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.
Copyright Notice Reminder
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. Copyright 2007 by John Ellison
WARNING: This chapter contains graphic scenes that some readers might find disturbing. What is written in no way whatsoever represents the author's personal feelings and is written in the context of the overall series. Reader discretion is advised.
Reader comments -- except flames -- are always welcome. Please address your comments/opinions to paradegi@sympatico.ca
Aurora Crusade
Chapter 19
The storm that had drenched the city moved eastward. Sheet lighting crackled and flashed across the night sky as thunder volleyed in roiling waves of sound. The wind quickened and sent twigs and leaves flying through the air. The water of Harrison Lake began to rise in successive waves and whitecaps formed. Sheets of wind-driven rain lashed the beach and Landon Wilkes pulled the Navy issue slicker closer around his body. Beside him lay Ty Ravenel, his eyes fixed on the "A" frame house
Ty could feel the wind ripping at the back of his slicker, raising the waterproof fabric and he felt the cold rainwater drenching first his legs, and then, as the slicker bunched above his waist, the back of his jeans. He shivered as the water soaked through the denim of his jeans and the cotton of his boxer underpants, but his eyes never wavered.
A sheet of lighting crackled across the sky and night became as day. For a brief instance Ty saw a white, almost ghostlike figure, hulking, standing in the lakeside windows of the house. "Bastard's up," Ty muttered.
Ty shaded his eyes from the driving rain and looked toward the house, which was dark and foreboding. He saw nothing until the lightning flashed again and he saw . . . something . . . standing in the window . . . a pillar of white . . . a man staring into the darkness.
Another peal of thunder rolled overhead, masking the footsteps of the men walking carefully toward the surveillance team. Pete Sheppard, cloaked in a poncho he had kept from his time in Vietnam, stepped carefully as the rain lashed his face, his sharp eyes taking in the beach, and the recumbent men watching the house.
Ty's ears perked up. Unusual sounds, all but lost in the thunder, a twig snapping underfoot, and the sound of raindrops on a poncho, caused him to slide his hand under his slicker and find the grip of the diver's knife he had stuffed into the waistband of his jeans. His hand tightened around the grip of the knife and then he heard the whispered passwords: "Deus Vult!"
As lightning flashed across the sky, Langdon and Ty's heads snapped around to see three dark figures emerging from the narrow gap in the trees. "Company comin'" whispered Langdon with a chuckle.
Ignoring his partner, Ty rose slowly and greeted Pete, who nodded toward the house. "All quiet?" he asked.
Nodding, Ty replied, "Yes. He was out earlier with the boy." His tone was colder than the falling rain.
"What happened?" asked Pete, his voice loud enough to be heard over the thunder.
"The son of a bitch had his way with the boy!" snarled Ty. He turned his head and glared at the rain-hidden house. "Right on the deck!" he spat out.
Pete had known many Southern boys in Vietnam and they all seemed to be cut from the same piece of cloth when it came to sex. They all loved it, but when it came to actually talking about it, they always referred to sex, anything sexual, really, in quaint terms. More often than not they referred to their penises as "peckers", and the actual act of intercourse was "having his way". For some reason the Southerners almost always avoided the brutality of rape and disguised the horror by cloaking it in the phrase Ty had used.
". . . He was standing in the window a few minutes ago," Ty continued. "Looked to be nekkid!"
"The boy?" questioned Pete.
Ty shook his head and shrugged. "No sign, Cap. Once that peckerwood was finished the kid went into the house. Haven't seen a sign of him."
Pete regarded the house. "He's in there."
"Poor little guy," muttered Ty. Then he looked at Pete. "When the time comes, I want in on it." His words were hard, flinty and very firm.
Pete was not surprised at Ty's words. What he had seen, what he would see, was bound to affect him. Pete glanced at Langdon, normally a placid, steady man who, at least according to his service record, was calm and dependable in any situation. Another flash and a roll of thunder crossed the sky, more or less matching the look on Langdon's face. Both men were pissed, and no danger.
"Guys, I need you to concentrate on the big picture," Pete said. He knew it sounded trite, but he really couldn't think of any other way to put it. "I need you to remember all of your training and help us get in that house, find the kid, get him out and then let . . ." He turned as more figures emerged from the rain-filled darkness, ". . . these men take care of Mr. Lennox."
Cousin Tommy and Alistair Chan nodded toward Ty and Langdon. Pete introduced them to Ty and Langdon and then said, "Lennox is a paedophile. He also bought and sold little boys." Pete's voice grew icy. "He won't be doing it again." He handed Ty a .38 calibre pistol.
Ty and Langdon exchanged a look. Ty's hand tightened around the grip of his pistol. "You want me to take care of it, Cap?" he offered.
As Cousin Tommy handed another .38 to Langdon, three more men emerged from the shadows . . . Tsangs. Pete glanced at them and then said, "No. There are others who will . . . take care of that end of the operation."
Pete then paused. While his men had been briefed on the operation, they had not been told about the Order, or its goals. While Pete knew, he did not think it his place to tell his men. Michael had mentioned that he would, when the time was right, bring selected men from the Security Force into the Order. Still, Pete thought that he should say something to the visibly upset Seal.
"Ty, Langdon, there are things going on that I can't talk about right now," Pete said carefully. "What I can promise you is that when this operation is over you and me, we're going to sit down and have a long talk."
Both Ty and Langdon knew that Pete Sheppard was no Rear Echelon Mother Fucker. Pete was an upstanding guy, and would do what he said he would do.
Ty looked at Langdon, who nodded slightly. "Okay, Cap," murmured Ty.
Langdon grinned at Pete and then nudged Ty in the ribs. "Let's get this done, Johnny Reb," he said, using a nickname Ty detested.
Ty did not lash back at Langdon. "I'll lead, Yank," he told Langdon. "You'd just get us lost!"
They crept stealthily through the brush that surrounded the well-kept lawns of the house. The storm had, if anything, intensified, and they had to constantly duck and weave as lightning slashed the sky. Ty, as he said, led the way, his sharp eyes constantly on the house, looking for a sign of movement, a light coming on, anything that would have given warning that someone was up.
The house was, however, dark. There were no lights at all anywhere except for a weakly flickering bulb over the landside door, and the small band of men reached the main door undetected. They huddled from the rain under the overhang of the roof and Ty reached out to check the door. Surprisingly, it was unlocked.
"But then," Ty thought, "the place is isolated, and who would come calling at 3:00 o'clock in the morning?"
Pete pulled a flashlight from the pocket of his coat. "Eyes," he warned as he switched it on. "Everybody got their gloves on?" he whispered to the others. Assured that his team would leave no fingerprints behind when they left, Pete nodded to Ty.
Ty slowly turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. Pete followed him into the house and groaned inwardly. Ty was leaving a trail of muddy footprints across the polished hardwood of the floor! The mess would have to be cleaned up. Michael wanted the house to look as if it had been hastily vacated, not broken into!
The interior of the cottage was hardly representative of great wealth, or much wealth at all. Ty and Langdon swung their flashlights around the one room that took up the main floor of the house. The furniture was mostly wicker, or cane, with overblown, colourful cushions. At the rear, away from the lakefront deck, part of the room had been made into a kitchen, a long, marble-topped island breaking the expanse. A quick swipe of light showed nothing out of the ordinary here, just the usual appliances and a row of red leather upholstered stools used to sit on when eating.
The walls were panelled in redwood, except for the floor to ceiling glass windows hung with heavy draperies. Against the far wall was a stone fireplace and mantel, over which hung an abstract painting, so hideous in its design and execution that Pete thought that it had to be an original something, and probably worth a small mint. Other equally horrible pieces of artwork adorned the walls. As he looked around the room Pete realized he was looking at a King's ransom in paintings, sculptures and soapstone carvings. Nothing that Pete would give houseroom to, but worth a small fortune nevertheless.
Dismissing the artwork, Pete gestured toward a stone and driftwood staircase that led upward to what was the bedroom floor. Ty and Langdon, dark shadows against the darker panelled wall, moved smoothly upward. Pete followed with Cousin Tommy and Alistair. The three Tsangs, impassive and silent, remained downstairs.
This floor was bisected by a short corridor. There were only two doors, one on either side. Ty moved forward and pressed his ear against the plain, dark-stained wood and listened carefully. He heard nothing and shook his head. His hand found the doorknob and he turned it, opening the door and revealing a dark room, filled with a bed and other furniture. Ty passed his flashlight around and saw that the bed was empty. To the right of the bed was an open doorway - the bathroom, the lights out, was as empty as the bedroom.
Langdon, meanwhile, was listening at the other door. A strange, angry look came over his face as he drew back and nodded. "They're in here," he whispered harshly. "It sounds like there's a pig on heat in there!"
The boy, small and frail, was on the bed, on his hands and knees, his head buried in a pillow to stifle his screams. Behind him, as naked as the boy, Lennox's pasty-skinned, heavy body thrust and shuddered as he grunted and moaned loudly. He was so engrossed in his rape of the boy he did not hear the door open, or the footsteps of the men as they crept swiftly across the wooden floor. He did feel the cold metal of Ty's pistol pressed against the back of his head.
Lennox was so shocked that he pulled away from the weeping boy, rolling on his side, his huge penis spewing semen as he suffered a premature ejaculation, which he did not feel.
Alistair, who was standing in the doorway, observing as he'd been ordered to do, barely believed his own eyes. Behind him one of the Tsangs muttered "T'ien Chu Chiao" in a harsh, guttural whisper. This was enough to cause Alistair to turn and stare, wide-eyed at the man.
What shocked Alistair was that a Tsang was trained from the first moment he could understand to never comment, never show interest and never to show emotion. The man was obviously so shocked and disgusted at what he had seen that he could not help himself. Alistair, equally disgusted, nodded his head. He knew the phrase, which in typical Chinese fashion, had many meanings, depending on the intonation used. For some "T'ien Chu Chiao" in English meant simply "Christian." For others, when used in a pornographic manner, it meant "Squeak of the Heavenly Pig!" To many more, Alistair included, it was translated as the Chinese equivalent of the exclamation, "Jesus!"
Alistair did not have time to dwell on the translation for a row had developed in the bedroom. Lennox, staring back of the barrel of a gun, was not intimidated. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?" he shouted. The boy beside him buried his head deeper in his pillow. When there was no answer from any of the men, Lennox snarled, "You have no idea who you're fucking with, do you, you assholes?" He started to rise from the bed. "One phone call and I'll have your balls!"
Before anyone could stop him, Ty's arm swung and the barrel of his pistol smashed into Lennox's mouth. Blood and teeth spattered across the white sheets of the bed and Lennox fell back, groaning in pain.
Pete, who heartily appreciated Ty's reaction, intervened. Lennox was to be brought to a Bar of Justice, hopefully more or less in one piece. Beating the man to death - a fitting punishment, Pete thought - was not on the cards.
"Enough," Pete said with authority. He gestured toward the boy. "Take the boy," he said to Ty. He turned to Langdon. "You go with him." Pete had drawn his sidearm and pointed it at Lennox's forehead. "You, shut the fuck up."
Ty holstered his weapon and scooped the little boy into his arms. The boy screamed, fearing that once again he would be the plaything of a group of men - Lennox liked to watch as it happened.
"It's okay, it's okay," whispered Ty. He motioned for Langdon to find something to cover the weeping child. "We'll take care of you, it's okay." Ty hugged the boy close, gently stroking his head.
As Langdon draped the boy with a sheet, Pete ordered, "Take him to the cantonment." He then turned and glared at Lennox. "You, asshole, are going to a different place."
Lennox heard the venom and the threat in Pete's voice, and a tremor of real terror passed through him. He watched as the two strange men left the room and three huge, hulking Orientals approached. "You . . ." Lennox mumbled through broken teeth. "You can't . . ."
"We can," snarled Pete as the three Tsangs manhandled Lennox from the bed. His arms were quickly tied behind his back and a piece of cloth torn from the soiled sheets stuffed in his mouth. As he was being quickly hustled away Cousin Tommy appeared.
"The house is clean," Cousin Tommy told Pete. "No papers except for the Vancouver Sun."
Pete nodded, ignoring Cousin Tommy's weak joke. "I expect the other team will find what we need at his house," he said.
Alistair looked at each man in turn. "What other team? Where are you taking him?" he asked.
Cousin Tommy laughed quietly. "The Serenity wants as much evidence against this prick as can be found. He expected that nothing would be found here, so he sent another team to the guy's house; as for where Lennox is going?" Cousin Tommy shrugged expressively. "He's going to be a guest of the Tsangs at their compound."
Alistair shuddered involuntarily. He knew about the Tsang compound, and had heard whispers about secret chambers and dark doings in the cellars of the buildings that made up the Tsang compound. He had always thought that what he heard were stories made up by the amahs to frighten disobedient little boys. The look on Cousin Tommy's face now told him something different.
Lennox was a strong man, but no match for the two Tsangs who dragged him from the house. With Lennox and the boy out of the way, Pete directed the cleanup. The sheet, soiled with blood and semen, and scattered with Lennox's teeth, was rolled up and carried away. The bed was remade and the drawers opened and rifled, as if Lennox had packed hastily.
Pete's team deliberately left the boy's things, underpants, shorts, coloured T-shirts and the like, to give whoever investigated the man's disappearance the evidence needed to confirm Lennox's paedophilia. They cleaned the mud from the floors and left, closing the door carefully after them.
As the storm lashed the Lower Mainland and surrounding areas, Michael's teams went into action. The driving rain swept the streets of people, and traffic, which suited Michael's purpose. Cars filled with men, Victoria Tsangs and Pete's security force, navigated the near-empty streets, stopping at houses in Burnaby, in Shaunessy, North Vancouver, and Lions Bay. The men moved silently and as Michael and the Major sat in Michael's office, boys began to appear.
In Victoria, Cousin Eddy Tsang sat in his house, waiting patiently for his teams to report in. Michael's net was wide-spread and encompassed the city of Victoria as well. Cousin Eddy had prepared his house to receive the boys his people had told him would be found. Down at the docks a small boat waited, engine turning idly, to take some of the men who held the boys to Vancouver where they would be, as Michael had put it, "dealt with". Cousin Eddy had no doubt as to what this meant.
Cousin Eddy was curious, however. The Serenity had identified certain men who would disappear. Why, Cousin Eddy had not been told. Others would have their activities exposed, complete with photos and documentation, through Michael's newspaper contacts, and Bertie Arundel's police friends, revealing them for what they were: men who molested little boys. Why some were to be treated differently Cousin Eddy knew better than to ask.
Cousin Tommy could have answered Cousin Eddy's questions. He knew that some of the men were virulent anti-Chinese, who refused to hire them, or lend them money, or have any contact with Orientals. Others had cheated the Serenity, while still others had flagrantly used their contacts and influence to steal lucrative contracts out from under Michael's nose. There were many reasons why these men had insulted the Serenity, but they would all suffer for their actions. What Cousin Tommy could not have revealed was the connection to the Order and the old Grand Master, who had recruited many of his fellow paedophiles, both Knights and others, in both Victoria and Vancouver, to Stennes's business.
As the storm rumbled easterly, Frank "The Horse" Campbell came and went, his crisp, short, handwritten notes reporting the progress of the teams. Michael read them, nodded, and gave whatever instructions necessary. The Major sat to one side, alternately smoking a vintage cigar or sipping Comet Year brandy. He read the notes that Michael passed to him, and then put them on the fire set in the fireplace.
"The list is long, and we are finding more boys than we expected," the Major told Michael presently, and needlessly.
Michael studied his glass of cognac and shrugged. "The Gunner always maintains that no plan, no matter how well thought out or researched, ever goes the way one expects it to. I am sure you, of all people, would know that," he said kindly.
The Major grimaced. He knew all too well that what the staff wallahs back at HQ thought had been prepared for, more often than not bore no resemblance to reality. More than once, when in Malaya, he had been sent mission orders of a supposedly "secret" operation to find that everybody knew about it and that the enemy had scampered into the jungle. "True," he said with a fatalistic nod. "What do they call it, `Murphy's Law'?"
"Yes," said Michael. "Which is why I prefer to use my security people rather than the Tsangs. Soldiers are trained to adapt, to use their initiative. I can tell the Tsangs exactly what they are to do, and they will do it, exactly. They will not deviate from what I tell them to do."
The Major had known officers like the Tsang, men who refused to adapt to the situation, who insisted that certain things were done in certain ways, by the book, so to speak. They invariably wound up dead, and most of their men with them.
Frank Campbell entered the room before the Major could comment. "Cousin Eddy on your private line," Frank said, gesturing toward the telephone. "He says there's a problem."
Michael did not react until Frank left the office. Things had been going much too smoothly thus far and he had expected that there would be complications somewhere along the line. He lifted the receiver and spoke softly, then listed. His face showed no emotion as he ordered, "Make it look like a drug deal gone wrong. The man has a history and is suspected of it." He hung up the telephone and looked at the Major. "One of the subjects decided to take umbrage," Michael said mildly.
The Major took a short sip of his drink. "Dead?" he asked.
"Very," replied Michael.
"Any friendly casualties?"
"Fortunately no."
Nothing more needed to be said. One of the paedophiles had decided to defend his "property" with a gun he kept in his bedside table. His decision had cost him his life.
"I am surprised that these men don't fight back," offered the Major. "After all, they've spent thousands on boys . . ."
"True," agreed Michael. "However, many are old, and think that their money and position will shield them." He shrugged. "Not to mention that there are always other boys."
"They are about to be sadly disillusioned," responded the Major.
"Everything is ready?"
The Major nodded. "I have spoken to our friends at the Vancouver Sun. Gabe and Joe are putting together the documents we've uncovered, and we'll have photographs of the men with boys." He laughed caustically. "It never ceases to amaze me, really."
Michael gave the Major an inquisitive look. "In what way?" he asked.
"It would appear that men engaged in paedophilia just cannot help but crow about their boys. I've spoken with Chef and he tells me that his people have uncovered a veritable treasure of photos."
Michael chuckled. "I suppose it's a case of one-upmanship. I have a boy who is exquisite, and much more beautiful than yours."
"Very much as one collector will show off his latest acquisition to another."
Michael nodded. "Which is why five men will suddenly find it healthier in other climes, all of which have no extradition treaties with Canada."
"Only the Knights, though?" queried the Major.
"Yes, and the obnoxious doctor," confirmed Michael. "I cannot have any evidence of the existence of the Order becoming public knowledge, which is why I ordered the houses to be searched and cleansed of anything that would link the men to us."
The Major nodded his understanding. It had been his experienced that a rat, when cornered, would try anything in desperation, anything to protect itself. He had no doubt that the men would talk to any one who would listen, express the most pathetic lies to deflect their guilt to others. Michael was quite correct in what he had ordered.
Frank Campbell reappeared. "The first boy has arrived," he told Michael. "He's in good shape, but very scared."
"As well he should be" replied Michael. "He's been dragged from his bed, from his home, where he had a modicum of security, by masked men." He rose from behind his desk. "Please have the car brought around. I would visit the hospital."
The "hospital" was not as grim as it sounded. The Maestro, with Ginger, had filled the former gymnasium with flowers, and the beds were shielded by screens. Thad Stevens and Jude Benjamin, the corpsmen, had put away their hospital whites and were dressed in casual clothing. They agreed with the Maestro that the ward should be made to look as unlike a hospital as possible.
The first boy, about 13 or so Thad thought, was sitting on a bed, his initial fright long gone thanks to the kindness of Thad and the Maestro. The boy had been rescued from a townhouse in Shaunessy, and was in excellent health. He had no signs of physical abuse, although a quick, cursory examination by Thad had shown that the boy had been sexually abused for a long time, years Thad thought.
The boy, who had dark, almost black hair, spoke passable English, although it was clear that this was not his first language. He told the Maestro, who had appeared with a tray filled with pastries and chocolates, that he was born in Poland, he thought. The boy had been taken from his mother by the authorities, or so the boy remembered, and housed in a state orphanage. One day a man had come and the boy was taken to a large house. He did not remember where the house was, or even in what city. When the Maestro asked the boy his name, he said that he only knew the name his master had called him: Donny.
The Maestro, while he felt like weeping, maintained as kind a façade as he could. "Well, we shall call you that," he told the boy.
Donny looked carefully at the fat old man. "You want me to, you know . . .?" he asked apprehensively.
Careful to do nothing that would frighten the boy, or even hint that the boy would be forced to perform a sex act, shook his head. "No," said the Maestro with a shake of his head. "That is over for you."
The boy grinned, and then made a face. "I didn't like it."
"I know, and you've done nothing wrong," the Maestro assured the boy. "You are safe here. No one will harm you."
Donny laughed. "No will stick anything up my bum?" he asked.
"Not even a thermometer!" exclaimed the Maestro.
Michael's visit to the hospital was short. He saw that everything was going smoothly, and that the men he had placed in charge knew what they were doing. While he was there Pete Sheppard came in with Ty and Langdon. Michael saw the trembling young boy in Ty's arms and asked how he was.
"He's scared, the poor little tyke," Ty said. "Might I stay with him?"
"I don't see why not," Michael responded. He gently touched the boy's face and smiled. Not unexpectedly, the boy drew back. Michael understood. He was a stranger to the lad after all, and he suspected that any strange man the boy came into contact with abused him.
Thad Stevens came up and led Ty and the boy into the small examination room. As he watched the trio leave the main ward, Michael sighed. "I fear there will be a long, hard road ahead of us, Richard," he said sadly.
Major Meinertzhagen nodded. "I wonder if we should have asked Mrs. Arundel and her ladies to stay behind."
Considering this, Michael replied, "They are where they should be. Besides, Mrs. Arundel was quite insistent." He seemed to think a moment. He saw Alistair hovering in the doorway and motioned for him to come to him.
"Alistair, I want you to go home and fetch all the Cousins," Michael told Alistair. "Also, tell your mother and the others they are to come here at once. They are needed."
Alistair nodded reluctantly. His mother was the ultimate in fashion, always perfectly dressed, coifed and adorned with jewels. His aunts were just as bad. They did not make a particularly motherly group.
Michael saw the younger man's reluctance. He was fully aware that none of his female relatives were maternal, leaving the raising of their children to the amahs. He was also aware that none of them had done a lick of work in their lives, unless manic shopping for designer labels could be called work. He frowned and then said, "Tell them that the Serenity demands a service. They are to dress matronly, and to be prepared to offer something they have thus far given to no one."
"What's that?" asked Alistair.
"Compassion and comfort," retorted Michael. "They will help comfort the boys," he said sternly. He did not add a cautionary "Or Else!" although Alistair knew exactly what Michael meant.
Alistair left the hospital smiling. He had no worries about the Cousins, especially Arden, who liked everybody and was probably the kindest boy in town. As for the mothers, well, he would carry the message and would, unlike the Serenity, not hesitate to add "Or Else!" It was long since time that the ladies learned who kept their rice bowls filled.
Michael did not sleep at all. While the Major catnapped, Michael sat behind his desk, reading the reports that Frank brought in. From time to time Michael would rise and stare out of the window, thinking of what the future might bring and how he could make that future bright.
He had had a long conversation with The Gunner, and was pleased that everything had gone well in Toronto. They had discussed the future of the boys, and Michael had agreed to fund the Hospital that The Gunner envisaged. Somehow, Michael would find the money.
There were other calls, from Winnipeg, from Regina and Saskatoon. Here the missions had gone well, which did not surprise Michael. There were only two men of interest in Winnipeg, and one each in the other cities. A total of five boys had been rescued and all were being cared for.
Just as the first light of dawn began to creep across the gardens, Michael returned to the hospital. Thad and Jude were tired, but still on duty. His female relatives were on their best behaviour. When he arrived Michael saw Alistair's mother, devoid of paint and gems, reading to a small child, who was staring at here with fascination. It was obvious that he didn't understand a word she was saying, but he was deep in the thrall of her. As he passed the bed she was sitting on she gave him a harried look. Child care was not something she had ever expected to be doing, but she had lost the selfish look she always seemed to have. Michael thought he saw something that she had kept hidden for a long time: caring.
Arden was curled up in bed with a boy who had the reddest hair Michael had ever seen. The boy was snuggled against Arden, one arm draped around the Chinese boy's body. The younger Cousins, Max, Willy, Joey, Harry and Teddy were not sleeping. Max and Harry were playing a board game with two boys and had Michael known his Cousins better he would have seen that the two boys were wearing jeans and T-shirts that were actually Teddy's and Harry's. Teddy was sitting quietly on the edge of a bed, holding the hand of a little boy who refused to go to sleep unless the Chinese boy stayed with him. Max and Willy were in the examination room, lending moral support to the last two boys rescued. Thad was doing a cursory examination of the boys, who refused to take off their only clothing, their underpants, in the presence of a woman!
The older Cousins were also helping. Cornelius was sitting in one corner with a gaggle of giggling boys, making hand puppet silhouettes, using a sheet he had draped over the wall and a lamp. Michael and John, draped in towels, had helped three of the lost boys in the shower and were now sorting through a pile of clothing looted from the collective wardrobes of all the Cousins. Matthew Chan was helping the Maestro and Ginger at the food table. Quinn Bogart, smiling warmly, was seated at a small table, hand feeding an impossibly young looking boy some custard.
Michael looked at the Maestro, and then at Quinn, and then at the Maestro. "He says the boy reminds him of his little brother," the Maestro explained. "If I let him, the fool would spoil them rotten!" Glancing at the smiling Quinn, and the laughing little boy, Michael nodded and said, "Let him!"
The storm had caused delays in all flights leaving Vancouver. The departures lounge was filled with cranky passengers and the check-in clerk was pleasantly surprised at the calm demeanour and pleasant manner of the next passenger she processed. Finished, the clerk placed the airline ticket and boarding pass across the counter to the bespectacled young man. He wasn't bad looking, if you like the fey, swishy type she thought as she smiled winningly.
The man looked over the ticket and asked, "My connecting flights?"
The check-in clerk's fingers darted over the computer keyboard. "The storm is causing some delays, but so far nothing serious. You're confirmed Air Canada to Chicago, American to Miami and BWIA to Belize." She smiled again. "Quite a long way."
The man nodded. "I know, but I'm doing some work at a free clinic in Belize. There's a shortage of doctors, you know."
The check-in clerk didn't know. Her smile still pasted on her face she nodded. "Well, enjoy your flight and thank you for flying Air Canada."
"Doctor Bradley-Smith" returned the smile and walked down the concourse. The first of the men that Michael wanted to disappear was on his way.
As the sun rose higher in the azure sky, Michael continued to work. The lost boys had all been examined and fortunately none needed any medical attention. They had all been abused sexually, which went without saying, but both Thad and Jude felt that they would recover nicely. Michael decided that the hospital should close down and the boys brought into the main house. They were already rampaging through the garden, ably supported by the Cousins, and Michael chuckled at the memory of the Boys of Aurora commandeering his footmen for a game of soccer. He left his desk and walked to the window.
The gardens were filled with boys, laughing and squealing in delight. Just under the window Quinn Bogart sat with Ginger, and two of the younger boys, watching the play. Michael was amazed at the resiliency of boys. Yesterday they had been sex slaves, today they were carefree boys.
Alistair turned the corner of the house and Michael started. His heir and successor had a towel draped around his neck and was wearing the smallest, tightest, Speedo swimming suit Michael had ever seen. As Alistair gestured not quite imperiously, Michael thought that it must be swim time. As the boys disappeared in the general direction of the Orangerie and the swimming pool Michael hoped that the raid on the Cousins' clothing had included swimming costumes. The amahs had still not recovered from the visit of the young Knights!
As he watched the boys gather around Alistair, Michael realized that his Cousin was still a boy himself. Michael watched and as the crowd moved around the corner of the house and decided that he would not interfere. Alistair would be a boy, and grow slowly into the man Michael knew he would become. He would give his heir everything that he himself had been denied: as normal a life as possible. There was time enough to teach Alistair the things he needed to learn. Let him be a boy for a little while longer.
A light tap on the door interrupted Michael's thoughts. The Major entered and placed a small folder on the desk. "Logan has arrived and Gabe and Joe are examining the papers Logan brought from Montreal," he said.
Nodding, Michael sat behind his desk. "The other operations?" he asked.
The Major's faced was blank as he reported, "The men were taken into custody. The boys - there are five - are safe."
"Bring the boys here, when they are ready to travel. See that the evidence to implicate the men in Stennes' business, and their enslaving boys, is left in their houses to be found when someone finally discovers them missing."
The Major nodded and made a note on the pad he always carried now. "The men themselves?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.
"I recall a poem, execrable though it was, by Robert Service," Michael replied. "The English master at school adored it, although I can't think why." Michael's brows furrowed, yes . . .
"There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.' McGee."
"There are many lakes, and many secrets," said the Major. "There will be six more `secret tales', although I doubt Mr. Service would approve."
"I'm sure he wouldn't," agreed Michael. He looked at his watch. "Lunch?"
As they ate, Michael said to the Major, "You know, it would seem that Quinn Bogart has surprised me."
The Major, his fork hesitating over the veal they had been served for lunch, looked up. "Oh?"
"He seems to get on well with the boys." Michael paused. "Should I be worrying?"
The Major shook his head, no. "Quinn is quite all right. He was vetted by the Maestro, who swears there isn't a mean bone in the lad's body." A more serious look came over the Major's face. "He came from a large family, born in Newfoundland; accustomed to hordes of little boys about the house."
Michael hid a smile. The Major had not quite left his Brit stiff upper lip, no nonsense staccato behind in England.
"Shall we ask him to be `Snotties' Nurse'?" Michael asked.
"You've been hanging about with naval types," sniffed the Major. "But yes, I think Bogart will do well."
Michael nodded his approval and was mildly surprised when the Major said, "Alistair is coming along well. I noticed that he's mucked right in to make the boys welcome." He took a taste of his veal, his head bobbing in approval. "The Cousins as well."
"Alistair is to be my heir," said Michael bluntly.
"Yes?"
"Do you think it wise that he be allowed to, shall we say, be a boy and grow up gradually?"
"I do," replied the Major firmly. "Let him experience some happiness before begins the work of a man. It has been my experience that the only way to understand a man is to watch him grow."
"You do surprise me," opined Michael.
"Oh, how so?"
"Well, you have always been so, shall we say determinedly military!" said Michael. "The consummate professional."
"Cold and professional," corrected the Major. He shrugged. "It came with the job, I'm afraid. It is very difficult to send a friend into battle, knowing that he's not coming back. It is much easier if one does not actually know the man. Oh, one knows he's there, that he as a wife, children perhaps, drinks too much, fights too much, but one does not truly know him."
"A person, yes, with hopes and fears, dreams, and so on," interjected Michael.
"Yes. As a commander I could be fair, and firm, but never friendly." The Major shrugged. "I told myself that it helped me sleep better at night."
"Did it?" queried Michael.
"No," replied the Major bluntly. "Which is why I hope you will allow Alistair to sleep at night." Once again the Major surprised Michael by leaning forward and deliberately pointing his fork at him. "And you let him sleep better by letting the man he loves sleep beside him!"
Michael gasped. "You know?"
The Major harrumphed and muttered, "A blind man could see it!"
Chuckling, Michael shook his head. "You are really an old softy!" he accused.
"Can't help it," returned the Major. "Too damned many boys needing nurturing cluttering up the house! Needed to reassess the situation. Sorry."
"Don't be," said Michael. "I like you much better!" He continued to chuckle until Miles Boulton came into the dining room. The amusement that Michael had so uncharacteristically been displaying disappeared immediately and his usual pall of stoicism returned.
Miles had been sent out to the airport to keep an eye on things. Michael offered lunch, which Miles accepted, and settled into a chair. "Well, it's done," he said.
"They all got away?"
"They did," Miles assured Michael. "The doctor is on his way to Belize; Lennox - and wherever did you find a brute that big who looked like him? - is now winging his way to Bangkok, First Class, I might add!"
"He never travelled any other way; true to form and all that," replied the Major. "The city is wide open and a natural destination for a boy-lover with money. The Thais are very accommodating."
"As accommodating as the Brazilians, because that's where Hoskens' is going?" Miles asked. "He'll end up in Rio. Willis' is on his way to Jakarta and Burgess' will spend his days in Hong Kong. The last man, Dowding' is heading for Cairo."
"Dreadful place," sniffed the Major. "Nothing but dust, dirt, camels and Wogs! Was there in '48. Town hasn't been the same since the riff-raff burned down Shepherd's Hotel!"
Miles stared at the Major. "Does he always talk like that?" he asked Michael.
Barely containing his laughter, Michael replied, "Only when he's in his Colonel Blimp mood."
Shaking his head at the Major, who pretentiously ignored his tormentors, Miles asked, "So, what happens now?"
"When the impostors arrive at their destinations they will destroy their travel documents and then disappear," Michael said. "They all have a new set of papers and will use them to fly on to their final destinations. The young man who portrayed Bradley-Smith, for instance, will fly to Sicily - he's a native of Salerno - and remain there for a year or so. When the authorities go looking for the real Bradley-Smith they will find that he landed in Belize, passed through customs and so, and then disappeared. They will watch outgoing flights, as they all have return tickets, but for all intents and purposes these men will simply vanish."
"The real men?" ventured Miles.
"Oh, they'll be dealt with," answered the Major. "At the moment they are guests of the Tsangs."
Miles shuddered. He'd been around Michael Chan, and his organization long enough to know about, and fear even the name of the Tsangs. Miles rose from his chair. He would ask no questions. It was better that way.
As Miles left the office and closed the door, the Major then coughed delicately. "There is a problem, though."
Michael looked at the Major. "Oh?"
The Major, who liked everything to be as ship-shape and Bristol fashion as possible, and who had been accustomed to having a Field Manual that outlined and explained the proper way of doing things, from setting up field latrines to how to conduct a court-martial, assumed an air of wounded pride. "The problem is, my dear Michael, is that nobody has a clue how to conduct a proper Bar of Justice! Most extraordinary! Not to mention inconvenient!"
Michael shrugged indifferently. "I suppose we shall just have to wing it!"
Michael's call for a Bar of Justice had caused no little consternation. Bertie Arundel, the self-appointed historian of the Order, had been consulted. Bertie searched his notes and what dusty, crumbling archives he had, and more or less came up empty. There simply were no transcripts or records detailing a Bar of Justice, and since there had been none for at least 500 years, there were no precedents.
The Order had always kept meticulous records, always in Latin. Each priory held Secret Archives that rarely saw the light of day. Knowing that the records had existed, however, was one thing. Finding them quite another, if they existed at all, which Bertie doubted.
Much of the Order's written history had been lost to war. In 1187 the Saracens, under Salah al-Din Yusuf Ibn Ayyub, called Saladin, conquered Jerusalem and with it the Hospital there. The records had been hastily bundled together and hurried down to Acre, where the Mother House was established. Stored in one of the underground strong rooms, there they remained until 1291, when the Mameluks captured the last stronghold of the Crusader Kings of Jerusalem. Bertie told Michael that for all he knew the records were still there.
The Priory of Acre had never been explored. The low, stone walls were as blank as the desert that made up much of the new state of Israel. The gates, ancient and battered though they were, had not been opened in generations. Succeeding Grand Masters, forbidden by the Muslims to enter the Holy Land, had given the place up. Saint John himself might be guarding the place but the world was in turmoil and the Grand Masters were much too busy trying to keep the Order extant.
Although the original priory was intact, the Arabs would not go near the place, convinced that anyone entering would never come out alive. For generations the Order had paid a family of Bedouins ten gold sovereigns (nothing else would do) to visit the place and clean away the collected dust and detritus. The Jerusalem Hospital had been completely destroyed by the guns of the Arab Legion when it captured the old city in 1948. All that remained was a pile of rubble, and thus far no funds had been allocated to excavate the site.
If the Secret Archives had been moved, they would have ended up in Vienna, where the Order was long-established and well respected, at least until 1938, when the SS came to visit.
The Relic of the True Cross had been spirited away at the last minute and Bertie thought that nobody had the time or the means to cart away lorry loads of paper. The Luftwaffe had completed what the SS had begun, destroying the Priory in London. The RAF and USAF had bombed the Berlin priory into rubble. The Spanish Priory had been burned during the Civil War, when the so-called Republicans had launched an anti-clerical campaign against the Church, burning convents and monasteries, desecrating churches and chapels, and murdering some 8,000 priests and nuns.
Bertie did have a badly damaged copy of the Rule, written in 1346, in London, but it had been badly stored and was not only rat eaten, but at some point water had inundated the storage room, causing ink to dissolve and papers to stick together.
Complicating matters was the fact that everything saved from the wreckage of the priories was recorded in Latin. Bertie had tried to make sense of it all but at the end of the day all he could confidently tell Michael was that three knights were needed as judges. Bertie had read a half-burned, crumbling piece of vellum which mentioned a "Recorder", but beyond that nothing was written. As Michael had said, he would have to wing it.
Michael had the venue for a Bar of Justice. He chose the Tsang compound for several reasons. The compound was located in the original Vancouver Chinatown, and everybody knew about the Tsangs which meant that nobody bothered them, or entered their compound if they could help it. Originally a warehouse complex, one of the buildings was open, with windows set high up under the eaves. Around the main storage area was a series of strong rooms, which served as cells. With the chickens and pigs that normally inhabited the place evicted, the main room would make a serviceable courtroom.
Off of the main room was a smaller, windowless chamber, filled with dust and mildew. Here a gallows was constructed, complete with the traditional 13 steps. In a separate building was the heating plant, a massive coal-fired boiler. Many of the buildings in town had their own heating plants, but the Tsangs had never seen the need to convert to oil. Coal was cheap, and one of Michael's businesses provided the anthracite at rock-bottom prices. The boiler was destined to play an important part in the final disposition of the apostate knights.
Michael, after telephoning Chef to see how he was arranging the Bar of Justice, then contacted Bertie and Louis Arundel. Between the three of them they managed to draft a rough and ready program. Michael, Louis, and Major Meinertzhagen, would act as Justices. Bertie Arundel would act as Recorder legal arbiter. Bertie had been unable to find anything concrete regarding defence counsel and told his brother Louis that the whole thing reminded him of a Naval Court Martial, where it was "March the Guilty Bastard In!" The guilt of the defendants was hardly in doubt, after all, and who would want to defend the likes of Lennox?
As it turned out, no one did. Michael had therefore approached the Maestro, who pointed out that he'd been at one of the "conclaves" in Coquitlam where little boys were always on the menu. While he agreed that there might be a conflict of interest (the Maestro might be called as a witness after all) but Michael pointed out that Ginger, who had also been at the Coquitlam house of the old Grand Master, was just as creditable so there was no problem. The Maestro grumpily agreed and went to talk to his "clients".
The Maestro later came into the office and informed Michael that the bastards were arrogant, smug, and as guilty as Hamam! Could he please, pull the lever when the time came to execute the sentences?
Ignoring this request Michael also appointed Alistair as co-counsel. The young man needed to see justice done and Michael was interested in seeing how Alistair would act.
Tsang Su Shun, Elder of the Clan Tsang, was consulted and appropriate orders issued to him. Cousin Eddy was called from Victoria and he and Cousin Tommy supervised the final arrangements.
Lennox was the first to appear before the Bar of Justice. He refused to accept the authority of the Court, refused to admit to having done anything wrong and demanded a lawyer. He demanded in vain. Ty Ravenel and Landon Wilkes were called as witnesses and told the Court of what they had seen. Gabe Izard presented written proof that Lennox had bought minor boys from Stennes, using the man's own bank records. The Grand Master asked Lennox to confirm that he had been knighted on the 12th of March 1969, and to confirm that he had sworn the Oath on the Relics of his faith.
Lennox snarled that he had taken the Oath, but what did it matter? He had only joined because boys were freely available at the conclaves, and besides, he'd only done what the old Grand Master, the Council, and all the other knights had done!
The Court considered the evidence presented and found the defendant guilty. They did not leave the banc to consider. Lennox was sentenced to death by hanging, sentence to be carried out immediately.
Lennox screamed invective as he was led by three Tsangs from the courtroom, into the windowless execution chamber. At the sight of the gallows Lennox's knees buckled. He had not believed, until then, that Michael would actually carry out the sentence. He began spewing bile and soiled himself. The Tsangs, impassive, half-carried, half-led the shrieking man up the 13 steps and positioned him on the trap. The hangman, masked, placed a thick, black hood over Lennox's head, and then looped the heavy rope noose around his neck. Cousin Tommy asked Lennox if he had any last words. When Lennox snarled, "Fuck You!" Cousin Tommy nodded and the hangman pulled the lever.
Lennox dropped like a stone, his body swinging gently. He was left hanging for half an hour and then cut down. Wrapped in an old carpet and placed on a stretcher, he made his last journey, his body carried down a connecting, stone passageway and into the compound's boiler room. Beside the open iron door of the stoked boiler, where flames roared redly ominous, an old, anonymous Tsang, waited.