Aurora Crusade

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.

Aurora Crusade

Chapter 20

`Chef looked out across the wide, green lawns of the square. At one end, sitting comfortably in lawn chairs and wearing as little possible - shorts and bare feet - were Fred Fisher and Nathan Berman, sipping what looked, even at this distance, to be Pimm's cups. Next to Fred and Nathan, Matt Greene and Nicholas Rodney sprawled on the grass. Beside them was a large, galvanized tin bucket from which protruded several long-necked, brown glass bottles - beer!

`A shout drew the old man's attention to the scrum in the middle of the park. Mordecai Goldschmidt broke from the pack and took off down the middle of the greensward, his payos flying, and kicked the soccer ball with dexterity toward the makeshift goal. The goalkeeper - it was Petrus, the oldest of what everyone called "The Polish Underground" - leaped to block the ball . . . and missed.

Mordecai was buried under an avalanche of shouting, laughing, boys. They were all half-naked, wearing only shorts, being the "skin" team.

The "shirt" wore whatever shorts and T-shirts the young Knights could scavenge from their kit bags and suitcases. Not that there was much, as the ladies had got there before the rightful owners. Jerzy, too small to play, had been appointed water boy. He rushed onto the pitch and hugged Mordy. Mordy was Jerzy's hero and adored the Orthodox Jewish boy. So much so that Chef wondered if he should speak to the rabbis about procuring the services of a mohel.

Chef's eyes continued to scan the square. On the steps of the synagogue at the northern end of Belgrave Square was a clutch of dark-clad men. It was hotter than the hubs of hell, in Chef's opinion, but the rabbis kept to their traditions and wore dark suits, and wide-brimmed hats. At least, Chef thought, the old men were laughing and clapping, pointing to Mordy, who was prancing around the improvised soccer pitch, his arms held high in victory.

The rabbis were not the only on-lookers. Belgrave Square was a popular bit of greenery, much enjoyed by the local children and their mothers. They sat, looking cool in shorts and summer tops, around the edge of the park. Interspersed, and ever watchful, were the minders. Alex Grinchsten and Ned Hadfield, looking at ease, were sitting on the steps leading to the Hospital. Nearby, their eyes shaded by their hands, Mrs. Randolph and Mrs. Arundel sat drinking tea, nodding at the antics of the boys. Chef wondered where Lester had found the somewhat bedraggled umbrella that shaded the tea table, and the wicker chairs the ladies sat in.

There was another shout and the scrum became orderly and the two teams lined up for the kick off. Chef saw Mike Sunderland, and Phillip, called The Assistant, looking official, calling the play. The old man smiled. It was good that Mike had finally left the Chinese hospital. He was only 18, and still, in many ways, a boy, who needed boys his own age about him. Mike had kept vigil over the little Russian boy after his operation.

The thought of the little boy, Vytaly, suffering so much pain, caused Chef to frown. The doctors in the Chinese hospital had repaired the damage to Vitaly's rectum. Mike had helped repair the boy's mind. Young Vitaly was coming along well, and would be brought home soon. Mike, who should have been thinking of going home himself, refused all suggestions. He would stay in Toronto until Vitaly was safe and sound in the Hospital. Which meant, Chef knew, that Phillip, called The Assistant, would stay also.

A flash of white at the far end of the square drew Chef's attention. That, he thought, will be Mabell Airlie, with Sister Mary Grace, wheeling the once nameless Cawthra Square boy in a chair. His name, which he revealed after coming out of his drug-induced stupor, was Bert. He did not know his last name at all, for he had been abducted - or sold, he didn't know which - years before from an orphanage near Rosythe, Scotland. Mabell Airlie, who had never left Bert's side, promptly dubbed him Albert Edward Airlie. A boy, she said, needed a proper name. Chef thought privately that Mabell was looking for a son.

As the wheelchair came closer Chef saw that "Albert Edward" was looking much better. He was basically healthy, although woefully dehydrated, and suffering from malnutrition. Doctor Hampton, who was now in residence at the Hospital, watched the young man's diet carefully. He also tended Albert Edward's impetigo lesions, removing the crusts and exposing the reddened lesions the sunlight, which Sister Mary Grace said was a sovereign method of curing them, although Chef thought that the regimen of antibiotics prescribed by the doctors at the Chinese hospital had more to do with it than the sun.

There was another shout from the playing fields, an angry shout, and Chef looked to see that Two Strokes had been red-carded. Laughing to himself he watched as the skinny young man stomped from the pitch. Two Strokes was a hell of a baseball player, but sadly lacking in soccer skills. There was a smattering of applause as Two Strokes left the field. He had the grace to wave back in acknowledgement.

As Chef watched he could not help but wonder at the resilience of boys. Many of the boys had only two days before been in abusive homes, used to satisfy the sexual appetites of men who "owned" them. Now they were laughing, scuffling, and doing things that young boys should be doing. Many of them were suffering from the effects of their ordeal, which was why each one had been assigned a Knight to help him, and Chef knew that many of the rescued boys slept in the same beds as their Knights. One or two of the minders had also become attached to the boy, or boys they rescued. The minders were very protective of their boys, all of them, and Chef knew that nothing untoward was going on, although he suspected that Jergen, the golden-haired German Adonis, and Jérémie Cher, the dark eyed, black-haired Quebecois boy, might tell him a different tale.

Chef was not worried. Both boys were old enough to know what they wanted, and if each other was what they wanted, so be it.

Just as the game was getting interesting - the Americans, Mark, Tony and Nathan, had formed what they called "a line" and were vowing Shirt vengeance against Skin opposition - Alex rose to his feet and came to stand beside Chef. "Sorry, Chef, but it's time."

Chef nodded. A Conclave of the Priory of Upper Canada had been called, and he was required to attend.

A shout came from the pitch and Chef grimaced. "I do hope they haven't killed anyone," he said, not seriously, as the players huddled around a prone figure.

"Naw, they're too tough to kill," Alex said. "Besides, that's Jake. I told him he was too old to play with them, but they like him and he's an American, after all, so he had to be a part of their "line"."

"Still, I'd lay in a supply of embrocation, just in case," Chef responded as they watched Jake being helped from the field.

Alex stopped in his tracks. "Embr'cation?" he asked. "Are we going somewhere?"

Chef shook his head and muttered, "Colonials" under his breath. "My dear Alex," he said ponderously, "your education is sadly lacking."

"How so?" Alex asked Chef.

"You are confusing embarkation', which is to board a ship, with embrocation', which is a liniment to ease one's aches and pains."

As Chef entered the Hospital, Alex shook his head. "Bloody limeys!" he muttered under his breath.

The Gunner, as Chancellor, called the Conclave to order. They were using the restaurant, now called the refectory, which was the only room large enough to contain all the Knights and Companions, all of whom were unwillingly in attendance. Nobody really wanted to be indoors on this fine afternoon.

Lester had laid on trays of food, which nobody was eating, and trays of drinks, which everyone was drinking. It was a hot day and a cooling drink was definitely in order. Chef sat quietly in his seat. He was tired and tired of meetings! From the moment The Gunner returned from his raid on the Glasgow Street brothel, Chef seemed to live a life of nothing but meetings!

Chef, as Proctor, had to be informed of everything. That first morning, when all of the teams had returned, he and The Gunner had sat in the Hospital office, sipping Scotch, with The Gunner doing most of the talking.

As the days passed, Chef realized that there were many unresolved problems. First, and foremost, was the question of what was to be done with the Lost Boys who did not want to be protected.

"I had all of the boys - there were 11 - gathered in the lounge," The Gunner told Chef. "They were all, except two, seasoned pros, and they didn't want to leave the brothel." He shook his head ruefully. "When I explained that Stennes and Hung were no longer in the picture, they all cheered and started chattering amongst themselves."

Chef looked thoughtful. "Well, Stevie darlin', you have to think that they're old enough to know what they want. They were raised to be whores, after all." He scratched his chin reflectively. "From the sound of it, the brothel was quite luxurious."

The Gunner nodded. "Very luxurious. They had the best of everything and from what I could get out of them, they considered themselves courtesans, not whores, and only served the elite, and they all had a secret stash of money."

"They did?"

Once again The Gunner nodded. "Chef, these boys serviced some very rich clients. Hung, or Stennes, who was the power in the brothel, took 60% of what the boys made - repayment of the fees to bring them here. Stennes allowed the boys to keep their gratuities - rich Chinese men would lose face if they short-changed their boy."

"A cultural matter, Stevie. It would show meanness - something to be avoided at all costs."

"A mean man is an untrustworthy man," concluded The Gunner. "In the event, all of the boys had money, and more or less legal papers. Where Stennes got them I can only conjecture, and if they were forgeries they were very good indeed."

"So, what did you decide, then?"

"Well, since they weren't all that hot to trot to come with us, and since they all seemed to think they could find a patron quickly, I decided to let them find their own way." The Gunner shrugged. "What else could I do?"

"Nothing," replied Chef. "You acted in accordance with the Rule: no man can be coerced to accept the Order. He, and he alone must choose his path." Chef rose from his seat and refilled his glass. He looked at The Gunner and asked, "You said `only two' were not in the trade?"

"Yes, two boys fresh from China. They were named Shem and Shoo and it appears they were Stennes' favourites of the moment. They can't speak English, are not the most prepossessing boys in the house and quiet frankly would never survive. They were also illegal."

Chef raised an eyebrow. "So . . .?"

"Shem and Shoo are now under the protection of Terry Hsiang. He'll look after them and teach them what they need to know. As for the others, they were packing when I left the house."

"The right decision," Chef agreed. "From the sound of it I would venture that the courtesans know their business."

"No argument there," replied The Gunner. He glanced at his watch. "Dear God!" he exclaimed. "It's gone seven."

Chef took a sip of his drink and nodded toward the window overlooking the square. "In case you haven't noticed, Stevie Darlin', the sun is up."

The Gunner watched the dust motes dancing in the strengthening morning sun and nodded. "I need to call Rick Maslen."

Major Rick Maslen was the officer in charge of Special Branch, the military's catch-all directorate that had sweeping investigative powers. It was the only branch of the service that seemed to function well after the disastrous "unification" of the Armed Services, foisted on the nation by a cowardly Prime Minister and his Uriah Heep of a Minister of National Defence. Chef knew that Rick knew where all the bodies were buried, including the rat-faced PM's anti-Semitism and his support of Fascism during the war. Just as the odious Kennedy brothers had feared and loathed J. Edgar Hoover, the Prime Minister feared and loathed Rick Maslen. However, like Hoover, Rick had the goods and would use them if the Prime Minister's Office interfered in any way in what Rick considered to be his business.

The inquisitive look on Chef's face caused The Gunner to explain his need to contact Rick. Chef could not understand why Damian Porter, an SIU undercover agent, ostensibly assigned to Wellington Barracks in London, Ontario, would be lurking in a stable yard behind a male brothel!

The Gunner smiled tightly. "Officially he's investigating the existence of a Neo-Nazi cell in London. You know that Stennes was funding the movement."

Chef nodded. He also knew that Stennes was helping to fund the separatist movement in Quebec. Still, he was curious. "Unofficially?"

The Gunner laughed. "He was hoping that Little Big Man would be in residence and that they could rekindle a night of bliss!"

Chef looked balefully at The Gunner. "Paul Greene? Whatever are you talking about?"

"Apparently Stennes used the brothel as his headquarters when in Toronto. He has taken Paul under his wing, so to speak. Damian and two of his friends were treated to a night with the boys and Paul showed Damian a very good time."

Chef grimaced. "I knew he was a vicious little snake without scruples but

. . ."

"He's Stennes' boy, Chef," said The Gunner sadly. "Paul Greene is completely evil, and from what little Damian could tell me, prepared to follow Stennes' lead."

"To think that someone who could have been one of us, would choose evil!" groused Chef. "But then, from the day I first laid eyes on the little git I knew he'd come to a bad end!"

"Well, not yet," replied The Gunner. "But eventually."

"Good," said Chef. "Hopefully from something extremely deadly and extremely painful!"

"We live in hope," responded The Gunner dryly. "Anyway, I sent Damian back to his barracks. I'll let Rick sort him out."

"Good," agreed Chef. "And the others?"

Sighing, The Gunner shook his head. "I will speak to them when the time is right. I won't keep anyone here against his will. Some of the older boys won't want to accept what the Order offers them - Gino, and Sepp and Gottfried for instance - and will want to either go their own way, or, if possible return home."

"Home?" exclaimed Chef. "Most of them have never known what home' was. I doubt that any of them have so much as a smidgeon of a memory of home'."

The Gunner was forced to agree. "What I want to do is to keep them here, or at the new Hospital I hope to establish in Arnprior, feed them, clothe them, educate them, and then let them decide. I can't do more."

"Sending them home, as you put it is a forlorn cause," returned Chef. "They've all been smuggled into this country, after being smuggled out of some country! While we have a mass of papers to go through, I doubt that at the end of the day we will know much about them other than the language they speak, and even then some of them have forgotten their birth language."

Chef drained his drink in one gulp and regarded The Gunner. "Stevie, Stennes used a corrupt system in half a dozen countries, more for all we know, to buy the boys. He may have known at some point in time what their real names were, what their real birthplaces were, but now . . ." He shook his head. "We may be able to glean some truth out of the papers we found, we may not."

"But Chef . . ."

"Hear me out, Stevie darlin'," said Chef. "I agree, when the boys are old

enough, and if they ask, tell them the truth. Show them what we know and yes, they can decide. But, after all they have been through, I think most of them will not want to know where they came from. They will want to know where they are going!" He stood up. "Stevie, raise your Hospital, fill it with boys, give them love. Send those boys who wish it wherever they want to go. As for the rest, we are now their fathers and mothers. Show them the truth of the Order."

With that, Chef announced that he was going to bed. As far as the old man was concerned, the matter was closed.

As he sat alone in the office, The Gunner realized that Chef was right. He would build the Hospital and he would nurture the young boys. Deus Vult.

There were other meetings, of course. The structure of the Hospital had to be decided, the calibre of the Masters and Instructors who would look after the boys had to be defined. At each meeting more and more questions were raised. As Chef pointed out constantly, they were starting from scratch, and each step of the evolution of the Hospital had to be carefully considered. Paramount was the welfare of the boys they had saved, and would save, for Lester had had his wish of a "drop in" centre downtown confirmed.

One question that was uppermost in The Gunner's mind, in Chef's, and in Lester's, was money. Lester, as Administrator, was constantly worried about how to pay for everything, and there was a lot of "everything". The overhead, the actual cost of maintaining the Hospital, had to be considered. The boys would need to be fed and clothed, in every case literally from the skin out. As it was decided that the Hospital was to be organized on the model of a private school in the Anglican Tradition, uniforms had to be considered. Eventually, while the Hospital in Toronto was to be kept and maintained, they would all move to a new facility in Arnprior. Where was the money to come from to build that? How would they pay the teachers they would need?

The Gunner, and to a degree, Chef, listened to Lester's constant carping and finally put an end to it by telling him that there was money, a great deal of it, about to flow into the Hospital coffers. Lester was sceptical so The Gunner told him a few pertinent truths.

For the moment there was a little over half a million dollars in hand, what with what they had recovered in Montreal from Hunter, and what they had gleaned from the houses they had raided. All of the papers the teams had gathered had been sent to Joel Chiang in Vancouver, who would work his magic. Hunter had millions hidden away in secret bank accounts which, if The Gunner knew Joel, would be found and quietly transferred to the Order's accounts.

C.R. McLennden also had money hidden away. Vati Frank was a parsimonious old poot who was hardly a candidate for the Work House. "Uncle Bob", who was a world-renowned architect, also had assets he thought were hidden away from prying eyes and Revenue Canada. He would know soon enough that his assets were not so hidden when the funds in Switzerland, in Lichtenstein, and the Cayman Islands suddenly disappeared into the ether.

So far as Toronto was concerned, Percy Simpson's estate was more or less untouchable. He was well known, his accountants were very careful, and there was no point in trying to siphon his funds. His heirs had had nothing to do with his secret business dealings and would notice - and scream loudly at the noticing - if any of his estate started to drain away. Willoughby was bankrupt. His financial machinations had brought him to ruin and destitution.

Reilly James, while not mad, was almost as broke as Willoughby. His family had once been quite well off, thanks to his father, who had invested heavily in armament stocks during the first war. Reilly James, Senior, had died in 1919, during the Spanish Flu Pandemic. His wife, and Reilly James, Junior's mother, had reinvested her inheritance and she and her son lived quite well until October 29, 1929, when their world came crashing down. She died in 1930 and Reilly James, his parents gone, his world gone, with only the house in Cawthra Square and a few millions where there had been many, became a recluse.

Doctor Hampton, at the urging of The Gunner, had examined the 76-year-old man and pronounced Reilly James sane. He was suffering from agoraphobia, rarely left the house except to shop for food, and, as a child of the depression, was obsessed with never being without again. He horded everything, from cans of food to every newspaper and magazine ever delivered to his house. He spent as little as possible and only when absolutely necessary. Ace Grimes, and his father, had made discreet enquiries about Reilly James and it transpired that the city had a lien against his house for back taxes owed, and there was a pile of utility bills accruing. While there was a little over 250,000 dollars in James' bank account, sequestering it was, as in the case of Percy Simpson, not worth the trouble it would cause.

There were also the jewels that The Gunner had left with Chaim Goldschmidt. Chaim had started his subtle campaign - nothing brash, nothing overt, and very little information - to generate curiosity and interest. His agents in Europe had hired the ballroom of the Hotel de Paris in Monaco. A slight, apparently inadvertent slip of the tongue at a luncheon attended by all the major buyers at a De Beers "sight" about a major collection of historic Russian gems perhaps becoming available soon had set tongues to wagging from London to Paris and points beyond. Chaim knew how to play the game, and how to bring anticipation to a fever pitch. He guaranteed that the jewels would make record prices. To help he had even hired a firm of private investigators and set them to work to establish a provenance for the jewels. Aaron Mark II reported to The Gunner that "Chuckles" was smiling and rubbing his hands in anticipation of the commissions that would come rolling in.

One aspect of the crusade that had caused Lester to worry had been Terry Hsiang's expenses. While Terry was Michael Chan's Viceroy, he was not expected to shoulder the burden of financing such a massive operation as the crusade had been. He could ask for, and receive, reimbursement of all reasonable expenses. This was the way business was done.

The Gunner quickly put Lester's mind at ease. Terry would not present a bill for the very simple reason that he had already been paid. What The Gunner did not tell Lester, or Chef, was that Terry Hsiang was about to embark on a crusade of his own.

Terry was a man who kept abreast of current events. He also had his spies and agents in every aspect of the Chinese community. He therefore knew that what was now a trickle would become a flood. There were thousands of refugees, "Boat People" as they were referred to in the newspapers, waiting for visas in the Philippines and on Guam. They were ethnic Chinese from the Saigon suburb of Cholon; they were Vietnamese peasants and fishermen who had managed to find boats that would take them away from the horror of the conquest of their native land, and the bloodbath of "re-education" for dissidents and ethnic minorities. In Hong Kong, and Singapore, other groups waited for the scrap of paper that would allow them entry. Many of them would head to the United States, but many would come to Canada. Terry would be waiting.

Toronto's original Chinatown was filled to bursting. To the west Chinatown stopped abruptly at Bathurst Street. West of there it was Portuguese territory. To the north the Italians held sway. To the east was the downtown core, filled with office towers, high end shops, bars and restaurants and very little in the way of cheap housing. To the south was the industrial district, factories, shipping docks, and warehouses.

Terry knew that small enclaves of Chinese had been established in other parts of the city, notably Agincourt (for those who had money) and the area just east of the Don River. Terry knew that the intelligentsia would immigrate and settle in Montreal, for they all spoke French and considered themselves a cut above the riff raff rice farmers. The others, the riff raff rice farmers, would settle with their own kind, which meant Toronto.

Terry had a plan.

With the connivance of the Italians, who were a power in the city, Terry

Hsiang would take over not only the old Chinatown, but the new. He would destroy the Circle K Boys and The Gunner had given him the ammunition he needed to bring even the most reluctant into his line: boxes of 16mm films, and some of the new video cassettes, showing some of the most prominent Chinese businessmen in compromising positions with boys, and the appointments register of the Glasgow Street brothel.

Terry could be ruthless when he needed to be, but subtle when it suited his purpose. He would not, unless necessary, expose any of the Chinese movers and shakers. He would quietly present them with a copy of the movie in which they were the stars. He would not demand money. All he asked was for them to look the other way when the Circle K Boys started floating in the harbour. As for Sun Yat Wa, Terry would ask nothing of him. He would lie and tell the man that the movie had not been copied. Sun Yat Wa would accept the lie and know that he owed Terry Hsiang a service. Terry would show Wa the entry in the register showing the appointment booked for Kuang Hsu P'u Yi - Henry Kuang - leader of the Circle K Boys. This would establish Henry Kuang as a "turtle" the greatest insult known to Chinese everywhere, and give Wa an excuse to abandon Kuang. Terry Hsiang had a plan.

Before entering the Hospital, Chef paused and looked again at the crowd of boys. They seemed so happy, so content, and he wondered if God, in His infinite wisdom, would allow that happiness and contentment to continue. He wondered if the relationships now forming, and those formed, would endure.

Jérémie Cher disentangled himself from the scrum of boys and stood to the side. He saw Chef and Alex go into the Hospital. He also saw Mrs. Airlie, Sister Mary Grace and Albert Edward. Having been raised in a traditional, Roman Catholic home and culture, the presence of the nuns - there were four of them - in their traditional cowls and white habits, was comforting to the young French-Canadien boy.

Jergen wandered over to where Jérémie Cher was standing. Not caring what the others might think, he wrapped his arms around Jérémie's waist. "What are you smiling about," he asked.

"I was just thinking that it's nice to have the nuns here, if only for a little while."

Jergen frowned. He professed to no religion, and seriously doubted the existence of God, or any Supreme Being, no matter how He was called. Jergen felt Jérémie's naked, sweat rimed waist and snickered. "You wouldn't be saying that if one of them had walked in us the first night!"

Not at all ashamed, Jérémie Cher smiled widely. "And with luck will happen again tonight!"

Jergen joined in his bedmate's laughter. "That can most definitely be arranged!" he said with a low, evil growl.

In later years Jérémie Cher would come to regard that first night in the Hospital of St. John of the Cross of Acre as one of, if not the, defining moments of his life. There had been, at first, a great deal of confusion, brought on firstly by the injured boys. They had to be attended to first by Doctor Hampton who was, as even he would later admit, swamped. He had his "Tiffys" of course, and Mrs. Randolph and Mrs. Arundel. All of the young Knights had First Aid courses under their belts, but their help was not enough. Terry Hsiang, seeing the doctor's plight, had made a hurry up call to the Chinese Community Hospital and reinforcements - two impossibly young looking Chinese doctors and four Sisters of Mercy - arrived, with more medicines and bandages than were needed. Ray Cornwallis, who had visions of becoming a doctor, and had taken several advanced science courses in high school with that goal in mind, had grabbed some rubber gloves and set to with a will.

The second problem was the sheer number of rescued boys. Although two of the teams, Chris and Jon's and the Gunner's, had returned without any boys, all of the other teams that had been sent out returned with boys, including six teams who came back having rescued more boys than they had been told to expect. Now there were 40 of the "Lost Boys" in residence, with three still in hospital - Eugen, Vytaly and Albert, who was being treated for an overdose of Valium.

The influx of extra boys sent Lester's carefully worked out billeting plan into the rubbish bin. He quickly ordered doubling up, and in some cases, tripling up in every bed, except for the rooms assigned to the nuns and the Chinese doctors. Even the Security Officers were called upon to double up. It was a tight squeeze, but Lester managed to find a pillow and a blanket for everyone. Jérémie Cher found himself sharing a room - and a bed - with Jergen .

. .

It could have been worse. Steve and Stewart found themselves hosting the two blond, Polish cherubs, Jerzy and Sigismund. Two Strokes and Thumper had two double beds in their room and ended up with the four German boys, Martin, Auguste, Heinrich and Erwin, with Dino Antonelli sleeping on a cot wedged into one corner.

Zander, no matter how Jergen argued with him, was adamant and would not leave Shane Kingscote's side. Shane told Chef jokingly that the little German slept so close to him when they went to bed that he was either going to have to marry Zander, or adopt him! Chef replied that the former was out of the question but the latter could be arranged. Stunned, Shane walked away muttering, because everybody knew that a single man - gay or straight - could not adopt little boys.

Sandro was not displeased when he found out that Petrus and Stanislaus would share his room, as would Lenny Weintraub, and Chef had no doubts at all why Sandro now walked around with a huge smile on his face!

Nate Schoenmann had moved in with the Twins and Sean. Cory did not mind in the least. He got to sleep with Sean with no smartass questions being asked. Nate was, in Cory's opinion, quite acceptable in more ways than one. Todd slept with Nate, and complained that the handsome Jewish boy snored. Cory replied that Todd was complaining because snoring was all Nate did.

Jérémie Cher had no problem sleeping with Jergen. Back home he often shared one of his brother's beds, and he'd jest spent two months cooped up in the berthing deck of a YAG, with 18 smelly shipmates! Having just one roommate would be a pleasure!

The room was small, but decently appointed. There was an en-suite bathroom and a colour television set. Jergen had found the Hospital library - a small room, but filled with books. He had chosen several and insisted that Jérémie Cher shower first so that he could scan the books he had chosen.

In the bathroom Jérémie showered, cleaning himself carefully - a nightly ritual ingrained in him from the first day his father discovered that his foreskin retracted. Next Jérémie shaved. Since reaching puberty he did this twice a day, once in the morning, and once in the evening. His beard, which was very black, was fast growing and he seemed to constantly have a five o'clock shadow, which always caused him grief at inspections.

Finished with his ablutions, Jérémie Cher pulled on clean tighty whiteys. They were new, a result of the ladies having pillaged his luggage of his spare smalls. While everything had been returned, they needed laundering and in meantime Chef thought it best to just go out and buy enough underpants to outfit everybody, Knights and rescued boys alike.

"All yours," Jérémie told Jergen as he returned to the bedroom.

Nodding his thanks, Jergen grabbed the pair of underpants that one of the

nuns, who had taken over the job of supply sergeant - Sister Mary Jerome, Jergen thought - had given him, and disappeared into the bathroom.

While Jergen was showering, Jérémie turned on the television and sprawled on the bed, on the left, and very close to the edge. He could hear the water running and wondered about Jergen. He was a very good looking boy, and if the bulge in his undies was any indication, well-endowed. Not that Jérémie was really interested in the German's "endowment". For all his braggadocio about taking Little Jérémie for a walk in the moonlight with The Phantom, Jérémie Cher had never felt the urge to have an affaire de coeur with another boy. The most he would admit to was curiosity.

Returning, and dressed in a pair of boxers and smelling of soap and what Jérémie Cher associated with "clean boy", Jergen lay on the bed. It was much too hot to pull up the covers. He picked up his book and began to read.

For his part, Jérémie Cher tried not to look. He had seen Jergen naked, so he knew what was hidden under the bright red and white checked boxers that the German boy wore. Still, Jergen was a handsome young man, with a chiselled chest and firm thighs and calves, dusted with fine, golden hair. Cory, who had not seen Jergen naked, called him a fine piece of "eye candy". Jérémie Cher agreed, but also thought that with his olive-skin and dark hair, he looked positively homely beside the German.

For his part, Jergen would have disagreed. Although he had spent much of his young life as a sexual slave, an object, he was not all that sure that he was homosexual. He was at that stage of his life when he could, and did, admire another male. When he had been rescued, he had been given a surgical gown, and told to wait until "Surgeon" could have a look at him. While waiting, Jergen had had a bird's eye view of many of the "Lost Boys" as some of the young Knights were calling them. Of course he had done what every other boy his age would have done: when the opportunity presented itself, he looked. Some of what he saw he admired. Some of what he saw left him perfectly blasé and disinterested. One penis looked more or less like any other penis after all.

What did intrigue Jergen were the Knights. They were all young, most of them very good looking, and he wondered what they looked like without their clothes on. He was particularly intrigued by the boy the others referred to as "Phantom", or "The Phantom". The golden haired twin brothers also raised Jergen's temperature. He had not, however, had the opportunity to see anything, even now. The French boy was good looking, but seemed shy. He had gone into the shower with his underpants on, and returned similarly clad.

Jergen had no desire to start anything. The boy lying on the bed was his rescuer. He wasn't bad looking, and had a wonderfully plump bulge in the front of his tighty whiteys. Thinking of Jérémie, Jergen's attention wandered from his book, to the television, and back to his book. Once or twice he noticed his bed mate shooting glances at him. He wondered what that was about and decided to get everything out in the open. He felt that Jérémie would be naturally curious about his past life. After all, Jergen told himself, it was not often that a sweet, innocent Canadian boy met a bona-fide whore!

Noticing the gulf of bed clothes between them, Jergen said, "I do not bite, you know."

Startled, Jérémie Cher managed to reply, "What?"

Carefully laying his book aside, Jergen motioned with his hand. "The bed

is very large. If you stay where you are, and fall asleep, you will fall off the bed!"

Blushing slightly, Jérémie Cher moved marginally closer to Jergen. "Um, yeah, okay, I guess," he said.

Jergen shook his head. "Jérémie - I may call you `Jérémie', yes?"

Jérémie nodded. "Sure . . . Jergen."

"Good," Jergen replied with a firm nod. He settled back and regarded the other boy a moment. "Please understand," he began, "I am grateful for what you and the others have done for me, and for the other Lost Boys."

Jérémie ducked his head. "We're Knights, or at least most of us are, and it's what we swore to do."

"Still, I am grateful," returned Jergen. He hesitated, searching for the right words to express his feelings.

"Hey, man, don't think you have to, you know, do anything!" exclaimed Jérémie Cher. "Nobody expects that!"

Jergen fixed Jérémie a dark look. "Then why do you act as if I am going to seduce you?" he asked flatly.

Jérémie had never expected such a question. "I don't!" he said presently.

"I've never, I mean, such a thought never crossed my mind."

Jergen raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "You did not?"

Jérémie, caught, fell back on the truth. "Well, I do admit that I was

curious, you know, about what you've been through, and, merde!" He shook his head. "You're a damn fine looking guy, and well, we are in bed together, and I, um, I wondered." He fell silent and then hastened to add, "I'm not gay. Some of the guys are, but I am not! I never, I mean, I've never been with another guy." Suddenly he chuckled. "Or with a girl, either, if I want to be perfectly honest!"

Jergen's eyes widened. "You are a virgin?"

"Well you don't have to take that tone!" snorted Jérémie, in a huff.

"There still are some virgin boys around!"

Jergen could not contain his laughter. "We are all virgins at one point in our lives. Now, there are very few virgin boys in the circles I have travelled in."

"I didn't mean anything," Jérémie said defensively.

"I know." Jergen had a thought. "Jérémie, I do not laugh at you for being

a virgin. Sometimes I forget that there was, is a life other than the one I was forced to live."

"It's okay."

Jergen held up his hand. "No, it is not okay," he said. "I prejudged you,

I let what has happened in the past cloud my judgement." Jergen suddenly sobbed. "Until this moment, my life has never been my own! I laughed at you for being a virgin! I could not think that such a thing was possible."

Touched, and blaming himself, Jérémie shuffled closer to Jergen until their legs touched. He placed his hand the German boy's shoulder. "Jergen, you didn't have a choice. I understand that, everybody does. Please, don't cry."

Smiling weakly, Jergen wiped the tears from his eyes. "You are right."

Giving Jergen's shoulder a squeeze, Jérémie said, "Of course I am. I'm a virgin because I never wanted to fool around, or maybe I never found the right person I wanted to fool around with. Maybe one day I will. Maybe I never will." Impulsively he gathered Jergen into his arms. "I'm sorry, Jergen. I was judging you, and I should never have done that."

Jergen did not attempt to struggle free from Jérémie's hold. "You are fortunate. You always had a choice. I never did . . ." He suddenly closed his mouth.

"What?" Jérémie asked. "Come on, I can take it!"

Jergen laughed quietly. "I feel that I can trust you, so I will tell you."

"You don't have to tell me anything," replied Jérémie. "It's none of my business, none at all!"

Jergen shook his head. "I wish to be your friend. I wish, as my friend, that you understand me."

"I understand that you were forced to have sex with men; that you were sold to men." Jérémie's voice was low, and filled with warmth. He felt . . . he didn't know how to describe how he felt, sitting on the bed, holding the German boy. He felt wonderful, really. He also felt that he had to let Jergen have his say. The Phantom had warned all of the Knights and Companions that each of the Lost Boys would react in a different way to their newfound freedom, and in dealing with their past. They needed, The Phantom said, understanding and compassion and something they had never known: love. How each Knight or Companion answered the calls of the Lost Boys, how they provided the love and compassion each boy desperately needed, was up to them.

Jérémie decided that if holding Jergen was what it took to make him understand that he was in no danger, that he would never be asked to do anything that he did not want to do or that no one would seduce him, or ask to sleep with him, then so be it.

Jergen, feeling Jérémie's warm body against his, smiled. "When I was with my second `master', in France, I lived in a chateau, a castle. The man was a terrible pig, so much of a pig that I will not tell you what he did, what he made me do." Jergen felt Jérémie's shrug and knew that he would never ask what had happened in France.

"The man was away a great deal," Jergen continued, "and while he was gone I was very much left to my own devices. The man was very rich and wanted to be aristocratique, you understand?"

Jérémie nodded his understanding.

"The man had a stud - a horse farm - where he bred horse for racing. This was a very big thing with the very rich. Anyway, I was taught how to ride, not the race horses, but there were riding horse. The stable boy who helped me learn to ride was, well, he was very kind."

"You and him, you, um, you became close?" interrupted Jérémie.

Jergen laughed. "What a discreet way to put it," he said when his laughter died. "We had sex. I enjoyed it very much."

With his free hand, Jérémie rubbed his chin and then said. "Well, first, you were forced to be with the man, the pig, because you were his slave, yes?"

Jergen nodded.

"The stable boy, you had sex with him because you wanted to, yes?"

"Yes, I did," confirmed Jergen.

"Okay, well, Jergen, you only did with the stable boy what a lot of guys do with their best buddies. It doesn't mean that you're gay. You did not want to have sex with the men you call your masters, you didn't enjoy what you did with them, so maybe you're not gay at all."

"But, Jérémie, I did want to be with the stable boy," protested Jergen.

"Okay, so you met a guy you liked and you slept with him. For all you know you might never meet a guy like him again. You might never again meet a guy that you want to sleep with. It happens to all of us."

"It does?"

"Yes, Jergen it does."

"Did it happen to you?"

"Yes, it did."

"But you are not gay!"

Jérémie laughed quietly. "No, I don't think I'm gay. I've never wanted to fool around, and I spent two months in a mess deck of a `YAG' - that's a patrol boat - with a bunch of guys. I saw them naked every day, and I heard them beating off . . ." He paused to make a pumping motion with his hand. "You understand?"

"Yes, you heard them . . ." he searched his mind for the proper phrase.

His eyes brightened. "Ach, ja, you heard them `spanking the monkey!'"

Jérémie laughed so hard he nearly fell out of the bed. "Well, yes, you can put it that way, although the correct term is `masturbating'. They did it . . . a lot!"

"And you were never tempted?" asked Jergen.

Jérémie shook his head. "Not with them."

Jergen smiled. "Aha!"

"Aha what?" demanded Jérémie.

"You were tempted with someone!"

Jérémie could not lie. "Well, yes, but nothing happened. Phantom thought I was joking and he . . ." Jérémie shut up abruptly.

"What? Is something wrong?"

"Phantom is, well, he's Phantom, and I really shouldn't gossip," said

Jérémie.

"To state a truth is not gossip'," emphasized Jergen. "The truth is that you felt something that made you wish to be with Phantom', yes?"

"Well, yes," admitted Jérémie. "A couple of the other guys, they were keeping company, if you get my drift, and Phantom asked me if I ever had the urge. I told him the only one I wanted to take Little Jérémie walking in the moonlight with was him."

Jergen pointedly looked down at Jérémie's bulging briefs. "He is not so `little', I think," he opined dryly. "But no matter. So, friend Jérémie, you meant it? I mean you would have gone for that walk in the moonlight?"

"Yes," breathed Jérémie. "As much as I kept telling myself I didn't mean it, I know now that I did . . . mean it I mean."

For several seconds Jergen seemed lost in thought. "Jérémie, do you love him?"

Looking pensive, Jérémie finally nodded. "Yes, I do. I love him as a brother, as a friend. I would sleep with him, yes, and I think I would count myself lucky." A wave of something . . . strange came over Jérémie, a depth of feeling that he could not understand, and he laid his head on Jergen's shoulder.

Sighing, Jérémie continued, his voice soft and low. "I know it sounds weird, but somehow being with Phantom seems . . . right, you know? I can `love' him, without having sex with him, but somehow I think that would be an extension of the love I know he has for me, and I have for him."

Jergen reached up to slowly stroke Jérémie's cheek. "The ultimate act of love is to give of oneself," he said with passion. "To receive that love, as your partner gives himself to you, and you give yourself to him, transcends all feelings, all other kinds of love."

"It's strange," Jérémie said. "I love my brothers, but I never wanted to sleep with them, I mean other than go to bed and just sleep, nothing else."

"I never had brothers," said Jergen. "In the orphanage, back in Germany, there were no brothers. We were too busy being cold, and tired and hungry. Sometimes, in the winter, we slept together, but all we ever thought about was keeping warm!"

Jérémie forced a smile. "That's what it was like when I slept with one of my brothers, sometimes two. Winters in North Bay - that's the name of the town where I live - can be very brutal. It isn't winter unless there is a blizzard that brings down the power lines. When that happened the lights would go out and the furnace would go off, and my mother would bundle us into one bed."

Jergen continued to stroke Jérémie's cheek. "I never knew love," he said.

Raising his eyes and looking at Jergen's tear-streaked face, Jérémie asked, "Not even with the stable boy?"

A deep sigh heaved in Jergen's chest. "No. Perhaps he took advantage of the fact that I was a slave, with no other purpose but to have sex with my master. Perhaps he felt sorry for me, or perhaps he was just . . . how you say, horny?"

"Or perhaps he cared, perhaps he liked being with you."

"Ja, there is that." Jergen squirmed into a more comfortable seat. "He did

not force me. I did not force him. It just happened."

"But you don't regret it," stated Jérémie firmly.

"I do not regret it. I like to think that what happened was a caring boy

expressing his caring. That is the way he acted, anyway." Jergen looked down at Jérémie's dark hair. Then his hand slipped under Jérémie's chin. He lifted Jérémie's head slightly. "I did not regret being with that stable boy, just as I will not regret this."

Much to Jérémie's surprise, Jergen kissed him. A jolt of something indescribable flashed through Jérémie's body and he returned the kiss. His hold on Jergen's body tightened and a tremor of desire coursed through him.

They drew apart reluctantly. "I am not sorry I kissed you, Jérémie Cher," Jergen whispered, his eyes unwavering as he looked at the French-Canadien boy.

Jérémie returned Jergen's gaze. "I don't regret it, either." His hand slid slowly down Jergen's chest, to his waist, to the elastic band of his boxers. "Jergen . . ." he whispered softly, "Jergen . . ."

When they awoke the sun was high in the sky and the shadows of the trees in the square had begun to lengthen. Jérémie Cher awoke to find Jergen, propped on one elbow, staring down at him. Jérémie smiled. "Good morning," he whispered.

"It is `good afternoon'," replied Jergen. He leaned downed and kissed the French-Canadien boy. "Thank you," he whispered.

Jérémie Cher did not resist the kiss. He savoured it, lost in passion, remembering, reliving the night. Finally, they drew apart. "Why are you thanking me?" Jérémie asked, his face flushed.

"For showing me, for giving me, something I have never known before," replied Jergen.

Impulsively, Jérémie reached over, grabbed Jergen's waist and before the German boy knew it he was sprawled lengthwise on Jérémie Cher's warm body. Jérémie looked up and his grey eyes found Jergen's blue. "Last night was wonderful, Jergen." He giggled. "I'm the one who should be giving thanks!"

Shaking his head, Jergen gazed at Jérémie. "You gave me . . . you," Jergen whispered. "When I was with the stable boy, he gave me sex. You gave me so much more." He smiled wistfully. "We made . . . love, yes?"

Jérémie nodded. "Yeah," he breathed.

"It was not just sex, yes?" asked Jergen.

Again Jérémie nodded. He felt the heat rising in his loins. His arms tightened around Jergen's firm body and a low moan escaped his lips.

Jergen felt a similar warmth and slowly caressed Jérémie. "Be careful, my new friend, because I think that I might fall in love with you."

Reaching down to take Not-So-Little Jergen into his hand, feeling the rapidly expanding tube of flesh rising and thickening, Jérémie whispered, "We can't."

"'We' can't?" Jergen asked, his brightening eyes hooded with desire.

"Jergen, I am trying hard not to fall in love you," whispered Jérémie. He began the timeless, age-old ritual as his hand began to move rhythmically. "I have never felt this way before," he continued. "I . . . feel so wonderful with you." His hand stopped moving. "You are the first boy I have ever done this with."

"Is that why you fear falling in love?"

Shaking his head, Jérémie Cher replied, "No. I'm not afraid of falling in love." His hand began to move again, slowly, methodically.

Jergen hissed through his teeth as the wonderful feeling beginning to rise in him. "Be careful," he moaned. His body shuddered and he gritted his teeth, not wanting the feelings to end. "What are you afraid of, my Jérémie Cher? What . . ." He gasped suddenly and his body stiffened.

Jérémie felt the hotness fill his hand and splatter across his own tumescence. He raised his head slightly and kissed Jergen. As their lips met Jérémie's own semen joined Jergen's.

"Oh, God!" Jergen sighed as he rolled off of Jérémie's body. His gasping, rasping breathing eased as he lay beside the French-Canadien boy. Finally, he asked, "Tell me . . ."

Staring at the ceiling, Jérémie Cher spoke tenderly. "If things were different, if we had any chance of a life together, I think I would give in to what I feel." He shook his head. "I can't, and you can't."

"I am free, I am free to go anywhere, do anything . . ." Jergen said in protest to what he knew was coming.

Taking a deep breath, Jérémie said, "Jergen, I'm leaving Toronto in a few days. School starts again next Tuesday. My life is more or less laid out for me. I know where I'm going." He turned his head slightly. "You have to decide what you want to do, what is best for you." He rested his head against Jergen's shoulder. "I'm not trying to sound chintzy, or anything like that, but you have to decide what you want to do, what you want to be, where you want to go. I can't, I won't let what we have influence you."

Jergen recognized the truth, and in a way, the wisdom of what Jérémie Cher was trying to say. "But, what if I wanted to be with you, to . . ."

Shaking his head, Jérémie Cher interrupted. "I told you that I was not afraid of falling in love with you. I meant that. What I am afraid of is that neither you nor I can handle what would come if we did fall in love." For a moment Jérémie Cher felt like crying. "Jergen, you are free now. I'm not, and in a way I will never be!"

Not believing what he had just learned, Jergen's temper flared. "How can you say this? How can you say you are not free?"

Resting a restraining hand on Jergen's chest, Jérémie Cher said, "Jergen, my family, my friends, my Church, cannot, will not, understand, what we feel, what we both want. I am a good son! I love my mother, my father, my brothers and sisters. I am a good Catholic and my Church is a huge part of my life. I don't want to spend my life condemned, vilified, without my family or my Church!"

Jergen did not reply, for he could not. Not having had a "normal" life, he could not understand the restrictions of "normalcy". He did not discount what Jérémie meant, though, and he could not blame Jérémie for not wanting to throw everything away.

When Jergen did not reply, Jérémie Cher continued. "You have to find yourself, to walk your own path in life," he said insightfully. "You have to decide what you want to make of your life. Right now you have many changes to make, many things to think about. I wish one of those was being with me, but that is not an option or a choice. Maybe, one day, our paths will cross again and then we will see what we have become, and what we want to do."

Once again, Jergen knew the truth when he heard it. "So, what do we do?" he asked, resigned. Jérémie Cher wanted to walk his path, and Jergen knew that he, and he alone, must walk his path until it joined another.

Jérémie rose up slowly. "We enjoy the moment, we love each other, and we hope," he whispered.

In the room next to Jergen and Jérémie Cher's, Alex Grinchsten was sitting at the desk, writing out in longhand the report that he would submit to Pete Sheppard and, ultimately, Michael Chan. He was trying carefully to select the right words, the right phrases he would use to describe what had happened. His concentration was interrupted by Jake Guildenhall's low chuckle.

Turning his head, Alex saw Jake's dark, smouldering eyes and asked, "What?"

Jake was lying on the double bed that dominated the small bedroom. He was as naked as the day he was born, lying with his hands behind his head. He looked at Alex and laughed louder. "I was lying here, minding my own business, and thinking . . ."

"About?"

"How I could get used to this, you know, you and me together, and how this

place sure beats the hell out of what we first had, when we first realized that we loved each other."

"You can hardly compare this room with that little cubby hole we used to sleep in at Khe San," said Alex.

"Well, yes, I have to admit that a solid mattress beats hell out of a pile of lumpy sandbags and a poncho! It's nice that I don't have to worry about some gook taking a pot shot at me, and there aren't any rats nibbling at various and sundry body parts."

"Or some seven mile sniper zeroing in on the bunker!"

"Well, I don't miss the screams and sounds of a 120mm blowing the magazine

to rat shit but at least they stopped once in a while!" Jake jerked his thumb toward the wall that separated the two rooms. "They're at it again!"

Alex listened and said, "I don't hear anything!"

"You would if you pressed your ear against the wall!" he said with a wide

grin.

"Jake Guildenhall!" gasped Alex. "You are such a pervert!"

Laughing, Jake reached out his arms. "Come on back to bed, Alex. We have a lot of wasted years to make up for."

"In addition to being a pervert you're insatiable!" countered Alex. "I can't anyway. I have things to do."

"Such as?" asked Jake as he lay back down.

"I have to finish this report. Then I have to make a formal request that you and I can live together . . ."

"You mean that?" asked Jake, surprised. He rolled from the bed and stood behind Alex. He began to rub Alex's chest through his shirt. "Honest? Us? Together?"

"Us, together," replied Alex. He smiled up at his lover. "That's if you want to."

Almost delirious with happiness, Jake growled, "Oh, man, I wanted to hear that when we were in Vietnam."

"Well, maybe it's something I should have said then," conceded Alex, "but it wasn't the time. Now it is."

Jake's hand was moving lower down Alex's chest. "Well, if you put it that way, I guess living with you is better than a herd of beef cattle."

"You didn't live with them, and you didn't sleep with them . . . at least I don't think you did." He grabbed Jake's hand and slowly pushed it higher on his chest. Then he laughed. "Although, anyone who listens at keyholes and puts is ear up to a wall to listen to two guys getting it on in the next room . . ." He started to laugh loudly and could not continue.

"I don't listen at keyholes!" protested Jake huffily. "And if one, or both of those guys hadn't been moaning and groaning . . . Jesus, Alex, it was barely sunup and those two sounded like, well, I ain't never heard anything like it!" He could see Alex laughing harder and added, "Well, except maybe when my dad put the cows with the bull!" Jake started to laugh. "Except the bull lasted longer!"

Struggling to regain control of himself, Alex nodded. "I'll have to have a word with them."

Jake looked confused. "What? Why? It's none of our business - unless you're going to ask them to keep the noise down." He returned to the bed. "Surely you didn't think that nothing would happen between some of the older boys and the Knights? I mean, did you see how some of the guys looked at that kid . . . what's his name . . . Hermann, and how Hermann looked back?"

"Looking isn't doing," countered Alex. "As for `liaisons' forming, well, it wasn't unexpected." He regarded Jake. "Remember how it was in Vietnam, how the officers looked away and pretended not to see or hear things?"

"Like Sergeant Grant and that 2nd Lieutenant we had, what was his name, ah

. . ."

"Todd Olivier," supplied Alex. "He was from New Orleans." He could not help himself as he laughed and said, "Trust me Jake, they were not playing leapfrog down by the privies!"

Jake sniffed. "I know what they were doing!" He sniffed louder. "I was in there taking care of business and . . . all I'll say is that Tiny Tim' and Little Lord Fauntleroy' would never have won a ribbon at the Grange!"

Alex laughed and said, "See, a pervert!" Then he sobered and jerked his head at the wall separating the bedrooms. "They're young, they're only doing what young guys do and I still have to talk to them - and not because of what they're doing."

"What then?"

Alex sighed. "Jake, after we left Vietnam, how many guys did you sleep with?"

Jake looked as if he'd been pole-axed. "What? How can you ask me something like that?" he demanded, a dangerous note in his voice. "You were the first - and only - guy I went with! Okay, when I was a kid, maybe I did fool around with Will Brandauer, but he was my best friend and we never went all the way! He got a scholarship from Penn State and I got a letter from the Draft Board!" He crossed his arms and gave his lover a black look. "After I got home I never slept with anyone, including my wife!"

"Jake, there was no one in my life after you," replied Alex patiently. He took another tack. "You remember when we were on R & R in Danang, and some of the guys went to Lily's Bar?"

"That dump was a clip joint and whorehouse!" snapped Jake. "I never went in there and . . ." He shut up, suddenly realizing Alex was getting at. "Half of them ended up with `Drippin' Dick'!"

"More than half, and let's consider that while I don't think that Jergen has it, or anything else, until his blood work comes back, don't you think it might be a good idea that they use protection?"

Jake lowered his eyes and nodded. "I'll ask Lester for some money and take a walk to the pharmacy down on Queen." He thought a moment. "Um Alex?"

"Yes?" Alex asked as he turned back to his report.

"While I'm not an expert, um, Jergen might win a ribbon at the Grange, if you catch my meaning?"

Somewhat embarrassed, Alex asked, "What do you mean"

"Well, what size rubbers? Small? Medium? Large? Exxxtraa Large"

Alex sniggered. There were more than a few looks exchanged between the boys and the Knights. "Better get `em all." He picked up his fountain pen.

"Better safe than sorry."

While both The Gunner and Chef were aware that a certain amount of "exploration" was going on, they had both agreed that while they might think it inappropriate, ultimately forming relationships were matters for the boys involved. They had both been around the Horn enough times to know that when a group of boys - or men - with no other sexual outlets more often than not resorted to each other. Once he had hacked his way through Chef's jungle of hyperbole, The Gunner pointed out that the Order had not been established to render moralistic judgements. That was the business of the Church, or churches. He was not about to emulate the hypocrites and preach abstinence and doctrine on Sunday and then haunt bus station rest rooms or visit the local cat house on Monday. He did, however, draw the line at anyone, Knight or "Lost Boy", pestering the younger lads.

Chef agreed with The Gunner and in his own inimitable way, made inquiries. As it happened, except for Jergen and Jérémie Cher, no new "liaisons" had been formed, although Petrus and Hermann had been together, twice, no one was pestering anybody. The ladies were protective of the younger boys, as were the nuns, who busied themselves with tending to their basic needs. While friendships had formed, sex was apparently and amazingly the last thing in any of the boys' minds.

In the end, Chef was convinced that while nothing was going on that approached being inappropriate, a lecture on sex education was in order for those who could understand it. Chef was not surprised when The Gunner adamantly refused to have any part of it. He reminded Chef of the early days in Aurora, when Commander Stockman had dragooned The Gunner into lecturing on the use of "shot mats", or socks, old T-shirts and underpants, and thus avoid stern lectures from the Base Laundry Officer about strange stains on the sheets! Chef decided to speak with Doctor Hampton, who was ex-Navy and while blunt, not given to moralizing.

As he moved slowly toward the Hospital "Refectory", as the restaurant was now called, Chef mentally added sex education to the list of things to be discussed as the Conclave of the Priory of Upper Canada gathered.

"Extra Omnes" Tyler bellowed, ordering all those not Knights or Companions to leave the room. As the minders and hangers-on filed from the refectory, The Gunner nodded to Val, who followed the stragglers and when they had filed through the door, closed it firmly. Val, together with Mark van Beck, would act as Marshals of the Conclave, and ensure that none save Knights and Companions entered.

The Gunner, the only member of the Priory who wasn't dead or incarcerated in the former Lakeshore Correctional Facility, presided. He stood at a long, wide table facing the Knights and Companions who, in keeping with the solemnity of a Conclave, had dressed in their best No. 11 uniforms. The only dark spot in the sea of white uniforms was Nate Schoenmann, who was a civilian, and wore his Shabbes suit of black.

Commander Stockman sat at one end of the table with a supply of pens and paper ready. He would act as Recorder. In solitary splendour sat Chef. He was not a member of the Priory, but he was the highest ranking Knight, Proctor of the Order, and a member of the Grand Council of the Order. He would observe and, if necessary, intervene in disputes.

The Gunner did not believe in gratuitous remarks or openings. He began at the beginning. He cleared his throat and bowed. "My Lords, Knights and Companions, I call to order this Conclave of the Priory of Upper Canada."

The assembly answered, "Deus Vult" as previously instructed.

Drawing a sheet of paper from his pocket, The Gunner consulted his notes.

"First, let me offer the thanks and congratulations of His Imperial Highness, Michael Chan, Grand Master of the Order, for your help and success in our recent crusade. We have met with great success."

The Gunner knew that he was sounding pompous, but felt that formality would lend dignity to what he was about to say, and impress upon the young Knights and Companions the importance of the Order.

"Here in Toronto we have rescued 43 boys," The Gunner continued. "In Montreal, eight boys; in Winnipeg, six boys; in Edmonton, four boys; in Vancouver, 11 boys; and finally, in Victoria, seven boys."

Chef listened as a muted rumble of approval, mixed with muttered grumbles about overcrowding rippled through the assembly. He heard someone - he thought it was Phillip, called the Assistant - bitching about having to share a bed with someone, not named, with smelly feet!

"Well, lad, it could have been worse!" Chef thought. "There could have been three more to share a bed."

Chef listened as The Gunner explained that two boys, both Chinese, and residents of the Glasgow Street brothel, older boys, young men really, had elected to stay with their own, so to speak and take advantage of the employment opportunities offered by Terry Hsiang.

"Well, that's one way of putting it," Chef mused, laughing inwardly. Shem and Shoo were illiterate, and had no tearing great desire to become schoolboys. They also liked the fact that they had the opportunity to make money in the brothel, more money than either could ever hope to earn outside the brothel. They didn't mind the sex at all, although they could have done without the films and thundering band music that their only client, Stennes, had subjected them to.

That the courtesans, the high-priced boys, each had a secret stash of cash and gold, buttressed their argument. That each courtesan also seemed to have a protector, a rich protector they could, and would, go to, strengthened their resolve not to go with the men who had disturbed their tranquility.

Terry Hsiang knew that if Shem and Shoo left the brothel the streets would eat them up. Toronto was not a city of opportunity for Chinese street boys. The boys would, in all likelihood, end up in a dumpster somewhere, with their throats cut, or in jail. Under ordinary circumstances Terry would not offer employment to anyone not of his ancestral province. But he could not see Shem and Shoo living by their wits on the streets. He offered to take them into his business "family". They would have a place to live, food, new clothes and money.

Shem and Shoo, seeing the men who had accompanied Terry, and the deference they showed him, knew him for what he was, a powerful gang leader. This was something they had seen back home, and they viewed being recruited to Terry Tsiang's "family" as a great honour, and would bring them "face". Working for a "Great Lord" was much better than being a mere school boy under the thumb of a yang kuei-tzu, a foreign devil, and so they went with Terry.

Teddy Vian had had much the same problem with the boy they had hoped to rescue from the isolated farmhouse in Aurora, Ontario. The initial raiding party had found the house empty. The Gunner, determined to rescue as many boys as possible, had sent Teddy back, along with Nate Schoenmann, and two of Terry's men. The Gunner suspected that the man had taken the boy away for a weekend jaunt somewhere, and if this was indeed the case they would return sometime during the day. Teddy and his team were to wait until 1800 on Monday.

As it happened, Teddy waited until shortly after 1300, when a shiny Bentley turned in from the highway and came to a stop outside of the farmhouse. A tall, heavyset man and a slim, tow-headed boy exited the car and went into the house. Teddy swooped.

Things went according to plan. The man blustered and threatened, claiming that he was not holding the boy against his will and professing love for the boy. Much to Teddy's surprise, the boy, who spoke perfect English without an accent, called Teddy a half-fucked fool and refused adamantly to leave his "father". Faced with the boy's obstinacy, Teddy had no option but to leave him, knowing that the Order never forced anyone to do something they simply would not do.

Both The Chef and The Gunner had approved of Teddy's decision to leave the boy. As Chef had put it, some mothers did have `em and their consciences were clear.

As the mumbling subsided The Gunner held up his hand. "While we have succeeded here, I regret that our strength was such that we could not extend our crusade further, into the United States." He paused and nodded to Chef, who nodded importantly back.

The Gunner looked curiously at Chef, wondering if the old man had been taking more than his usual quota of medicine, and turned to the assembly. "In consultation with His Serene Highness, the Duke of Lorraine, Proctor of the Order, I wish to increase the membership of the Order. To that end, I shall offer membership, as Knight or Companion, to the men who accompanied us in our endeavours."

Toward the back, Joey giggled. Randy looked at him. "What?" he whispered.

"If Ned's says yes to becoming a Knight he's gonna get his jib cut!"

The Gunner did not hear the whispered exchange between the two young

Knights and continued. "I also wish to recognize those who under the present Rule of the Order have no eligibility for membership. I will therefore petition the Grand Council to amend the Rule to acknowledge the good work of women who give of themselves to succour our brothers. I shall ask that they be named `Dames' of the Order."

"Oh, God!" groaned Cory.

"What?" Todd asked

"Mummy a `Lady' in her own right!"

"She's already a `Lady', not to mention a Marchioness!" counted Todd.

"Papa is Margrave of Istria."

"Yes, but that's a married title. If she becomes a real `Lady' . . ."

Cory's voice grew silent.

Todd nodded, and then whispered. "God help us! She'll be on us like white on rice to act like little gentlemen!"

The Gunner saw the exchange between the Twins, wondered what they were up to now, and continued.

"You will all be informed of the changes in due course." The Gunner consulted his notes again. "We were not without casualties in our work. I am happy to tell you that Max Hainey, who was wounded, is recovering well."

"You got that right," muttered Calvin. "When we were in the soccer scrum the sumbitch kneed the ball and grabbed my parts!"

"Fucker plays dirty," Simon whispered back. "Got me too!"

"Eugen Arenburg, the first boy we rescued," The Gunner said, "is recovering also. While his recovery and eventual return to health will be slow, the doctors are cautiously optimistic. Vytaly is also progressing well. He will need more surgery for his injuries but he too will be coming here soon."

The Gunner did not say that many of the other boys would need corrective surgery. Doctor Hampton had explained it to both Chef and The Gunner: all of the boys had been penetrated anally many times, and their injuries were "hypotrophic", that is, scar tissue growing over old scar tissue from past tears in their rectal passages. Some of the boys would need counselling and psychiatric care.

"The young man, whom we have named `Albert Edward Airlie' is, as you all know, here and doing well. He is being given antibiotics for his impetigo and the unfortunate infection is clearing up." The Gunner looked directly at the Twins. "As a part of Albert Edward's treatment he was circumcised. There will be no tours of inspection to comment on the doctor's expertise in this area!"

Chef coughed loudly. Discussion of refits to upper deck fittings were not, in his opinion, subjects for a conclave!

The Gunner got the message. He waited until the chuckling died down and said, "We are Knights, and subject to the Rule of the Order. We must conduct ourselves in an honourable manner, and if we do not we are subject to a Bar of Justice." His face grew stony. "As you know, a Bar of Justice has been called against three men: Arthur Marmaduke Willoughby, Knight of Magistral Grace, Donat and Profess of the Priory of Upper Canada; Reilly Raymond James, Knight of Profess of the Priory of Upper Canada, and Edmund Stennes. In accordance with the Rule these men have been declared anathema and ordered to stand before a Bar of Justice." The Gunner paused and then said, his voice quiet, "I shall now proclaim the Composition of the Court.

"As presiding justice, His Serene Highness the Duke of Lorraine and Styria, Knight of Grace and Devotion of the Sovereign and Noble Order of St.

John of the Cross of Acre, His Royal Highness, the Prince Philip, Prince of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, Prince and

Apostolic Archduke of Austria, Count of Lorraine and Baron Lascelles of Milford, Knight of Profess of the Sovereign and Noble Order of St. John of the Cross of Acre; His Grace Colin Charles, Duke of Lausanne and Aquitania, Hereditary Earl Marshal of the Order, Defensor Princeps, Professed Knight of Grace and Devotion

. . ."

Neither The Phantom nor Colin was surprised at their names being read out as members of the court. In fact, they expected it. Chef had provided an aide memoire outlining the composition of the court, and both knew that as the two senior ranking Knights, after The Gunner and Chef, they would constitute two of the three-man tribunal. Who the third member would be had not been speculated.

The Phantom had read the aide memoire, scratched his chin reflectively and gone off in search of the Twins. Todd and Cory joined The Phantom in his bedroom and The Phantom regarded them both. Where, he asked was a copy of the Rule of the Order?

Cory, who had been wondering what The Phantom was up to now, shrugged. "The original Rule was written in the Hospital of Acre. When the Saracens conquered the Holy Land they pillaged all of the holy places, including the Hospital at Acre."

"Are you saying there is no copy of the Rule?"

"No," replied Cory with exaggerated patience. "The original copy was destroyed so in 1346 there was a conclave, in London, where the Rule was re-written and copies sent to all the Priories. The London copy is in Vancouver. It's in pretty rough shape so Papa transcribed it, or at least what he could decipher."

"It is?" asked Todd, his eyes wide. While he knew that his father was a member of the Order, he had never paid too much attention. Then Todd's eyes narrowed. "And just how do you know that?"

Cory smirked. "Well, when I was snooping, and read the history that Papa was writing, I also found the copy of the Rule."

"At least he's honest," observed Colin dryly.

"Yeah, an honest snoop!" grumbled Todd.

The Phantom motioned for Todd, and Colin, to keep quiet. "Cory, do you remember any of it?"

Cory, who had a retentive memory, nodded. "Well, yes, I do."

"Good." The Phantom looked pensive and then asked his friend, "Cory, tell me what you remember."

"Well, the Rule is basically a list of do's and don'ts," Cory began. "It starts out by saying the Knights are in Conclave, and lists the authority for what they were about to do."

"The Papal Bulls, and so on?" Colin asked.

"Yes. Then it lists the degrees of Knighthood - which Michael Chan arbitrarily changed - and the Officers of the Order, you know, Grand Master, Chancellor, Keeper of the Common Treasure and so on."

"All right, we know the chain of command. What about what a Knight can do, or can't do?" asked The Phantom.

"I'm getting to it," grumbled Cory. He took a deep breath. "After the Articles about the Council, the Rule then sets out the criteria for membership. Basically, all Knights had to be gay, and conform to Article 24. If a candidate refuses, he's out, no argument and no appeal."

"We know that!" rumbled Todd.

Cory ignored his brother. "Knights have to live an exemplary life. They have to be almost celibate and can never, under any circumstances bring dishonour on themselves, or the Order." He looked at The Phantom, at Colin, and at Todd. "Which we all swore to do."

"We also swore to succour our brothers," reminded Colin.

"Yes. We have a duty to provide protection and care for the less fortunate," Cory said.

"What about a `Bar of Justice'?" asked The Phantom.

"Well, there is an article about it, but it's a little vague. When a Knight betrays his oath, brings dishonour on the Order, or does something that the Rule says he can't do, bedding his Page for instance, he can be called before a Bar of Justice." Cory thought again. "Then there's several articles detailing `High Crimes and Misdemeanours', which include simony, misappropriation of Order funds, using the Order's property for personal gain, such as turning the Priory into a brothel. Treason and murder of a fellow Knight or Page is also mentioned."

The Phantom expected as much. "What about non-members?" he asked quietly, his green eyes dark and probing.

"Except for rewarding them for a service they gave to the Order - remember the Saracen physician the first Knights bought in the slave market?"

The Phantom nodded. "El-Hashemy. He circumcised them so that they could follow the orders of Saint John."

Cory nodded. "He was freed, and rewarded, and his family was provided for." He shrugged. "Still is."

"What about non-members who commit a crime, a crime so venal and evil that

. . ."

"Not mentioned," said Cory smartly. "The Rule was written for the Knights. They could fight evil, of course, and I suppose that in the course of the fighting some people were killed in battle, but non-members were of no interest unless they tried to destroy the Order."

The Phantom placed his hand on Cory's shoulder. "Cory, think carefully. Willoughby and Reilly are Knights. As such they can and should be called before a Bar of Justice."

Cory nodded.

The Phantom moved in, wanting confirmation that something that had been nagging at him was true. "What about someone who has never been a member of the Order, but who has committed acts so heinous, so evil, that he should be called to account?"

Colin exchanged a look with Todd, who paled. Both of them knew who The Phantom was talking about.

"Can't be touched, at least not by the Order," Cory answered The Phantom's question. "The person would have to have committed his crimes against the Order, or members of the Order. He could be a child rapist, a serial killer, whatever . . ." Here Cory waved his hand in an all-encompassing arc. ". . . The Order has no authority over him, or any authority to punish him for his crimes. That would be up to the civil authority, or the mob."

Todd looked at Colin and shook his head. "Oh, fuck, here we go again!"

". . . Sir Edward Tyler Stephen Benbow, Professed Knight of Magistral Grace and Honour," The Gunner announced, finishing the composition of the tribunal.

Chef nodded. Tyler was about to embark on a career as a Naval officer and as such he would need to know the pain of command.

"We further name Commander Francis Albert Edward Stockman, DSO, DSC, CD, RCNR, Knight of Magistral Grace of Honour and Devotion to be Recorder."

Again Chef nodded. Commander Stockman was an old Navy hand, trained to be meticulous and fair and impartial in all things.

"I will now present to the Honourable Knights the Bills of Indictment," The Gunner continued. In stark, formal legalese The Gunner charged Willoughby with High Crimes and Misdemeanours, to whit: malfeasance in that he embezzled funds from the Order to finance the trade in boys; that he knowingly participated in the trade and that he had brought Dishonour to the Order by his actions. Reilly James was charged with High Crimes and Misdemeanours, to whit: engaging in slavery, purchasing a minor male child for immoral purposes, sodomy, and gross neglect of a minor child, thus bringing Dishonour to the Order by his actions.

As The Gunner was reading out the Bills against Willoughby and James, Colin leaned over and whispered into The Phantom's ear. "Stennes is next." He looked deeply into The Phantom's eyes. "Now's your chance, Tiger."

The Phantom nodded and waited as The Gunner picked up another piece of paper. "In the matter of Edmund Stennes . . ." he began.

The Phantom rose slowly from his seat. Chef, who was just about to drop off to sleep, saw the young man and instinctively knew that The Phantom was up to something . . . again! "Pestiferous brat!" he muttered through a heavy sigh.

Surprised, The Gunner stopped reading. "Your Royal Highness?"

Embarrassed by The Gunner's use of the honourific, The Phantom blushed slightly and took a deep breath of air. "My Lord Chancellor, I submit that we have no authority to indict the prisoner, Edmund Stennes."

Stunned, The Gunner sat down abruptly. "What? What did you say?"

Chef's eyes flew open and he shot The Phantom a dark and deadly look. "So, is it `Accused's Friend' that you are?" he growled.

The Phantom shook his head. Having been coached by the Twins, he was prepared for his argument. "My Lord Chancellor, my Lord Proctor, I have no intention to assist the accused in any way."

"Aaannnd?" growled Chef, his voice low and deadly.

The Phantom was not surprised at Chef's reaction. "I stipulate that Edmund

Stennes is guilty without doubt. He has established a slave trade in innocent boys. He has profited by that trade and used his profits to fund the lowest, most nefarious of bigots and thugs in their doings. He has raped boys, he has murdered boys - of that I have no doubt." He shook his head. "If any creature deserves to be brought before a Bar of Justice, it is Edmund Stennes." He looked directly at The Gunner. "Edmund Stennes deserves to hang."

Somewhat recovered, The Gunner regarded The Phantom a moment. On the one hand he felt pride in his former lover and protégé. On the other . . . "If you feel that way, sir Knight, why then are you standing before this conclave arguing that we have no authority over Stennes?" he asked, his voice icy.

The Phantom was not deterred. "My Lord, we would be judging Stennes under the Rule of the Order."

The Gunner nodded. What was The Phantom up to? "So?" he asked impatiently.

The Phantom took a deep breath. "I submit to the Court that while we do have jurisdiction over Willoughby and James, we cannot, under the Rule of the Order, try Stennes. While I have not read the Rule, I am given to understand that nowhere does it allow for the Order to sit in judgement upon a non-member. While he is guilty beyond doubt of high crimes and misdemeanours, it is a matter for the civil authorities, not the Order."

The Gunner glared at The Phantom, and then glared at the Twins. He had a very good idea just who had helped The Phantom to "understand". "Are you suggesting, my Lord Prince, that we release the man?" flared The Gunner, his eyes flashing with anger. "Have you forgotten that he has murdered young boys? Does his buying and selling young boys mean nothing?"

The Phantom's shoulder straightened. "His crimes are beyond comprehension, beyond understanding!" the young man said coldly. "If it were it our power I would make no protest!" Then he carefully placed his hand over his heart. "I declare, my Lord Chancellor, on my honour as a Knight that I cannot stand in judgement of Edmund Stennes!"

A shocked gasp filled the room. The Gunner sat stock still, speechless at The Phantom's declaration. Chef sat in stony silence, a slight sneer forming on his lips. Then, while no one was watching him so no one noticed, his eyes grew wide and a smile broke his face. He stood and looked down the chamber. His eyes fell on The Phantom, who was looking pale. Cory, Todd and Colin seemed to have moved closer to him. Chef held up his hand and then he broke into delighted laughter.

"Ah, Phantom darlin', `tis a feather plucked from the wings of Saint Michael the Archangel himself, so you are!"

The Gunner stared at Chef, thinking that the old man had finally succumbed to alcoholic dementia. "What? What are you on about?" he demanded.

"Honour!" Chef thundered. "Phantom . . ." he paused and bowed elaborately at The Phantom, who was staring at Chef, and thinking much the same as The Gunner, ". . .My Lord Prince has said it! Honour, you loon! The Honour of the Order, the Honour of Knights! Our honour will not allow us to do a dishonourable thing!"

"You agree with Phantom?" asked The Gunner.

"I do!" declared Chef. "The Phantom is right! We have no authority to try

Stennes! Would that we did, but we do not, and we cannot take the law into our own hands. We are not above the law! We have sworn to be men of honour and justice!" Chef took a deep breath and, looking directly at The Gunner said, "Wide is the gate, and broad is the path that leads to destruction. If we, as Knights, pass through that gate then we have no honour and we will follow the road to our own destruction!"

The Gunner closed his eyes, shook his head and then stood. He knew deep in his heart that Chef, that The Phantom were correct. He looked at the assembly and said quietly, "Let right be done."

As the conclave began to disperse, the young Knights filed, in twos and threes, through the lounge and up to their rooms to change back into heir sports gear - there was a soccer loss that had to be revenged! Excited at the prospect of doing nasty things to the "American Line", none of the boys noticed Chef look sternly at Aaron Mark II, who was sitting near the door, ostensibly reading a newspaper, and nod his head. Aaron Mark II returned the nod.

The cell was cold, and damp. The Chinese guards had given the eight by eight, cement block cell a cursory cleaning and nothing more. It was a cell, a place to hold men in confinement, and had been designed as such to hold "problem" inmates when the Lakeshore Correctional Centre was operating. There was a steel bunk, bolted to the floor, a stainless steel sink with one dripping faucet, and a matching toilet that leaked and left a puddle of murky water around the base.

Edmund Stennes, dressed in a one-piece jump suit, sat on the bunk. He had not spoken, or acknowledged in any way his guilt or innocence. He would not speak when the watery stew that had been his lunch had been brought in. He was in a high dudgeon, secretly vowing revenge against an organization that he had not given the slightest attention. His conscience did not bother him at all, for he had no conscience. He was a businessman who had dealt in a commodity much sought after. He could not be held responsible for what Logan and Willoughby had done. He did not cheat the Order of money, not a cent!

On the floor beside the bed a small folder sat. It was the Bill of Indictment against him. In his arrogance Stennes had not read it. So far as he was concerned this all but defunct "Order" had no authority over him, and no right to sit in judgement of him.

As the cold seeped through his body, Stennes sniffed disdainfully. They called themselves "Knights", and gave themselves airs. But he knew, oh yes, he knew. They were Jews! Oh yes, Juden! Who else but Jews would act in such a way? Certainly no Christian! Knowing what his enemies were, Stennes had no doubt that he would be blamed, as all Germans were, for the destruction of European Jewry. Stennes squared his shoulders. He would follow in the Führer's footsteps! He would give his life for the Fatherland! He would spit in the eye of the Jew executioners! Ja, that is what he would do!

Stennes heard the clank of the key in the lock of the door. He would not dignify the coming presence of the Juden by looking at them. He heard the door slam open and waited.

"Get up, you're leaving," said the voice. Stennes recognized it as the man who was the "Proctor". He knew the man, a fat old drunk!

"Stand up!" Chef ordered. "Do it, or we drag you out of here!"

For the first time since his so-called "arrest", Stennes spoke. "So you can drag me to my death?"

Chef shook his head. "No. You are being released."

Stennes jumped to his feet. He stared in disbelief at Chef. "Was? What do you mean?" he demanded loudly.

"The Order has no authority to hold you, or to try you. As far as the Order is concerned you are a free man."

Stennes began laughing. "I knew it! You are too cowardly to try me! I am not one of you! I am a German!"

Chef, who wondered what Stennes being a German had to do with the price of a can of beans, nodded his head, indicating the door. Standing there were two Chinese guards. "These men will take you to the gate."

Stennes could not believe his luck as the Chinese guards led him down the short corridor to the metal door that led to the roadway and, so he thought, freedom. One of the guards opened the door. "You go!" he ordered.

Stennes stepped into the harsh, sunlight, a smile on his face, his mind working furiously. He would have his revenge on these foolish Knights! He smile faded as a strong hand grasped each of his arms. The smile disappeared from his face as a heard the harsh whisper, "Shalom, Herr Stennes!"

The Gunner stood at the window of what had been the Central Guard Room and watched as Stennes was hustled into the back of a dark sedan and driven away, but not to an "unknown fate". The Gunner had a very good idea as to just what fate awaited the German. The Gunner knew the history, and the reputation of Mossad. They were relentless, and never gave up seeing Justice done. They had proved it when they hunted down Adolph Eichman, the architect of "The Final Solution". The Gunner assumed, rightly so, that there were others, just as he knew what Stennes' ultimate fate would be. Still, he had to ask. "What will happen to him?"

Aaron Mark II, who was standing behind and to the right of The Gunner, placed his hand on the Chancellor's shoulder. "Do you really want to know?"

"He was an enemy of my people," replied The Gunner. "Between what he did and what the apostate Knights did, he helped to bring the Order to near extinction. I need to know!"

As he removed his hand from The Gunner's shoulder, Aaron Mark II spoke carefully. "First, he will be questioned. He funded organizations dedicated to the destruction of my people. You want to know how what he did impacted on the Order. I want to know who his friends were, who his contacts were. Stennes had help! We want to know who helped him."

The Gunner turned and looked at Aaron Mark II. "Thank you."

Aaron started. "For what?"

"Aaron, you are dedicated to the safety of the Jewish people, to Israel. The Arabs have never given up on their threat to `drive the Jews into the sea'. I am dedicated to the safety of my people, my Knights, and my brothers who are oppressed." The Gunner sighed heavily, "Phantom was right, you know."

Nodding, Aaron replied, his voice cold. "Yes, he was. You, and the Order, are constrained by the very Rule you live by, or want to live by. This I understand, believe me. I wasn't always Mossad." He laughed softly. "Believe it or not I was Haredim, ultra-Orthodox, and destined to be a rabbi."

The Gunner stared. The least likely person to be a rabbi was Aaron Goldschmidt! "What happened?" he asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

"We live in Jerusalem, in an area known as Meah Shearim One night after Temple some Arabs decided that a Jew was to die. That Jew was my older brother, a truly gentle boy . . ."

A sob caught in Aaron's throat. "They waited for the first Jew boy to come by where they were hiding. We found him three days later. You can imagine what they did to him. "My parents were devastated but we lived by a code of Laws and they buried him and sat Shiva for him. My parents were true Haredim. God would punish the guilty, not them."

"You disagreed?" asked The Gunner.

"I was young, and furious at my parents. I could not, my brother Yacov would not, wait for God." Aaron shrugged. "So I put away my black suit, shaved off my payos, and went hunting."

"You found them?"

Aaron smiled tightly. "With the help of Shin Bet. Arabs cannot help but brag and dance about their so-called `victories' over the Jews. They bragged, Shin Bet heard, and I avenged my brother."

"How did you come to Mossad?"

"Chancellor, when a religious Jew goes against the Law his own people disown him. I had my vengeance, but I lost my parents. I stayed with Shin Bet. My brother, Yacov was as angry as I was. He left home and joined Mossad. We became partners as well being brothers."

"So, because Stennes is a dedicated Nazi, also determined to drive the Jews into the sea, or the crematoria, Mossad will find out what he knows and then do what I cannot?"

"Yes," replied Aaron simply. "We will question him, find out everything he knows, and then . . ." He shrugged. There was no need to go on.

"Stennes is a stubborn, dedicated man," The Gunner pointed out.

"He is also arrogant," returned Aaron, "as all Germans of his generation are. He thinks that we, as subhumans, as Jews, can ever break him." An ominous look came into Aaron's eyes. "He's wrong."

"Isn't this where someone says `Vee haf vays of making you talk'?" asked The Gunner, a smile creasing his face.

"Well, actually we do," replied Aaron dead pan.

"You do?"

"We do." Aaron returned to the window. "Stennes is a hater. He hates Jews with every fibre of his being. He hates people such as you. His hatred makes him strong. His arrogance, his faith in the `German Ideal' combine to make him a formidable opponent. He is also not afraid of dying because that will let him assume an undeserved place in the Nazi Pantheon alongside his gods, Hitler, Himmler, the whole miserable lot."

"I read once that sooner or later everyone talks," said The Gunner. He looked obliquely at Aaron. "Do you think Stennes will?"

Aaron could not help smiling. "Of course. It is only a matter of finding out what method of, shall we say, persuasion, works. I've seen men like Stennes before."

"Torture?" asked The Gunner, hoping that physical torture was on the cards. He did not personally care what the Mossad did to Stennes, and a part of him wanted the German bastard to suffer as horribly as some of his slaves had. But . . .

Aaron shook his head. "We don't do that if it can be avoided. I think we shall use a method our Arab friends taught us."

The Gunner raised an eyebrow, but did not reply.

"Stennes is convinced, psychologically, that he is invulnerable. We have to work on his mind, not his body."

"Drugs?"

"No, not at all," replied Aaron with a firm shake of his head. "No, we shall strip him naked, tie him to a chair in the middle of a completely empty room, place a hood over his head and leave him. He has no sense of anything after a few days. He will sit, in his own body wastes, without any sensory perception at all. I give him a week."

Absent any instructions, the Court sat behind an old folding table on metal chairs speckled with rust. They had once been used in the correctional centre's cafeteria. Cory and Todd, as the sons of a barrister, offered advice as to how the court should be conducted, and there was formality. Nobody wore any robes, there were no bewigged solicitors or legal clerks cluttering up the gallery. Instead the gallery, actually a double row of chairs facing the judicial bench, each chair occupied by a cranky Knight or a grumpy Companion. None of them wanted to be here. It was much too much a nice day to be parked in a crumbling old jail that smelled of urine and things the Knights did not want to think about!

As the game after the conclave had ended in a draw, the Twins had hoped to wreak revenge on the "American Line". They wanted a rematch soccer game and had persuaded everyone to appear at breakfast in their sports clothes. Chef had promptly put the kibosh on any thought of returning to the playing fields of Belgrave Square. He had sternly ordered everyone to clean into their best No. 11 uniforms and get their skinny asses onto the bus!

There was no gavel. The Phantom, as Presiding Chief Justice, used the blunt end of a pencil when he thought he needed to. Beside him. On his right, Tyler looked stern. On The Phantom's left, Colin sat, trying to remain impartial. He believed that justice should be done, and he was determined not to allow his personal revulsion of the defendants to cloud his judgement.

To one side sat Commander Stockman, carefully transcribing the proceedings, and secretly relieved that he was not one of the judges. The Gunner, as Chancellor, acted as prosecutor.

Terry Hsiang's men had cobbled up a dock, and the first to be tried, Reilly James, was brought into the room. His demeanour shocked The Phantom and the others. The old man had experienced some sort of a mental breakdown. Although he had been given a new suit of clothing, he had soiled himself and was surrounded by a foul odour. The Chinese guards, normally stoic, helped him to step up into the dock, and then moved to the side of the room, close enough to intervene should the prisoner become violent, but far enough away not to give the appearance of intruding on the proceedings of the Court.

Chef, as always, noticed that the guards had taken the precaution of standing upwind of the old man! His smell was eye watering and Chef rolled his eyes, wishing that he had taken a leaf out of the English court system and provided all the court officials with small nosegay of flowers and herbs! Reilly James gave new meaning to the old saws about "the great unwashed"!

It was obvious that Reilly James had not a clue where he was. His eyes were vacant and he looked around continuously, not recognizing anything or anyone.

Colin's hand closed around the pencil he was holding, snapping it. "My God!" he whispered. A look of horror crossed Tyler's face. Both gestures did not escape the notice of The Phantom.

"My Lord Chancellor," The Phantom began when he recovered from seeing the wreck of the man before him, "Do you really intend to prosecute this man?"

The Gunner took a deep breath and almost choked at James' smell. "My Lord, the accused has apparently suffered a mental lapse. He was examined by Doctor Hampton this morning, who will attest that the accused is incapable of understanding anything."

Tyler leaned forward. "In other words, he is mentally unfit?"

The Gunner nodded. "According to the doctor, yes. The onset of the Accused's mental collapse was sudden and . . ."

The Phantom deliberately tapped his pencil. "He suffered from agoraphobia, a mental disease, or so we understood."

"Yes. His incarceration seemed to acerbate his mental state." The Gunner heard his own words echoing: "Let right be done!" and said, "All charges against the accused are withdrawn. His treatment of the boy now know as Albert Edward Airlie was horrible, but brought on more from mental defect than cruelty."

The Phantom looked at his fellow justices, who nodded. He then addressed Commander Stockman. "Let it be recorded that all charges against the accused Reilly Raymond James are withdrawn. He is released from custody." He then looked at The Gunner. "Let him live out what there is left of his life in his home. He is no danger to anyone, except perhaps himself. Also, I think we should notify the appropriate social services. He can't live by himself and should receive some help." The Phantom shook his head. "The Order demands justice, not vengeance and cannot prosecute a sad, sick old man."

Willoughby shuffled into the court room accompanied by his guards. He regarded the court with indifference. He was well aware of where he was, and what was going to happen to him. His braggadocio was gone. He looked and acted like a petulant child. He was determined to prolong the proceedings as much as possible. The first thing he did, after glaring contemptuously at the three young justices, was to demand a lawyer.

The Phantom considered the snarled demand. While he wanted to be as fair and as impartial as possible, he was floundering. His perception of the law was that every accused was entitled to legal representation. What The Phantom did not know was just what sort of legal representation the Rule allowed, or if the Rule allowed for outside counsel. Surely, he had thought, the accused was entitled to counsel. He decided to make sure . . .

Thus far The Phantom had relied on Cory for whatever scant information had been available. He wondered . . .

Tapping his pencil on the table The Phantom called for a recess. The Gunner objected and was overruled. The Gunner took exception and was told that his exception was noted, and the court was in recess until further notice!

Grumbling about pestiferous brats who didn't know what they were doing, The Gunner, with Chef in tow, went off for a drink. Willoughby was returned to his cell, a smug look on his face.

In Chambers, actually a small office that smelled of stale urine and was littered with rat pellets, The Phantom consulted with his fellows. They hadn't a clue, so the decided to consult with the only source available to them . . . Cory.

Cory entered the Chambers looking surly. He had better things to do with his time than sit in a drafty hall smelling of Lysol and bleach! His sinuses were blocked and he had a headache.

The Phantom asked Cory point blank of the rights of an accused Knight.

"They don't have any," replied Cory. "When the Rule was written legal procedures were very different than they are today."

"But what about British Common Law?" asked Colin. "Our legal system is based on it!"

Cory shrugged. Then he scoffed, "What you're doing is squeezing oranges and expecting apple juice! When the Rule was written there was no `Britain' as we know it. They looked at law and order in an entirely different way. The Rule was written 1346! Nobody saw fit to update it and you're stuck with it! If you want to rewrite it, go ahead!"

"In other words we find Willoughby guilty and hang him!" snapped Tyler. "Why don't we just dispense with the Bar of Justice?"

"Because the Rule says you have to have a Bar of Justice before you hang him!" returned Cory.

Colin threw up his hands. "God!"

"He doesn't have a thing to do with it," replied Cory patiently. "Look, make a ruling, set a precedent. You're flying by the seat of your pants anyway, so give Willoughby counsel. It can't hurt and if it salves your liberal consciences, go for it!"

The Phantom looked at Cory. "Okay, my Lord Arundel, you are hereby appointed legal counsel to the accused Willoughby."

"What? Oh no you don't!" shrieked Cory. "As far as I'm concerned you can hang the fucker! He deserves it!"

"He also deserves counsel, and my liberal conscience agrees," replied The Phantom. Before Cory could protest further The Phantom cut him off. "Just do it, Cory!" he said. "You know it's the right thing to do."

Much against his better judgement Cory agreed. He didn't like it, but he would do it because, as The Phantom had said, it was the right thing to do.

Willoughby almost had a heart attack when he looked at his "counsel"! "You can't be serious!" he shouted.

"You asked for counsel, counsel is appointed to you," returned The Phantom coldly.

"I asked for a lawyer," snapped Willoughby, "not some jumped up whelp without a hair between his legs! This guttersnipe doesn't know a law book from a comic book!"

Cory, being Cory, immediately took umbrage. "Look, fool, you don't have a choice. I'll try to help you . . ."

"Help me? You? You need help to find your pecker in the can!" yelled Willoughby

The Phantom began tapping his pencil for order in the court.

"At least I don't stick it up some little boy, you disgusting butt

fucker!" yelped Cory. "If it was up to me I'd hang you by the balls at a public crossroads and let the crows pick at your sorry carcass!"

Chef, who had been napping at the back of the room, opened one eye, sniggered, and listened to the contretemps. The Gunner slumped in his chair, his head in his hands, his plans, his carefully laid plans, fast flowing down the toilet!

"You should be spanked, you obnoxious rat bag!" offered Willoughby.

The Phantom tapped louder with his pencil, and then harder. "Order!" he shouted.

"Yeah? Well you're going to hang, you disreputable shit!" Cory yelled back.

The Phantom's pencil broke so he pounded his fist on the table. "Order," he yelled, standing and glaring at Cory. "Lord Arundel! Keep silence!"

"What?" growled Cory. "Me keep silence? What about this fuck? I don't have to take his shit!"

"Everybody keep silence!" yelled The Phantom. "The both of you shut up!"

Chef laughed so much his stomach hurt.

The Gunner looked as if he was about to commit suicide. He stood up and said, "I must protest, my Lord Chief Justice, the total lack of any decorum on the part of accused's counsel."

"You sit down as well," ordered The Phantom. He pounded the table again and finally the laughter from the peanut gallery subsided. "I am shocked, my Lord Arundel, that you would lower yourself to the level of the accused! It is unseemly."

"It's bullshit!" responded Cory. "You are to blame, Phantom! I didn't want any part of this asshole!"

The Phantom's emerald eyes flared and then subsided. "You accepted the brief!" he reminded Cory. "You will remember that this is a court of honour! We have convened to sit in judgement of a Knight who is accused of violating not only his Oath, but the time-honoured principles of our Order, and the Rule of the Order! Conduct yourself honourably."

Cory thought he understood what The Phantom was doing. His friend had sought out his counsel, seeking advice on the rule of law, and believed that in the case of Stennes, the rule of law as ordained by the Order, did not apply. Cory's knowledge of the Order led him to believe that The Phantom wanted to ensure that the court was conducted in an honourable, fair, manner.

All this Cory understood, but as an honourable Knight, he could not in good conscience defend a man he thought patently guilty. To Cory's mind, honour demanded at least a show of his reluctance. "I demand to be recused!" Cory replied, his voice calm now.

Colin leaned and whispered, "That means he wants out."

"I know that," returned The Phantom irritably. He shook his head. "You will act as defence counsel, Lord Arundel. The accused deserves access to advice and counsel on his responsibilities under the Rule of the Order, whether he listens or not! No more arguments!"

Cory sat down with as ill a grace as possible, muttering unintelligibly under his breath. He had tried the honourable way out, and had failed.

"Did you say something?" asked The Phantom. He suspected that he would pay, sooner or later, for making one of his dearest friends do something he did not want to do. But . . . as reprehensible as Willoughby was, he was entitled to fair counsel and representation. Sighing inwardly, The Phantom hoped that Cory would come to understand, and not to hurt him too much.

"No!" spat Cory. Then he softened the retort by adding, "My Lord Prince."

"Good!"

Chef had to leave the court room. The Gunner wanted to follow, but couldn't.

With order more or less restored, Willoughby's trial commenced.

The Gunner opened his case against Willoughby by first presenting a yellowed piece of paper. It was a signed Oath, dated the 10th of May, 1951. The signature was clearly legible and clearly Willoughby's. He was therefore established as a Knight of the Order, and subject to the Rule of the Order. The Phantom nodded sagely, accepted the document and looked around for a new pencil to use in lieu of a gavel.

Next, The Gunner presented copies of documents detailing Willoughby's systematic looting of Order funds. Cory objected, reminding the court that copies were subject to revisions or additions and asking for original documents to be offered in evidence. After a muttered conference between the Justices, Cory's objection was sustained and The Gunner was directed to produce original files.

The Gunner protested loudly, but was again overruled. The court recessed for lunch and The Gunner made a hurried call to Ace Grimes.

When court reconvened after lunch The Gunner presented original documents, and added the ledgers and diaries found in Willoughby's house. These proved beyond doubt Willoughby's business relationship with Edmund Stennes. Willoughby had laundered money, had known about the origins of the money, and had happily acquiesced in the trade of selling boys for sexual purposes.

The Gunner rested his case. The defence could not think of anything mitigating to suggest, so Cory decided to throw Willoughby on the mercy of the court. Willoughby was old and was a bankrupt. His family had left him, his business was gone, and he was being investigated by the civil authorities. Surely, the court would consider these factors. Mercy was the quality of princes, or so Cory suggested.

The Phantom, as Chief Justice, thought otherwise. He knew that his duty was to render a clear and concise judgement, without fear or favour. Willoughby had willingly become a Knight. He had just as willingly used his authority as Receiver of the General Treasure to siphon the Order's funds for his personal use. He had willingly entered into a business arrangement with Stennes, and knew what the man was doing and profited thereby. As a Knight, Willoughby had broken his Oath to succour all of his brothers. As a man, he had stolen the Order's money, and as such he was guilty as charged.

Tyler and Colin agreed. They were uncomfortable in their feelings, for after all condemning a man to death was a serious thing. But, they too had sworn an Oath . . .

Willoughby was found guilty of the charges presented and sentenced to the only punishment the court could give: Death by Hanging.

Willoughby's death was witnessed by the hangman, Terry Tsiang, and the three ranking Knights of the Order: The Chancellor, The Proctor, and the Prince of the Order.

Terry's men had built a gallows. Willoughby, when he saw the wooden structure and the hanging noose, began to wail, protesting his innocence. He was dragged by two of Terry's men up the 13 steps, a hood was pulled over his head, the noose placed and the lever pulled.

As the body dangled, swinging slightly, The Phantom opened his eyes. He had closed them as soon as The Gunner had nodded to the hangman. He had ordered the death of a fellow human and he prayed that never again would he be asked to sit in judgement. That night he had the first of many nightmares, the screams clearly heard, the dangling body vividly seen.

There remained one item of business. As Aaron Mark II had prophesied, Stennes broke. He revealed his secret connections with the Arabs, with the STASI, with the KGB. He told every detail of his funding of neo-Nazi groups, and the number of boys who had been sent to an anonymous grave in the forests of Europe.

The Gunner was kept informed of everything that the interrogation of Stennes revealed. He was not informed of the final fate of the German who had thought human boys a mere commodity, to be used and then discarded.

When Aaron Mark II decided that Stennes had nothing more to give up, he ended it. He sat in a bare room in the basement of the decrepit building that he, and the Mossad, used as their headquarters in Toronto. Stennes, naked, pale, and devoid of hope, was asked a few more questions.

"You were trained by the KGB?"

Stennes nodded. "Ya. I was trained by them."

"In Lubyanka?"

"That was where the KGB had their headquarters," responded Stennes wearily.

"You saw the final end of their prisoners?"

Stennes nodded his head. "Ya. In the cellars there was a furnace. This was

where the bodies were sent, so that there would be no evidence of their deaths."

Aaron Mark II leaned forward and whispered a question. "And the Jews?"

Stennes began screaming. He knew what the KGB had done to Jewish dissidents in the cellars of Lubyanka Prison. "No . . . I cannot tell you . . . No!"

Aaron sat quietly. Then he asked, "How many did you kill, Stennes? How many?"

"I did not!" shrieked Stennes. "I only witnessed . . ."

"And because they were only Jews, subhumans to be exterminated by order of the Führer, you nodded approval!"

Stennes knew now that Mossad knew much more about what had happened in Moscow than he had any idea of. He could not speak and he quaked in terror. He knew what was about to happen to him.

"Yes, Stennes, we know," confirmed Aaron grimly. "We are Jews, poor, foolish scum. But we know."

Without a further word, Aaron stood. Four men grasped Stennes and pulled him from the interrogation room. As Stennes screamed for mercy he was taken through a series of doors and into the boiler room. The room was filled with the roar of the fires, the sound so loud that the clanging of the firebox door being opened and the final screams of Edmund Stennes were blotted out.

The last page of the last chapter of the Aurora Crusade had been written.