sniffed at this. Priests by nature were haughty, sly, arrogant bullies who shamelessly abused power while hypocritically invoking the name of God. They were also cunning manipulators, threatening the pains of Hell to those who failed to support the Church. Hunter was of the opinion that there wasn't a priest ordained who didn't know the value of a buck, a pound, a franc, or whatever currency was available. Hunter privately thought that Stennes was in for a rough ride. The priests would take him for a pretty lira, if Hunter knew priests.
Still, as he reached for what he called his "Correspondence Ledger", and began to carefully transcribe in firm, black ink his recollections of the telephone call, Hunter smiled. The commissions he would garner would more than make up for all the trouble Stennes and he would have to endure.
Westmount, Quebec, Sunday, August 29, 1976 - 0200T (02:00 AM EDST)
When Paulie returned to the park, dressed now in dark trousers, a dark jacket, sturdy black boots, he resumed his place beside his brother on the park bench. Cousin Ray was off somewhere, checking on his men, four of whom Paulie knew to be hiding in the mews behind the house.
"You are ready?" Andrew asked his brother presently.
Paulie nodded. "Yeah. I know what to do."
"You found a suitable location? It is very important." Andrew turned and looked directly at Paulie. "And Cousin Ray provided the equipment?"
Sighing impatiently, Paulie answered, "I found a place, isolated, just like you asked. Cousin Ray provided the equipment . . ." He could not stop himself from exaggerating the word. After all, a length of hemp rope and a ratty old book hardly qualified as "equipment". " . . . I've read the book and made the calculations. Don't worry."
Andrew grunted. "Paulie, I cannot emphasise too strongly that the Serenity wishes that tonight a message be sent. Everything must be done correctly. The can be no screwups."
"I know, I know!" snapped Paulie, frankly exasperated. He could not understand why the Serenity wanted the man who lived in the house behind them taken out in such a way. A bullet in the back of the head was messier, but of a hell of a lot quicker and there was a bloody great river that rarely gave up its properly weighted dead!
Andrew remained calm at his brother's impatience. "Paulie, we are Tsangs. We do what is asked of us." Andrew paused, expecting a "but". Since none came, he continued on. "The Serenity wishes certain people to be aware of . . ."
"I know about the Order, Andrew," Paulie interjected quietly. "I know about the boys as well."
"You do?" asked Andrew, frankly surprised. Paulie had never questioned his orders. In fact, Paulie had never questioned anything. Their elder brother, Eddy, had in fact insisted that Paulie be a part of the operation. Eddy was worried that Paulie had become too interested in single malt scotch and Sing-sing girls. Eddy opined to Andrew that Paulie was a Tsang, and it was about time that Younger Brother paid more attention to business than to pleasing the inadequate appendage between his legs!
"Well, not all that much," admitted Paulie. "I heard Eddy talking to the Englishman when they arranged for that kid, Logan Hartsfield, to go to Vancouver." Paulie's eyes darted obliquely at his brother and then returned to stare into the darkness of the park. "Then, Gramps came to visit. I went downstairs to stay hello and I heard him and Eddy talking about . . . about this operation. Gramps was really spittin' tacks about some so-called ferengi 'knights' buggering little boys." He shrugged expressively. "I have ears, Andrew."
Andrew sighed softly and said, "Paulie, there are things we, as Tsangs, learn of. We have been keepers of the Serenity's secrets for many centuries." He looked directly at his brother. "You are a Tsang, and you will remember our traditions."
"Andrew, I'm not some stupid Chink just off the boat!" protested Paulie. "I know enough to keep my mouth shut."
"Good. Keep it shut," returned Andrew.
Paulie lapsed into silence and then asked carefully, "This 'Order' . . . it exists?"
"Yes."
"Um, the, um, the members, they diddle little boys?"
Andrew shrugged. "Some do, which is why we are here." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the house. "The man who lives in that house is a knight. According to Elder Brother, this man is a thief. He is also a man who preys on little boys."
"He's a fag?" asked Paulie, all but spitting the words. "They're all fags? Why are we involved with them? Why are we . . .?"
Holding up his hand imperiously, Andrew growled, "Be careful, Younger Brother, of your words!"
Paulie heard the warning. "But, Andrew . . ."
Andrew chose his words of reply carefully. "Tonight we, you and I, and Cousin Ray, will act as representatives of the Serenity, who has ordered that the man we have watched suffer the penalty for a knight who has betrayed his oath. We do so because the Serenity, Michael Chan, is also Grand Master of the Order."
A low gasp escaped Paulie's lips. "Is the Serenity, is Michael Chan, is he a . . .?"
"Do not use that word again," Andrew snapped harshly, his words filled with danger. His voice softened. "Michael Chan, our Sovereign Lord, the Serenity, has never given any indication that he might be . . . homosexual."
Paulie sputtered, "But . . . but . . ."
"Do not jump to conclusions," Andrew said warningly. "As it happens, there are knights who are not homosexual, although yes, many of them are. As I understand it, the Order is dedicated to helping all homosexuals who are persecuted for their sexuality." He looked searchingly at his brother. "Tell me, truthfully, are you one who hates homosexuals?"
Paulie's eyes flashed with anger. "What? What makes you say that? I have never, I mean, come on, Andy . . ." for the first time he used his brother's diminutive. "I mean, we . . ."
Andrew, who had knowingly avoided any mention of his boyhood peccadilloes, at first thought to lash out at Paulie. Then he thought . . . "Paulie, we did nothing wrong, nothing that countless brothers haven't done before. We were very young and we were curious. We satisfied our curiosity." He looked evenly at his brother. "I am aware that you much prefer the company of your Sing-sing girls, and the not so ladylike females you drag home from time to time. That does not mean that until you defined yourself that you did not, shall we say, pass the time with one or more of your school chums."
Andrew could not see his brother blushing furiously. "Did you?" Paulie flared.
"Of course," replied Andrew calmly. "High school was very . . . interesting." He chuckled and shook his head. "Then, like you, I discovered that I much preferred girls. I enjoyed what I did at the time, and have no regrets." Again he regarded his brother. "I bear no ill will toward the boys I spent time with. They were as willing as I was, as willing as you were when you and I, well, no matter." He stopped speaking abruptly. He took a deep breath and continued. "Paulie, people hate us for no other reason than that we are Chinese. They do not know us; they do not understand our culture, our ways. Still they hate us. We are no threat to them, to their way of life. We keep to ourselves. We bother no one. The same holds true for the average homosexual male. He does not want to sleep with anyone who does not want to sleep with him. All he wants is to find his path in life in his own way, unfettered by convention and bias."
"What about Cousin Joey?" Paulie demanded. "He was doing the dirty with Cousin Joel and looked what happened!"
Andrew held up his hand. "Cousin Joey was not punished for being homosexual or for sleeping with Cousin Joel. He was told to ensure that Cousin Joel behaved himself, to ensure that no dishonour came to the Serenity's name and family. He ignored his orders, allowed himself to be seduced, and then revelled in subsequent seductions."
"Gives a whole new meaning to being in the service of the Serenity," sniped Paulie caustically.
"That is not what I meant!" snarled Andrew. "We are Tsangs, we are the Serenity's trusted retainers. He trusts us to carry out his instructions. He trusts us implicitly! When we succeed, we are rewarded. When we betray the . . ." Andrew shrugged stoically. "We are Tsangs, it is our fate, as ordained by the gods."
Paulie snickered. "Come on, Andy, you don't believe in that crap!" It was a statement, not a question.
Andrew could not help himself. He chuckled throatily. "Well, no, but it sounded good at the time." Then he added, "You haven't called me that for a long time."
"What?"
"Andy."
Shrugging Paulie said quietly, "We haven't talked for a long time." He regarded Andrew a moment. "Not as brothers."
Several long minutes passed before Andrew replied. "It was my fault. I suppose, thinking about it, I felt . . . guilty about what we did when we were kids." "Why?" asked Paulie, without rancour in his voice. "You said it yourself, it was something brothers do. It was like, like a rite of passage."
"You make it sound like smoking your first cigarette," complained Andrew mildly.
Paulie laughed. "What we did was a lot more pleasurable. I damned near coughed to death on my first cigarette. When we fooled around the first time . . ." He playfully punched his brother's shoulder. "Damn, Andy, you were good!"
Andrew stared at his brother. He was shocked, for he had not expected Paulie to react as he did. Before he could gasp out a reply, Paulie spoke again. "Don't look so stunned. And close your mouth," he said with a snigger. "There were a couple of guys walking around here a while ago who would faint if they saw you like that!"
Not knowing what to say, Andrew closed his mouth and shook his head.
"So, brother of mine, what's up?"
"Paulie, there are things that are happening, things . . ." began Andrew with hesitation.
"We're going to take out this guy," stated Paulie. He turned and looked at the all built dark house. "Unless I miss my guess, I'm going to get my balls tonight."
Once again, Andrew reacted by dropping his mouth. "What?"
"Come on, Andy, this guy tried to fuck Michael Chan. I know the Serenity well enough, Andy, to say that he never forgets an insult, or forgives betrayal. Cousin Joey fucked up, big time, and paid the price. This guy Hunter is gonna pay big time." He looked at Andrew. "Tell me if I'm wrong."
Andrew shook his head. "I apologise for dismissing you as a worthless dilettante. You have heard small snippets, and come up with the answer. You are not wrong."
Paulie grunted. "Which means, since we're not Italian, I can't be making my bones. I suspect that I'll be the main man in visiting Michael's displeasure on Mr. Hunter." He shrugged. "I'll be getting my balls."
"You're not . . . you can do it?" asked Andrew as he carefully perused his brother's calm, stoic face.
"Yah." Paulie laughed again. "I'm a Tsang. We do Michael's dirty work. Grandfather did it, Pops did it; you and Eddy did it. It's my turn now and it will be Patrick's turn soon enough, I think."
Andrew nodded and spoke slowly. "Paulie, it is not so much that we do the Serenity's dirty work, it is that we punish those who have transgressed. I know that Cousin Joey is, and always will be, a sore point with some of our people. Cousin Joey was told not to allow Cousin Joel to seduce everything with a dick. This Cousin Joey failed to do! Instead he allowed himself to be seduced. It was necessary to send a message to all the others: put aside your personal feelings, your desires, and do what you are told to do. If you do not, then you will pay the price."
Paulie nodded his agreement. He understood the need for iron discipline, for unconditional obedience to orders. If there were no discipline, no obedience, there would be chaos, and that could never be allowed.
"You must understand, Paulie," continued Andrew, "that we do not eliminate people indiscriminately. We are not Italians who blow away each other, and their enemies, at the drop of a hat. When we are sent on a mission - a mission such as this one - we are sent for a specific reason. The subject in that house is a man who broke a sacred oath. He also participated in a horrible trade in young boys and, or so the Serenity expects, profited thereby, although that is not important."
"He is to be punished for breaking his oath," said Paulie without emotion. "I can understand that, just as I can understand that his punishment must be such that it sends a message to his kind."
"Yes, that is so."
"When do we do it?"
Andrew glanced at his watch. "Soon, I hope. Cousin Ray is on his way to the airport to pick up the old man. When he arrives, we do it."
Paulie did not reply. But he was thinking, "And soon after that I get my balls."
Westmount, Quebec, Sunday, August 29, 1976 - 0210T (02:10 AM EDST)
Andrew was somewhat surprised when the long, black limousine pulled to a halt in front of the gates leading to Westmount Avenue and saw the men. One was obviously the "Old Man", although "The Fat Man" might have been a better appellation. Two were complete strangers, both white men, both young, and both looking extremely fit. Cousin Ray was with them, as well as another Oriental man, very young, stocky, and bespectacled. Andrew wondered who he was. This operation, it appeared, held more surprises than a cat had lives!
Cousin Ray first introduced Chef, and then the two white men. One, slim, tight lipped, was introduced as Alex Grinchsten. Andrew already knew who he was. He had seen Alex at the Québec City airport and knew that he was the Serenity's special Head of Security for this operation. The other white man, who was tall, and muscular to the point of hulking, was also young, with high cheekbones and rosy red cheeks. This was Brendan Lascelles, whom Andrew did not know, and by the way he carried himself screamed "COP". This did not surprise Andrew in the least. He knew that the Serenity, and he assumed Cousin Ray, had "friends" in half the precinct houses in the city.
The third stranger, the Oriental, was introduced as "Mr. Hong". Noting the slight rise of a quizzical eyebrow on Andrew's part, Cousin Ray explained simply, "Mr. Hong is a forensic accountant. If our informant was truthful, we will find some very interesting documents."
Andrew had no idea what "interesting documents" meant. He nodded and asked in a low, firm voice, "Then shall we begin?"
Chef, impressed with Andrew's calm demeanour, nodded. "If everything is ready, there is no point in waiting." Gone was the flighty, eccentric old cook. Chef was now a commander in the field. He turned to Cousin Ray. "Everything is ready?" he asked, his voice demanding firm reassurance.
"It is," replied Cousin Ray calmly. "We began 15 minutes ago, as instructed. The other subjects are either in the process of being taken out, or with their ancestors."
"The boys?" asked Chef, his mind prioritizing their objectives.
"They will be taken to a safe house. A doctor is waiting, as well as my wife and two older sons."
Chef looked meaningfully at Cousin Ray, his eyes demanding an explanation for this unexpected turn of events. Cousin Ray's wife and two sons had not been included in the planning.
Cousin Ray was not intimidated. "I though it best that there be a woman in the house when the boys arrived. They have been abused by men, remember, and a woman's soft touch might just help keep them calm."
"Your sons?"
"A kindred spirit, so to speak," replied Cousin Ray. "Boys will respond to boys, no matter what."
Chef thought a moment and responded, "Very good." He looked at Cousin Ray again. "The police?"
"The Captain of the Night Watch at the local precinct is a friend. There will be no trouble from them," responded Cousin Ray. There was no need for further explanation.
"Very well," said Chef. He nodded toward the house. "We can gain entry without trouble?"
"It seems that one of the secretaries inadvertently left the kitchen door open when he left for the evening," replied Cousin Ray. "It's been checked."
Much to Alex's surprise, Chef did not respond with hyperbole or flight of fancy. The old man nodded and growled, "Deus Vult!"
Hunter never heard the intruders. One minute he was alone in his office, the next the room was crowded with men. He shrank back, his eyes wide with fear. Then he recognized Chef. "What, what are you doing here?" he demanded angrily. "And who are these creatures?"
Chef walked slowly to the desk and stood staring at Hunter, who felt a shiver of cold, relentless fear course through his body. "Deus Vult," Chef growled.
Hunter knew at that moment that he was a dead man. Still, he tried to cavil. "You . . . you don't have the right! I am a Knight! I am entitled to a tribunal." He suddenly began to wring his hands and weep. "I am . . ."
Chef's wide hand brusquely waved away Hunter's excuses and tears. "A Bar of Justice has been convened. You, and others such as you, have been judged."
Hunter's wail of terror filled the room. He made to rise from his chair, hoping to flee the coming nightmare. Chef nodded to Alex and Brendan, who quickly took hold of Hunter's arms and dragged him, squirming and weeping from behind the desk. "Take him to his car, which is in the garage behind the house," Chef instructed. He ignored the struggling Hunter. "Try not to bruise him too much."
As Hunter was dragged from the room, Chef turned to Mr. Hong. "You know what to look for?" he asked pointedly.
"I do," replied Mr. Hong with Oriental stoicism. He had been instructed. He knew what to look for. He settled himself at Hunter's desk and reached for the first ledger.
Quebec Provincial Highway 344 - 0240T (02:40 AM EDST)
The two cars left Montreal at a brisk pace, although not brisk enough to break any traffic regulations. In Hunter's large saloon car were Chef, Cousin Ray, Hunter, Alex and Brendan. Paulie Tsang drove the back-up car. He was alone. Mr. Hong had been left behind to study the documents they had found in Hunter's office.
Hunter, not reconciled to his fate, started to whine and groan as soon as the car pulled away from his garage. He continued throughout the drive to the place chosen for the judgment of the Bar of Justice, and his cowardly whining was getting on Chef's nerves.
Chef had requested an out of the way, relatively uninhabited, rural place and Cousin Ray assured him that just such a place had been found. Chef ignored Hunter's muttered threats, begging appeals and general outbursts of cowardice and watched as the road signs flash by the car, which was proceeding at the speed limit so as not to attract undue attention from the QPP. He knew that he was south and west of Montreal and until a sign announcing the approach to "St. Eustache" came into view, had no idea where he was.
Cousin Ray, who was driving Hunter's car, saw the sign and nodded. "We are going to a place between St. Eustache and St. André Est. It is very rural. There is a railroad trestle that crosses a wide deep gully that will be perfect for what you need," he explained to Chef.
"You're not worried about traffic on the line?" Chef asked.
"There are only two trains a night," responded Cousin Ray. "The first is the overnight passenger train to Toronto. It passed through around 2338. The second is a freight. It passed through ten minutes ago. There is nothing else scheduled until the morning, a local around 0930. It is always late so there is no problem."
Chef nodded and then asked, "The, um, venue has been prepared?" In the back seat, securely held by Alex and Brendan, Hunter moaned. Chef, his nerves on edge, could no longer tolerate the man's puling. "Alex, dear boy, gag the wretch!"
Alex, who had thought that Hunter should have been gagged before they left Montreal, had nothing on him that would serve. Brendan, seeing Alex's problem, reached into his pocket and withdrew a somewhat soiled, white linen handkerchief. "Sorry," he said with a weak smile as he not very gently stuffed the cloth into Hunter's mouth.
Chef wondered briefly if Brendan was sorry for gagging Hunter or the state of his handkerchief. His attention was diverted, however, when Cousin Ray turned the car to the right and proceeded slowly along a roughly kept dirt road. "It's the railway service road," Cousin Ray explained. "The place is just up ahead."
Chef looked out to see . . . nothing, really. The road seemed to traverse a large stand of trees, maple and pine for the post part. There were no lights of any kind visible, save for the beams of the car as it searched forward to follow the roadway.
Presently they came to an open area and in the light of the car's headlights Chef could see another car, dark, parked along the side of the road, and the long stretch of the wooden railway trestle. Cousin Ray stopped the car and two men - both Chinese - appeared from the shadows. Chef, together with Cousin Ray, left the car and walked slowly down the trestle, the two Chinese following. About halfway across they stopped and Cousin Ray pointed to a neatly coiled hemp rope, the end tied with a simply tied knot, the kind that a man who had no knowledge of the Hangman, the type of knot a man about to take his own life would clumsily tie.
"The drop from the trestle to the bottom of the gully is about 30 feet." He turned to one of the Chinese and chattered in Cantonese. The man nodded and chattered back. Satisfied, Cousin Ray returned to Chef. "The rope is tied off to the trestle. It was deliberately tied to look like the work of a clumsy, inexperienced man." Cousin Ray indicated the Chinese he had spoken to. "He assures me that the knot will hold."
"There is nothing left to be done, then," replied Chef, his voice low. "Fetch the wretch and let us finish our business."
Cousin Ray waved his arm and Alex and Brendan dragged the struggling Hunter from the back of the car. Paulie Tsang left his car at this time and followed as Alex and Brendan pulled, dragged and pushed Hunter toward his fate.
"The young man is ready?" Chef asked Cousin Ray, indicating Paulie.
"Yes. The instructions were quite clear, and very helpful."
Chef smiled thinly. "Trust the Home Office."
Cousin Ray nodded. He had been quiet surprised when he had been given a small booklet, printed by the British Home Office. The booklet contained precise instructions on how to hang a man, or a woman, with speed and precision. The knot had to be placed just so, behind the left ear. The length of rope depended on the weight of the subject, and the drop of the body. If the ratio of length of rope, weight of subject and drop was followed, the condemned would die a swift, painless, death. Which was much more than Thomas Hunter deserved, in Cousin Ray's opinion.
When they reached the appointed place, Alex and Brendan positioned Hunter. Paulie, in his role as hangman, placed the noose around Hunter's neck carefully. When he was satisfied, he stood away.
Chef cleared his throat and looked at Hunter. Chef had never cared for the man, and held no sympathy for him at all. When Chef had joined the Order, so many years before, he had had high hopes. He knew that the Order had become moribund, but the hope remained. As the years passed and the Order descended further into mediocrity and the knights gave rein to their perversions, he had considered leaving, forgetting the whole idea. Michael Chan had changed everything. Chef shared Michael's dream and knew that Hunter was only the first to suffer the fate of wayward men who forgot their oath. Hunter had been one of the men who had squandered the wealth of the Order and brought it into a cesspool of degradation. There was one more last duty to perform, a duty that would begin the cleansing of the Order and signal the beginning of its rise.
At a nod from Chef, Brendan removed the gag in Hunter's mouth. He spat at Chef and snarled, "You will pay for this, you fat prick!" His lips formed in a sneer and then he saw the rope, and the ravine yawning in the blackness. His bravado drained away as the realization of what was about to happen to dawned. "No," he yelped. "You know who I am, you can't . . ." He began to shake in fear and knowledge of impending death. "No . . ." he mumbled as his voice drained into nothingness.
Chef stared impassively at the quaking man and then intoned, "Thomas Lyon Hunter, you have been tried and found guilty by a Tribunal of your peers, at a Bar of Justice, of high crimes and misdemeanours. The penalty is Death by Hanging."
Hunter struggled against the restraining arms of Alex and Brendan. "No!" he shrieked. "You can't . . ."
Chef's strong voice rose, cutting off Hunter's protests. "You are declared anathema. Your name will be struck from the Roll of Knights and from this day forward never spoken of again." He looked at Cousin Ray, who reached into the pocket of his jacket and drew out a ring, a gold ring set with an oval-cut ruby. He handed the ring to Chef. From behind Chef one of the Chinese men handed forward a heavy hammer. Chef looked at the ring and the hammer and took them.
"This ring, which was given to you as symbol of your knighthood, has a history. It was made for and worn by a true knight. He was a Captain in the 3rd Foot Guards, and died bravely at Hougoumont Chateau during the battle of Waterloo," Chef intoned. "The ring was recovered, and returned to the Order. It was hoped that when it was given to you, you would emulate and honour the memory of a good man. You did not. By your actions you have defamed the memory and defiled the honour of a true and noble knight. Now I must return to him his honour."
With Cousin Ray's help, Chef knelt ponderously on one knee. He placed the ring on the railroad track, raised the hammer and brought it down, smashing the stone and flattening the gold setting. He then picked up the remnant of the ring and with the back of his fingers pushed the shards of ruby into the gap between the sleepers. When Cousin Ray helped him to his feet, Chef nodded at Alex and Brendan.
Brendan and Alex manoeuvred Hunter so that he was facing outward. Paulie stepped forward, made a slight adjustment to the nose around the man's neck and, without comment or emotion, pushed Hunter outward.
Hunter's scream of terror was cut short by the sudden drop. His neck snapped and his body shuddered once as he died. No one bothered to look to see his limp body describing a slow, gentle arc as it swung from the trestle.
"It is done," murmured Chef. He motioned for Alex and Brendan to follow him as he walked toward the parked cars. "Leave Hunter's car."
Cousin Ray nodded. To all intents and purposes Hunter had driven to this isolated place and committed suicide. Cousin Ray had made certain that there was enough evidence littering Hunter's office to give the authorities reason for the man to take his own life. As he opened the door of his own car, Cousin Ray looked back. He ignored Chef's grumbling about the tight fit in the back seat, what with Alex and Brendan, who was a large man, taking up much of the room.
"It is not all done," thought Cousin Ray as he entered the car. He knew, as Chef knew, that even as they drove down the dark, rutted road to the highway, other operations were in motion.
Chung Residence, Rue Côté, Quartier Chinois, Montréal - 0430T (04:30 AM EDST)
The house was very quiet as Cousin Ray escorted Chef, Alex and Brendan into the foyer. Directly ahead was the living room and sitting on the sofa, cradling a dark-haired, pyjama clad little boy in her lap, was Cousin Ray's wife, Shu Lin, called Linda. She saw the men and raised a finger to her lips.
As the men entered the room they saw, at a small card table, two boys, one short and dark haired, the other taller, Chinese, with hair and eyes as dark as the boy he shared the table with. They were playing a card game. In one corner of the room, on a matching sofa, another boy, also Chinese, lay curled, his mouth open as he slept quietly.
Linda gently laid the boy she was holding onto the sofa and covered him with a blanket, even though the night was humid and very warm. Gesturing, she led the men into the adjacent dining room. "Ray, I swear, not one of those boys has ever felt the hand of a woman!" Linda burst out, not quite containing the anger she felt.
Chef smiled inwardly. So, Mrs. Arundel had been right when she insisted on accompany the young knights to Toronto. Caroline Arundel was a perceptive woman and, as she insisted, knew what a calming effect a woman's soft voice would have on a little boy. Chef was pleased, now, that he had listened to her.
Linda's eyes grew fiercely dark. "Every one of those boys has been abused!" she spat. "One of them, why he . . . he was bleeding when he was brought here!"
Ray had never seen his wife so agitated. "How many boys?" he asked. Then he reached out and took Linda in his arms. "I am sorry to put you to so much trouble." He hugged his wife and glanced over his shoulder at Chef and the others. "My wife, Linda."
Chef nodded. "I apologize for visiting such trouble on you," he said, his voice soft.
Linda drew away from her husband. "I wish I had known what to expect." She shook her head firmly. "But it was no trouble." She looked at her husband. "The doctor is upstairs with one of the boys. Apparently, when your men entered the house he was held in the man's, the man . . ." her voice trailed off. She could not tell her husband, or these strangers, the scene the boy's rescuers had described to her. "They have all been sexually abused," Linda said, recovering.
"Sadly, we expected as much," said Ray. He suddenly realized that he had not told his wife just who the men with him were. He quickly made the introductions and asked, "How many boys have we here?"
Linda began to weep softly. "Eight." She nodded toward the living room, and the sleeping boy. "He will not speak, my husband. He would not eat, and only slept while I held him." She looked at the two boys playing cards, one of whom was her son, Tony. "The boy with Tony is named Ulrich. He does not understand English too well. The doctor says that he has been sexually abused for a long time." She saw her other son, named Hugh, stirring. "I must go and put Hugh to bed." She glanced at Tony and Ulrich. "Ulrich refuses to go to bed. Tony is keeping him occupied."
"The boys have done well," said Cousin Ray, referring to his sons. "And you have done well."
"We shall try not to keep them here too long," interjected Chef. It was planned that all the rescued boys would be gathered in the new hospital in Toronto. Chef, together with Cousin Ray, had already made all the arrangements for their transport.
"They will stay here as long as they need to," returned Linda firmly. "I am calling my sisters to help me. Those boys need care, Honoured Brother. They will not leave my house until I say that they are well enough!"
Faced with Linda's determination, Chef drew back, thinking it better to acquiesce for now. "Of course, whatever you wish," he said hastily. There was no need to upset the woman needlessly. The boys could go to Toronto when they were ready.
Linda nodded firmly. "You must excuse me. I must check on the others." She smiled wanly at her husband. "If you wish to sleep you will have to remove Mr. Hong from the library. Every bed in the house is filled!" with that she strode quickly from the room.
"I hope we haven't caused you grief," offered Chef when Linda was out of earshot.
"She is a good woman," replied Cousin Ray. "Neither of us expected that the boys would be in such a sad condition."
"There is a doctor here, and your wife." Chef placed his hand on Cousin Ray's shoulder. "You have done well, the boys are being looked after, and that is all that matters."
Nodding slowly, Cousin Ray indicated a closed door opposite the dining room. "There is still work to be done, before you leave."
"Yes," sighed Chef. "Mr. Hong awaits."
Mr. Hong sat at a long, polished, mahogany conference table. Before him, and piled around his chair, was a variety of ledgers and notebooks. He raised bespectacled eyes as Chef and Cousin Ray entered, made a small note with a gold pencil on the yellow pad on the table in front of him, and nodded imperceptibly.
Chef settled himself in a comfortable armchair flanking the desk, regarded Mr. Hong a moment, and asked, "Well, what do we have?"
Mr. Hong pushed the yellow notepad forward a tiny bit, and shook his head. "Basically, a money-laundering scheme. Not very sophisticated, but one that works, and has worked for years, probably during the War, but Mr. Hunter's notes do not go that far back." He leaned back in his chair, folded his hands across his flat stomach, and said, "Mr. Hunter is a very meticulous, careful man."
Chef saw no reason to suggest that Mr. Hong refer to Hunter in the past tense. "Explain, please," he said instead.
"Well, essentially, Hunter set up a series of brokerage accounts for 53 individuals. He would then execute buy and sell orders for them." He suddenly reached up to rub his hands together. "What is questionable is that these buy and sell orders always involved stocks, and bonds, issued by the same companies."
Chef did not show his surprise. "Companies?" he asked, emphasizing the final letter. "It was my understanding that there was one, something called 'Sporinfabrik'."
"Sporinfabrik was the first," replied Mr. Hong. "Sixteen others have been added over the years." He looked intensely at Chef. "Experience tells me that they are spurious, and exist on incorporation papers only."
"You are correct," said Chef.
"Well, the way it worked was Hunter would receive a buy order for stocks in one or more of these so-called firms. He would execute the order and receive the money, which was deposited in an account held in a bank in Toronto." "Which is controlled by a man named Willoughby," offered Chef, looking at Cousin Ray, who nodded.
"Whatever," said Mr. Hong. "The bank in Toronto would then transfer the funds to Europe, primarily to banks in Switzerland, Germany and Liechtenstein."
"Why Liechtenstein?" interjected Cousin Ray.
"They have very strict confidentiality laws there," said Mr. Hong. He continued, "All of the accounts are numbered. However, thanks to Mr. Hunter, we know whose name is on the accounts, at least the name of the firm involved." He leaned forward, rummaged through the papers and legers, and handed Chef a closely written sheet of yellow paper. "That is a list of the buyers and sellers, which I suspect are alias, or just plain false." He nodded his head toward the paper. "That takes care of Hunter's Canadian accounts."
"Canadian?" asked Chef, truly surprised. "There are more?"
"Quite," sniffed Mr. Hong. He was very good at what he did, and very careful in his searching. "There is another bank: Simpson Private Bank LLC, which also has an office in Toronto. Its headquarters are in London and there are branches in New York, Paris, Brussels and Bonn."
"Which is significant how?" asked Chef.
"The bank is a merchant bank, specializing in investment financing. Every day the bank invests, buys, and sells stocks and bonds, in companies and countries. They move huge sums of money back and forth as a matter of course. They invest for holding companies, investment companies, consortia and so on. They should not be interested in small, private investors, or hold private accounts, but they do." Mr. Hong consulted his notes. "Some 500 at last count. Some are active, some not." He smiled at Chef. "What is significant is that all the account holders are American."
"Stennes' customers south of the border," muttered Chef.
Mr. Hong's face did not show his surprise. "You know of him?" he asked.
"I do," responded Chef. "He is the centre character in all this . . ." He waved his hand toward the pile of papers and ledgers. " . . . financial chicanery."
"Quite," responded Mr. Hong pedantically. "The name 'Stennes' appears constantly, always as a stockholder, or CEO of the companies." He shook his head. "They are all privately registered, in Europe, and as such they are not required to publish balance sheets, profit and loss statements, lists of shareholders, and so on. The companies are all purported "research and development companies", which as I am sure you know devour vast amounts of money before the research bears fruit."
Cousin Ray laughed quietly. "Since not one of the companies is researching, or developing anything, there is no 'fruit' to bear."
"All of the companies are letter drops, fronts," opined Chef. "They exist only to move money from North America to Europe." He looked at Mr. Hong. "Did Hunter happen to record the final destination of the money?"
Mr. Hong shook his head. "He recorded the transfers, he recorded the names of the banks involved, but I cannot say with certainty where the money went after it reached Europe."
"Damn," Chef snapped. "There has to be an end, somewhere!"
"As far as the Stennes operation, there is nothing to say where or how he has squirreled away his profits," offered Mr. Hong. "Profits, which I might add, should be in the neighbourhood of around 30 millions, give or take, based on a very rough tally of the transfers to, and the transfers from, Europe." He shrugged. "There may be more, probably in the form of cash transactions. There are notes in the ledgers of cash being moved, but Hunter has been very circumspect." Mr. Hong reached for and found a thick ledger. "Who is 'George Hunter'?" he asked.
Chef thought a moment. "George Hunter?" Then he remembered. "He was Thomas Hunter's stepson. He committed suicide when he was 13 or so."
It was Mr. Hong's turn to look thoughtful. "I wonder then if the government of Grand Cayman would be interested to know that George Hunter, the registered owner of two million dollars, US, of Cayman Consolidated Annuities Bonds, paying 2 1/2 per cent yearly, is deceased. Or that the same George Hunter has deposited to his account in the General Bank of the Caymans the sum of 3,562,000 dollars, US."
Chef's jaw dropped. "What?" he whispered.
"It would seem that Mr. Hunter kept very few of his Canadian and American eggs in one basket." Mr. Hong shook his head in wonder at what the ledger contained. "Hunter has been hiding the bulk of his money off shore. Much of it is in bearer bonds, although there is a significant amount of cash. He has accounts in the Caymans, in Switzerland, one each in England and France, and two under two different names, in Monaco." Again Mr. Hong consulted his notes. "As of close of business on Friday last, Mr. Hunter's net worth, overseas, was 32,678,912 dollars, US. That will increase when the interest payments come due at the end of this month, interest payments that are deposited directly to an account in Liechtenstein, a holding company Hunter registered there five years ago."
"Well, I will be damned and go to hell!" ejaculated Chef. He looked quickly at Mr. Hong. "Can we get our hands on the money?"
Mr. Hong was not surprised at the question, and was prepared to answer. "We know the numbers of the accounts, and the names in which they are held. It is possible to . . ."
Chef stood up abruptly, cutting off Mr. Hong. "You are going to Vancouver. Take all the books, all the papers you have. Be prepared to stay for as long as it takes for you, and the people you will meet, to ensure that every penny Hunter has hidden away is sequestered!"
Mr. Hong frowned. He was not married, and had few pressing interests at the moment. He nodded. "I suspect you will also want me to take the rest?" he asked.
"Rest what?" demanded Chef.
Mr. Hong waved toward three cardboard boxes and a battered, leather, Gladstone bag piled beside the door. "Mr. Hunter believed in keeping a little travelling money about the house. We found, in addition to the books, ledgers and so forth, $75,000.00 in Canadian notes, $150,000 in American notes and . . ." He pointed at the Gladstone bag. "Three hundred and fifty, one ounce, .999 pure gold Kreugerrands, valued at $47,162.50 as of Friday, when gold closed on the London market at $134.75 US."
"Jesus!" breathed Cousin Ray.
"Indeed," said Chef brusquely. He turned to Cousin Ray. "Arrange for Mr. Hong's journey to Vancouver. He will take all the papers and books. The money is yours."
"Mine?" asked Cousin Ray, frankly surprised.
"The Serenity does not expect you to pay for anything you do in his service. You have no doubt incurred expenses, and will incur more, what with eight boys in house, the doctor's fees, and of course whatever remuneration is payable to Mr. Hong."
Mr. Hong, who knew the way of business in the Serenity's scheme of things, had not mentioned any "remuneration". It was a favour asked, and gladly agreed to. He knew that by doing this service he had the Serenity's promise to help if ever the need for such help arose. "I was not . . ." Mr. Hong began hurriedly.
"The Serenity is not ungrateful," pontificated Chef. Pausing for only a moment he, he regarded Mr. Hong and specified an allocation. "The Serenity is accustomed to expressing his pleasure and satisfaction with gold. The Kreugerrands are yours." Before Mr. Hong could respond to this unexpected generosity, Chef wheeled and stormed from the room, shouting for Alex and Brendan.
"God, he'll wake the dead!" exclaimed Mr. Hong.
"No. The dead here in Quebec will stay dead, and buried," offered Cousin Ray with a thin smile. He did not add, "Or hanging from a deserted trestle in the middle of nowhere until the gombeen men, or a wandering shepherd, stumbles upon Hunter's saloon car, and his swinging carcass." Then he continued, "It is the men in Toronto, those who are not yet dead, but soon will be, who should be worrying."
"He is going to Toronto?" asked Mr. Hong.
"Yes. His work here is finished. His work in Toronto is only just begun."