I apologise to all my readers for the delay in getting this latest chapter out. My only excuse is a bad case of the summer doldrums. Too hot where I live, which gave a me a chance to revert to my normal, lazy self!
"Aurora Crusade" is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2006 by John Ellison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this type of story is illegal where you live.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.
I enjoy hearing from readers and try to answer all e-mails. If you have a comment or a question please contact me at paradegi@rogers.com
Thanks to Peter, my sterling editor. Sometimes without him I would merely be sending along pap!
Aurora Crusade
Chapter 2
Ru Yee Chung, called "Cousin Ray", watched as the long, white-painted passenger jet taxied slowly to its allotted space in the private sector of the Quebec City Airport. As the trucks carrying the embarkation stairs trundled out from under the shadows of the terminal overhang, Ray watched carefully. His men were in place. On the other side of the terminal, waiting, were a bus, four nondescript, black sedans, and two vans for the luggage. The drivers were Ray's men, all Chinese, all well trained, and all well armed, with a shotgun under the dash for backup.
The hotel - the Chateau Frontenac - had rooms ready and the management had been alerted. More of Cousin Ray's men were also in place in the hotel. Everything was ready. Michael Chan's orders had been followed to the letter - something Cousin Ray was always careful to do, for he knew the measure of the man he worked for.
Ru Yee Chung was the son of Michael's former Viceroy in Montreal. He had risen through the ranks, which was the way Michael Chan worked, rarely promoting from outside. Cousin Ray had started his life in the underworld of Chinatown as a numbers runner. He had been 16 years old.
Growing up, Ray had known what his father, and two of his elder brothers, did for a living, which did not bother him at all. What his father and brothers did provided a fine home, good clothes, and plenty of food. That they might, from time to time, be forced to exert their authority in Chinatown was expected. It was business.
Resisting his father's blandishments to continue his education, Ray had quickly proven his worth. He had a sly, cunning manner and a first class brain that thrived on intrigue. He also refused to be intimidated by his father's so-called "business rivals" - the Italians, who controlled much of the criminal activities in Montreal and Quebec City. The Italians, eager to control every aspect of the criminal underworld, including those in Montreal's burgeoning Chinatown, had sent soldiers to visit Ray's father. Ray, who was barely 20 at the time, had listened to his father's patient arguments.
Ray's father, whom everybody called "Uncle" Charlie, had tried to make the messengers understand that the Chinese would never do business with "ferengi", white men, whom they did not trust to any degree. Except for the numbers, Uncle Charlie pointed out, all of his "business" interests were confined to Chinatown, did not conflict with the Italians' trade in drugs and control of the waterfront, and never involved whores or any of the pies that the Italians had stuck their fingers into. He could not see the Italian point of view at all.
The Italians, for whom complete control of everything illicit was power, refused to listen. Uncle Charlie was expected to knuckle under, and to let the Capos "wet their beaks" . . . period. No questions, no back talk, and the money was to be paid weekly, in small bills.
Uncle Charlie, exasperated, had turned to Ray and muttered impatiently, "They will not listen! They need to be sent a message."
Ray had taken the hint and nodded slowly. The next day, Don Vincenzo Cotroni was enjoying a late lunch at his social club in the heart of Montreal's "Petite Italie" when a package was delivered, addressed to him personally. After making sure that the package was not a bomb, it was opened. Inside were two very dead carp. The message was clear: the two men he had sent to "speak" with the Chinese overlord would never be seen again. They slept with the fishes.
Don Vincenzo considered himself a reasonable man. However, reason had its limits. Yet he did nothing, aside from grudgingly accepting a large monetary peace offering. His hands were tied first because he had gone against the advice of the "Commission" the small group of Capos who ruled the North American crime syndicates, and secondly he was about to take care of the "Calabrese", with whom he shared an uneasy partnership in crime. There were also the Tsangs, animals really, men without souls who owed their allegiance to one man: "The Serenity", at the time Uncle Henry Chan.
An involuntary shudder coursed through Cousin Ray's body. The Tsangs! Cousin Ray did not doubt that the very mention of this large, near-Neanderthal clan had given Don Vincenzo pause. The Don had no doubt heard the rumours, veiled, whispered tales of dark acts against the enemies of The Serenity, stories that always ended the same: the enemies of Uncle Henry Chan disappeared, and it was as if they had never existed at all.
There were many stories about the Tsangs, about their iron discipline and utter ruthlessness - some were true, some were graced with a grain of truth, but all were believed. One story held that there had been a Cousin who had betrayed the trust placed in him and been taken to a lonely, deserted beach where . . .
There was another story, of intrigue and treachery within the Clan itself, and conduct that brought a loss of "face" to the Serenity, something not to be borne. The story said that a son had without hesitation removed the father, and later a brother, who was now confined to a cold, derelict chamber with nothing to console him but frequent pipes of opium and his own penis.
In the end Don Vincenzo had decided not to retaliate, and to leave the Chinese alone. His reasons for this decision no one knew. Perhaps he had listened to the wise advice from his peers, perhaps he was more concerned with dealing with the Calabrese, perhaps the Don believed the stories. No one knew why the Don hesitated; no one asked why he had hesitated. No one dared to ask and everybody went back to minding their business.
Self-consciously, Cousin Ray looked around the small terminal. There was a Tsang about, Andrew, but a Tsang unlike anything Cousin Ray had expected. He had expected a short, squat, thug of a man and was pleasantly surprised when Andrew Tsang turned out to be a tall, rather handsome, well-dressed young man. Andrew had also made it clear that he was here only in the event of an emergency, or when something "special" needed doing. He was not going to interfere in any of Cousin Ray's plans.
On reflection, Cousin Ray understood that the silken words hid hard steel. He also reflected that this operation was very important to Michael Chan. A Tsang, no matter how well dressed, did not just appear out of the blue. Andrew Tsang was a brother to Cousin Eddy Tsang, who ran the Victoria operations. Andrew was the second son of Tsang Su Shun, the Elder Brother of the Clan and a man not to be taken lightly. If Cousin Ray remembered correctly, Shun had two other sons, Paul, called Paulie, and Patrick. Unconsciously Cousin Ray looked around. With the Tsangs, one never knew when one of them would pop out of the woodwork!
Cousin Ray's musings were interrupted as he saw that the stairs were now in place and the doors to the aircraft were being opened. He watched, and waited, and then they appeared; two at the First Class door, two at the rear Coach door. Security, Cousin Ray thought, and from the way they watched and moved, more than experienced.
As he watched the men slowly, carefully, and warily, descend, Cousin Ray really did not know what to expect. He knew, as everyone in the organization knew, that Michael Chan preferred to use Caucasians, former servicemen, as his guards. Cousin Ray also knew that Michael's "business partners" in Hong Kong and Taiwan had foisted a contingent of Chinese on him, although he did not, if the latest story was true, expect any Chinese to be in evidence, other than his own men. There had been treachery, or so the story went, and the "Captain" of the Chinese guards, a Taiwanese named K'ang, had been taken away by the Tsangs, to a fate Cousin Ray did not care to even think about. The remainder had been summarily sent home. Cousin Ray expected that there would be trouble, which would be bad for business but he also knew that Michael Chan never forgave an insult or forgot an injury.
As he descended the landing stairs Alex Grinchsten's eyes took in the surroundings. He saw, standing under the overhang of the terminal, a short, slim, Chinese man. Alex had been told that the local Viceroy would be making all the necessary arrangements. The man was good, Alex thought, for while he knew that they were there, he saw nothing that would lead him to think that the place was surrounded by armed Chinese.
Off to one side a long row of baggage carts, drawn by a small tractor, trundled toward the plane. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, Alex dismissed the baggage carts and handlers. Luggage was the responsibility of Jake Guildenhall, the Travelling Yeoman, and his assistant, Rusty Smith. Alex's responsibility was security, and as de-facto Head of the Security Detail, he took his responsibilities very seriously. He hazarded a glance back, and saw that Bill Estes was also reconoittering the landing area. Aft were Dino Antonelli and Logan Hartsfield. They too would be watching, carefully evaluating every strange figure that appeared, watching the terminal roofline, their hands loose and free, ready to grasp the automatics they hid under the jackets of their dark suits.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Alex turned and nodded. Just inside the small lobby leading to the First Class section of the aircraft, Ned Hadfield saw the nod. He turned and spoke to Chef, who was waiting impatiently to disembark.
"All clear," Ned said, returning his eyes to the barren, stained stretch of tarmac. "We can go down now."
As the passengers began to descend, Alex walked over to where Cousin Ray was standing and introduced himself. After they had shaken hands, Alex asked, "Everything ready?'
Nodding, Cousin Ray answered, "As much as they can be." He smiled casually. "I do know what I am doing, my friend."
Alex returned the smile. "I did not mean to doubt your abilities," he replied carefully, and added, "and I meant no offence." He knew that Ray Chung was Michael's handpicked representative in Quebec, and held great power. Alex also knew enough of the Chinese psyche to know that he had to be very careful in expressing himself, lest he cause offence. "In fact, Michael told me to defer to you in everything." This was not exactly true - Michael had said to let Ray do this part - but Alex thought, what the hell, whatever it takes.
Mollified, Ray nodded. "You seem to have your people well in hand." He shaded his eyes from the overhead sun and nodded again. "They seem very competent."
Smiling inwardly, Alex replied, "They are." He watched as Chef came down the stairs, followed by the ladies: Mrs. Arundel, Mrs. Randolph and Mrs. Airlie. Chef paused at the bottom of the stairs and offered his hand to help the ladies navigate the last step. Alex turned to Ray. "But then I think you knew that."
Ray grinned. "Of course. Michael Chan leaves nothing to chance and to be perfectly honest I would not be in the position I now enjoy if I were not competent."
"More than competent, I suspect," returned Alex deliberately.
Ray laughed quietly. "Now that we have assured ourselves that we are both up to the job, shall we talk?" He gestured toward the terminal. "There is a small lounge where we can speak in private."
The small lounge overlooked the runways of the airport and through the tall, floor to ceiling windows both Alex and Ray could keep an eye on things. They watched as the passengers left the plane and strolled casually into the terminal where Ray had a small meal laid on, and tea and coffee. Alex watched as Jake and Rusty supervised the baggage handlers as they loaded the carts. He glanced at his watch. "We seem to be making good time," he observed.
"There is time," agreed Cousin Ray as he poured them both a cup of coffee from the urn that stood on a side table. "The Shrine is only thirty miles to the east, and the highway is well maintained. The hotel is ready, although not without some difficulty."
Alex raised an eyebrow. "Difficulty?"
Ray waved his hand indifferently. "It is the height of the tourist season. Every hotel is filled with tourists." He shrugged. "And Ste Anne de Beaupré is very popular with the Faithful and there are many pilgrimages taking place."
"The funeral?" asked Alex.
"A zoo," replied Ray with a grimace. "A political circus."
Looking at Ray, Alex asked, "A zoo? A circus?"
Nodding, Ray sat next to Alex and looked reflectively into his cup of coffee. "The deceased is really a relatively unimportant prop in a grand production, all of it political." He smiled a small, confident smile. "You really do not need all the security, for God knows the place is crawling with security!"
Carefully placing the cup on the table beside the chair he was sitting in, Alex looked directly at Ray. "Perhaps you should explain."
"Of course," replied Ray indifferently. "To understand what is going on you must understand politics." He sipped his coffee and then said, "Sylvain, that is the one who is dead, yes?"
Alex nodded his confirmation.
"He himself is just, shall I say, a dead boy who had the misfortune to miss a curve and smash his car into a rock, a very large rock. Under normal circumstances he would have been brought to the nearest hospital, examined, pronounced dead and his body turned over to his relatives for burial."
"You make it all sound so very cold," observed Alex tartly.
As he had no religion to speak of, Ray remained stoic. "Dead is dead. As I said, under normal circumstances he would be sent to his grave with little muss or fuss."
"But?"
"His uncle," said Ray. "His uncle has decided that the obsequies are to be observed with all the panoply that can be devised by the Church and Laity." He sniffed. "One would think they were burying a pope, at the least."
"Go on, please."
"Alex, the General, who is Sylvain's uncle, is a very important man in many ways, but most importantly, politically."
"What has politics got to do with burying a poor, dead Sea Cadet?" demanded Alex who, despite all he had seen and heard, could still not understand why he was here in Quebec City and why attending the funeral of a "poor, dead Sea Cadet" was so important to the new Knights.
"Politics has everything to do with it," replied Ray. "The Premiere, Bourassa, must call an election this year, as the Constitution directs. He is in trouble. The Parti Quebecois, under René Levesque, has made great inroads into the Liberal power base. The Prime Minister, Trudeau, cannot allow the Liberal Party to fail in Quebec - federally the Party needs the Quebec seats to control the country. If Trudeau loses Quebec, he loses power, because the rest of the country loathes him, except for useful idiots in Ontario."
Ray took a deep breath and continued. "The General will give Trudeau Quebec. Therefore Trudeau, as a mark of respect for his dear, powerful Quebec Lieutenant, shares his grief and will attend the funeral."
"Jesus, it sounds so . . . Machiavellian!" exclaimed Alex.
Laughing, Ray nodded his head in agreement. "It is even more Machiavellian than you realize!"
"How so?"
"Well, Bourassa does not want to lose the election, and as the General is supposedly his great ally and friend, he must make a gesture. He cannot ignore one of the, if not the, Liberal power broker of Quebec politics." He laughed dryly. "Bourassa is attending the funeral because it makes points for him with the General. What he does not know - yet - is that the general is busily sharpening his knives, which he will plunge into the Premiere's back soon." He looked at Alex. "The General is a separatist. He secretly supports Levesque and the PQ with vast amounts of money. Levesque will attend because without the General's money and support the election will be a near run thing."
"And what does the General get out of all this," asked Alex.
"The General aspires to be the Eminence Gris of Canadian politics. If he controls Quebec, in the person of Levesque, he will gain favours and patronage for the province. He knows which strings to pull in Ottawa and while Trudeau will have to live with a PQ majority in the Provincial Legislature, he will move heaven and earth to keep as many Parliamentary seats in Ottawa as he can. The General will give him those seats because he knows that the Liberals will give him what he wants."
"Which is?"
"The equipment, the material, the arms, the infrastructure of a free Quebec Army!"
Alex all but dropped his near empty cup of coffee. "What?"
"The General wants a free, sovereign Quebec! A free country needs an army, and a navy, and an air force. There is already the nucleus of an army squatting and scratching itself in the Citadelle - the Van Doos - and the Liberals have given the General a school where young French Canadian officers can be trained, the Le College Royale Militaire de St Jean. When Bourassa loses the election the Liberals will go into a panic and give the General whatever he wants."
"Jesus," breathed Alex. "The goofy fucks are playing right into the General's hands!"
"Of course they are," replied Ray. "They are politicians after all and so long as they get what they want . . ." He stopped speaking and shrugged expressively. "Trudeau wins nationally, Levesque wins provincially, Bourassa is as dead as poor Sylvain and the General has a few more strings to pull."
"And they will all gather at Ste Anne de Beaupré, weep crocodile tears, pat each other on the back and slice each other's throats."
Standing, Ray nodded. "I am very much afraid that the only true grief will be shown by Sylvain's family and your charges. The rest, they could not care less." He gestured toward the door. "The funeral is scheduled for 1500, and the Archbishop will officiate." He reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and handed Alex a printed booklet. "The Order of Service."
Alex glanced at the booklet. "And here I thought everything would be low key."
Ray snorted. "There will be local police, Quebec Provincial Police, and RCMP all over the place! Everyone will be in full dress whatever!" He scowled. "I had to make sure that my men all had dark suits! It is very expensive, a funeral!"
"I wouldn't know," muttered Alex as he scanned the printed pages of the booklet. "From the sound of it though, I wonder if my men and I, and yours, would be better off finding the local brasserie and hoisting a few."
"It would be much more pleasant that sitting in a packed church amongst the great unwashed!" returned Ray. "And I do not relish the thought of spending the afternoon under the watchful eyes of RCMP constables. They watch too much as it is!"
Alex could well understand. Michael was always complaining about the RCMP, who were doing everything they could to infiltrate his organization. "It's not the enemy you see that you have to watch out for," offered Alex, "but the ones you can't see."
"There will be many of them," agreed Ray with a slight nod. "My sources tell me that extra constables have been flown in to bolster the regular detachment."
RCMP Constable Brendan Lascelles hated Quebec! He hated the arrogance of the people, he hated their bigotry towards the "Maudit Anglais", and he hated the slavish hypocrisy of the people and their Church. He also hated that he was stuck here in La Belle Province for at least the next week. Still, with the woodlands on one side, and the St. Lawrence on the other, he thought casually as he took in the greenery and flower gardens that bordered the huge plaza surrounding the Basilica of Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré, the setting was very beautiful.
"We take picture, yes?" came a high-pitched voice.
Groaning inwardly, Brendan smiled at the tiny Japanese man carrying the latest in photographic technology. With the man were a woman and two other men, each of them carrying at least six cameras!
As the cameras clicked and the tourists took turns having their pictures taken with a real Canadian Mountie. A grim smile plastered on his face, Brendan groaned inwardly. He should have been on his honeymoon, for Christ's sake, but oh, no, he had to be called out for special duty.
Suddenly, Brendan shuddered slightly. Perhaps, in retrospect, Quebec was much preferable to being back in Regina! Better the stuffy, pokey little room he'd been assigned in the RCMP barracks than the double bed in the apartment he'd rented back in Regina. Better his right hand than the vacuous, selfish, fish-eyed girl whom he had so recently married.
Brendan barely heard the goodbyes of the tourists as they bowed and walked away in search of other subjects to photograph. The wedding! He cringed every time he thought of what he now knew to be a travesty. The wedding!
It had started in the small chamber set aside at City Hall for marriages. The Justice of the Peace had been reading the service and had come to the part where he asked if anyone knew of any impediment to he and Emily being joined to together. The blubbering of Emily's mother, a stick-thin slattern wearing a battered straw hat and a print frock, spotted with things Brendan did not dare speculate about, did not quite cover the knowing snickers emanating from the two classmates he had invited to witness his nuptials. The men had apologized, swearing that they had been giggling about something that had happened in the canteen the night before, but Brendan knew they were lying.
If the wedding was bad, the wedding luncheon was worse. Emily had insisted that there be a lunch - she had wanted a reception but Brendan had insisted that everything be as low-key as possible and booked the Officers' Mess at the College. He had hardly walked in the door when the Manager had called him aside. There was a problem with the cheque that Emily's mother had given to pay for the small reception - as a wedding present. Not only had it bounced, the bank was saying that her account did not exist. Emily, blubbering excuses, her mother heading for the bar and his mother staring stonily into the distance did not help the situation. Brendan had reached into his tunic and withdrawn the envelope his mother had given as her wedding present and paid the bill.
At the time, Brendan could not believe that things would get worse. They did. As he paid the Mess manager a long, white, calliope of a Cadillac rolled up to the front door. The chauffer, a disgusted look on his face, opened the rear door and out fell . . . Emily's father. He was so drunk he could barely stagger, as was his son, Emily's brother, who also fell out of the back of the car and sprawled on the pavement. As it turned out, Daddy had been a guest of the city - charge unspecified, although Brendan suspected cheque kiting - and had wanted to attend his daughter's wedding. His son had conveniently ponyed up the bail, and sprung for the white dinner jackets and carnations each man wore.
The wedding reception had been mercifully brief - the bar accepted cash only and when his new in-laws discovered that their new son-in-law was not prepared to spring for anything more than a round of domestic champers for the toasts, they had decamped to climes where their credit was still good, leaving Brendan alone with his bride and his stony-faced mother. His mother! She had started the day so very happy for him, and so accepting, so determinedly understanding of the reason for him marrying.
A bank of clouds rolled over the huge plaza fronting the recently consecrated Basilica, the shadows matching Brendan's mood. His mother had been so kind, and for the very first time had agreed with Brendan that perhaps he had been right in refusing to allow his brother to attend the ceremony. She did not add that it was fortunate that Brendan's father had not attended. Just what Tom Lascelles would have made of the ceremony, and the shambles of a reception, she did not dare to speculate.
Brendan's eyes scanned the huge crowd of pilgrims, some milling about the entry to the huge church with the towering spires that dominated the river and surrounding countryside for miles in all directions, many gathering on the Avenue Royale, waiting for the Way of the Cross to start, while others were preparing to begin to ascend - on their knees - the Scala Sancta, a replica of the stairs that Jesus Christ had climbed to meet Pilate. Near one of the side entrances to the church a small cortege of black limousines and a shiny black hearse waited. He saw that the vehicles were under the watchful eyes of two of his peers dressed, as he was, in red serge jacket, dark blue riding jodhpurs and brown, polished boots. The Mounties were out in force, and in full dress, not only to impress the pilgrims and tourists, but also to ensure that anyone looking would know that security was tight, and getting tighter.
Brendan could not really understand what the fuss was about. The Redemptorists, who owned the Basilica, were fluttering about, wringing their hands, and arguing with what looked like a clutch of Jesuits. QPP officers, dressed in their dress uniforms, were trying to keep some sort of order in front of the church, keeping the roadway clear for the soon to arrive dignitaries. The Prime Minister was to arrive soon, and a small reception was being held for him in the Monastery that stood behind the Basilica. The growl of sirens diverted Brendan's attention and he turned to see a motorcade progressing along the Boulevard Ste-Anne. The flags flying from the fender of the second car told him that the Lieutenant Governor was arriving, and soon enough Maurice Cardinal Roy, Cardinal Archbishop of Québec would arrive to officiate at the funeral that seemed to dominate everybody's thinking today.
Leaving the front of the Basilica, Brendan began to walk purposefully toward something called the Blessing Office, a separate building, where the public washrooms were. As he walked he wondered what all the hoopla was about. He really knew little, because he had been told little. He had been awakened from his marriage bed, well not a bed actually, but a lumpy sofa in the small, furnished apartment he had rented, by the jangling of the telephone. The Duty Sergeant had apologized, but there was a special event and Brendan was needed.
Brendan had not bothered to argue. In the bedroom of the apartment his new wife snored softly. They had not "consummated" their marriage, Emily pleading stomach cramps and Brendan frankly not interested. As he placed the telephone down Brendan had glanced at the closed door leading to the bedroom and realized the mistake he had made. He had tried to do the right thing, tried to be a honourable man, but now he was trapped in a loveless marriage. He would live his life according to the whims of the Service he so dearly wanted to be a part of, and that too, was a mistake.
As he packed, Brendan had felt the tears of self-recrimination and self-pity rolling down his cheeks. He had not bothered to wake his wife - she would whine and demand that he leave enough money for her to live on, or drink away - and he was not prepared to listen to her. As he wrote the short note telling Emily where he would be, Brendan now knew that he should have gone after Joe, no, gone home, home to Comox and to his brother. He wanted to hold Philip just once, just once before he returned to a barren life filled with nothing but hopelessness.
As he was leaving the Blessing House, Brendan heard the bells of the church begin to toll. He did not have to look at his watch to know that it was noon, and the bells were calling the faithful to say the Angelus, the prayer to Mary, Mother of God. Off toward the hillside leading to the Way of the Cross a small clutch of people sank to their knees and the wind carried the sound of a hymn to the Blessed Virgin toward the fast roiling St. Lawrence.
"Are you a Papist, Lascelles?" came an intruding, English-accented voice.
Brendan turned to see Staff Sergeant Farquarson, the "Staff" in charge of the RCMP Detachment, staring at him.
Shaking his head, Brendan replied softly, "C of E, Staff Sergeant."
Farquarson nodded. "Too much flummery and incense for my taste," he replied, a disapproving tone in his voice. "All quiet, then?"
"Yes, Staff Sergeant." A small smile broke Brendan's tanned, broad face. "Until they started singing."
The Staff Sergeant snorted. "I shall need you later, as the coffin is carried out after the service. The mucky mucks expect a presence and what better 'presence' than a Guard of Honour?"
As Brendan had been told very little of who the guest of honour was, he asked, "Is the deceased important?"
Farquarson shrugged. "Buggered if I know," he said sourly. "We've been told to extend all courtesies to the family, in particular the boy's uncle, who is a general of some sorts. Beyond that all I know is that inside the church is a kid laid out in a black suit." He slapped Brendan on the back. "Ours not to reason why, lad." He turned to walk away, and then called back, "Stay in the shade as much as you can. It's going to be a scorcher today."
"Yes, Staff Sergeant," replied Brendan, not reminding the Staff that it was already a scorcher. A red wool jacket, buttoned up tight, black riding breeches and brown riding boots were not the best clothes to be wearing in the middle of a heat wave. Even as he spoke Brendan could feel a small rivulet of sweat coursing its way down his spine and into the back of his underpants.
"I should have worn boxers," Brendan complained mentally. "And yes, Staff Sergeant, it is definitely going to be a scorcher!"
" . . . And that wraps up the weather report for this hour. Expect another hot, hot day." The Gunner closed the door to the apartment and looked around for the source of the newscast. He saw the radio in the small kitchen and switched it off. He was tired, hungry, and out of sorts after spending the night waiting for news about the young German boy.
Sinking to the sofa, The Gunner closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. The boy's condition was bad, very bad. The sepsis that the doctors had warned about was advancing. The prognosis was not good and The Gunner wondered what would happen if Eugen died. His death would kill Sophie Nicholson, who had refused to leave the boy's side. For a reason known only to Sophie all the pent up maternal instincts, held in check for so many years, had burst forth as if from a breached dam. Sophie had fallen in love with the blond, handsome young German. She was determined that he would not die! She commanded it! If money were needed, she would give it, in abundance. If Doctor Langford, or his son, or any of the doctors on the staff of the Chinese Community Hospital were not up to the job, then find one who was! Bring him from England, from across the country, from Germany or the United States! Whatever needed to save the boy was to be done!
As he felt his eyes closing, The Gunner thought that if sheer willpower and determination was all that it took to save Eugen, then Sophie had it, in spades. He only hoped that Eugen possessed the same qualities.
He glanced around the small living room and saw that for the first time in days the room was neat and tidy, with no husky male Rangers lounging in the chairs, or sprawled on the carpet. The table in the dining room was piled with small, neat stacks of papers. Nodding inwardly, The Gunner registered his approval. Lester had been busy, it seemed.
A soft footfall in the corridor caused The Gunner to look up and see Lester standing in the arched doorway, apparently just come from a nap. Lester was wearing a long, white T-shirt and white, boxer shorts. His hair was dishevelled and he yawned cavernously. "You must be tired," he said to The Gunner as he moved into the kitchen. "I'll make some coffee and then you should get your head down."
Smiling his thanks, The Gunner shook his head. "I have a few things to do first," he said. Again he looked around the room. "You've cleaned."
As he puttered around the kitchen, setting the coffee to percolating, and putting out two mugs, Lester replied, "I cleaned. With the Rangers finally off to wherever they go when they're not here I finally found time to clean." He laughed a short, tinkly laugh. "You know, I must be going straight, or something!"
The Gunner started. "What?"
Smiling, Lester returned to the living room and took a seat in the chair opposite The Gunner. "Well, it's every gay boy's dream to be in a place absolutely filled with hunks! Gay hunks! Hunks wearing the absolute minimum of clothing!"
"And?" drawled The Gunner, as small smile forming on his lips.
"And I wasn't interested!" Lester scowled and looked down at his clothing. "Look at me! I haven't worn white unders since I was unjustly incarcerated in a dreadful home for wayward boys!" Realizing what he had just said, Lester quickly put his hand to his mouth, his eyes registering his embarrassment. "It was only for a month, and justice prevailed," he added quickly.
The Gunner chuckled. "I'm sure it did." He looked at Lester. "You've changed, you know, and for the good."
Lester sighed. "Yes. Gone is the old Lester, who wanted to be Lance, and wore designer clothes and red silk panties!"
"Italian, I believe," countered The Gunner.
"Ace has been telling tales out of school," replied Lester with a slight sniff. "You notice that I don't talk about him!"
The Gunner toyed briefly with the idea of conning Lester into revealing some of Ace's deep, dark secrets, and then thought better of it. He did not have the right to ask, and if Ace wanted him to know of strange doings in his past, he would tell him. He changed the subject. "Where is everybody, and is there anything new?"
Leaving his chair, Lester returned to the kitchen, poured the steaming coffee, and handed a mug to The Gunner. "The Rangers are home, or wherever they hide themselves when they aren't out doing the nasty, or spying on the neighbours. You told them to take what you called a "Stand Down", so they've stood down." He sipped his coffee and grimaced. He had made the brew the way The Gunner had shown him and it was much too strong for Lester's taste.
"Ace and Aaron Mark I are at the Belgrave Square hospital," Lester continued, "taking care of any loose ends."
"Such as?" asked The Gunner, smiling over the rim of his mug. "This is great coffee, Lester, thank you."
"You're welcome, and it's strong enough to use as paint remover!" returned Lester. Yet he smiled. "There was a problem with the plumbing in several of the rooms. Aaron Mark II called a friend who is also a plumber and . . ." He jumped up abruptly, walked to the dining room table and found a small, three ring binder. Opening the binder he looked at The Gunner. "You have no idea what tradesmen charge on a Saturday!" He showed the page he had been reading to The Gunner. "And that's only the estimate!" he complained.
The Gunner dismissed the figure with a slight shake of his head. "It's only money, Lester."
"And we are spending a hell of a lot of it!" replied Lester, furrowing his brows. "The lease on the hospital cost a packet. Sophie paid for the new furniture, but the place still had to be cleaned from cellar to dome! More money. I used some contacts and shelled out another packet for victuals! Imagine, $1.73 a pound for beef, and that's wholesale!" He shrugged. "Anyway, the larders and freezers are stocked, the kitchen is clean and ready to start feeding the boys, and I am not doing the cooking, am I?"
Laughing, The Gunner shook his head. Then he looked seriously at Lester. "You know, when I first told Ace that you were going to be the hospital administrator he almost had a fit. He was of the opinion that you were a hedonist, much more interested in having fun and sex than you were in doing something useful."
Lester's eyes narrowed and a blush came over his face. Then he giggled. "Well, come to think of it, that's what I was!" he said with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "I worked when I needed money to pay the rent, and spent anything left over on booze and fancy clothes. When I wasn't working, or keeping Ames happy and off the streets, I was prowling the baths. Sex was all I thought of really. And speaking of baths, where do you think I met Ace?"
"He told me," responded The Gunner without inflection. "You were both pissed as bishops and did what comes naturally."
Lester sighed nostalgically at the memory of his first, and only, encounter with Ace. "He's not so bad in the sack," he said, a dreamy expression on his face. "He's not as demanding as some I could name, and he's beautiful where it counts and . . ."
"Ace will do in a pinch," growled The Gunner.
Lester started and then thought better of enumerating Ace Grimes' attributes. He knew that Ace and The Gunner were sharing a bed although, given everything that had been happening lately, he doubted that there was much action going on in the bed.
"I'm sorry," Lester apologized. "I didn't mean . . ."
The Gunner had not meant to be as harsh as he sounded. "No, Lester, it's I who should apologize. Ace is a fine figure of a man."
"Who just happens to be yours," responded Lester.
"I beg your pardon?"
Lester leaned forward and placed his hand on The Gunner's knee. "Ace is madly in love with you. For the very first time in his life he's in love, and he's desperately afraid that when all this is over that you'll leave him." He leaned back into the chair. "I know how he feels. I've been there, Steve. It's not a nice feeling at all."
"Ames?" asked The Gunner gently.
Lester nodded. "I do love him and I want to be with him. He makes me feel things I thought I could never feel. When we make love - and I assure we make love, and don't merely fuck - I feel so . . . complete. I've never felt that way before." A small tear appeared at the corner of Lester's eye. "I just wish that Ames felt about me the way Ace feels about you."
"Lester, I . . ."
"No, Steve, let's be honest, if not to ourselves, at least to each other. Ames has baggage in the form of a wife, two sons, and a career. He can't risk being found out, and sooner or later he's going to look at his family, and his job, and then he's going to look at me." Angrily wiping the tears from his eyes, Lester stated coldly. "When that happens Little Lester will be back at the baths, looking for something he's lost and will never find again."
For a long time The Gunner thought of how to answer Lester. He also thought of his short, wonderful relationship with a certain green-eyed boy, who had loved him dearly. A boy whom he had abandoned.
"I will never treat Ace badly," said The Gunner slowly. "As for Ames, I can only hope that he treats you . . ."
"Better than you treated your young man?" finished Lester gently.
The Gunner glared at Lester. "How . . . what do you . . . did Ace open his big mouth?" he demanded, his eyes hard.
Lester shook his head. "I've been around a long time, Steve. I know how to read the signs. They're in your eyes, in your face, in your voice. You treated someone shabbily and you feel guilty."
Nodding, The Gunner replied. "I came out here to Toronto to attend my aunt's funeral. That's all! I planned on returning to Comox, to be with . . . him." He ran his hand over his face and sighed heavily. "And then everything seemed to blow up in my face! Suddenly I was confronted with something I could not simply walk away from. Events pushed . . . him . . . out of my mind. I was so wrapped up in what I was doing, what I wanted to do, what I needed to do that I just . . ." He hung his head. "I didn't even call him to tell him what is going on. I suppose I tried to tell myself that I didn't want him hurt further. I just walked away, and he didn't deserve that."
"And because you walked away you think he's never going to forgive you," said Lester. His voice was low, but calm. "Right now you feel like shit, and to be honest, you deserve to."
The Gunner was about to retort something along the lines of Lester minding his own business, but then he realized that he had started this, not Lester. He agreed with Lester as he said, "You're right. That's exactly the way I feel. I don't deserve pity, or understanding."
"What you deserve is a swift boot in the ass!" snapped Lester, rising from his chair. "But that's not going to happen." He looked evenly at The Gunner. "The young man you left behind loved you, and since he loved you he's going to do what I'm going to do with Ames, what Ace will do when the time comes."
"And that is?"
"Kiss you gently and let you go on your way." Lester walked to the table, rummaged through the neat pile of papers, and came up with a small, closely written piece of paper. "When I was young all I wanted was someone to keep me warm and safe, someone to love me. I thought I found it in Ames, but that isn't going to happen. Ames is going to go on and become what he's supposed to be, a father, and a husband, and a good cop. You are going on to become whatever it is you are destined to be." He handed The Gunner the paper.
"What's this?" asked The Gunner, staring at what seemed to be a copy of a police report.
"More grist for the windmill you seem destined to tilt at," replied Lester. He pointed at the report. "Ames was snooping around the files at 52 Division and came across that. It seems that the Vice Squad is keeping an eye on a house in Glasgow Street. He made a few discreet inquiries and then came here, to speak to you, because what he's discovered might have a bearing on what we are doing."
The Gunner quickly scanned the report. "A brothel?"
"Yes, although the sign out front says it's a residence for foreign students. Terry Hsiang knows the place. None of the students seem to go to school, and all of them are Orientals, primarily Chinese, but also some Vietnamese boys."
The Gunner's tiredness was beginning to take its toll. "And that has what to do with us?" he asked waspishly.
"Perhaps nothing," replied Lester, ignoring The Gunner's snarl. "Perhaps a link to the German!"
The Gunner bolted forward. "What did you say?"
"It seems that the Vice Squad has been keeping the place under surveillance. They have seen men, mostly Chinese, going in and out, usually at night. They also observed white men, four to be precise, entering. Three seemed to be a little too clean cut, and were dressed in casual clothing. The Vice Squad ran the number of the plate on their car."
"And?"
"It was registered to a corporal in the Armed Forces, stationed at Wolsey Barracks in London."
The Gunner abruptly raised his hand. "Soldiers?"
"Yes. But there's more."
"Tell me." "The detectives also saw the fourth man, older, well-dressed, and accompanied by a white boy."
"A boy with wheat-blond hair, a little over five feet tall, very thin," The Gunner whispered.
"What?"
"Stennes, it had to be!"
Lester gave The Gunner a strange look. "How do you know that?" he demanded.
"I saw them," said The Gunner, his mind racing. "The night we took Eugen to the hospital. I saw them walking along the street!" He looked sharply at Lester. "How close is this house to the hospital?"
Lester thought a moment. "Two, three blocks, I think. Easy walking distance anyway."
The Gunner stood and stared out of the large window fronting Bloor Street. "It has to be," he said quietly. "It adds up," he added, verbalizing his thoughts. He turned to Lester. "We know that Stennes was in town. We know, from what Troubridge told us, that a young boy accompanied him."
"Well yes," replied Lester, staring at The Gunner. "But what . . ."
The Gunner reached out and placed his hand on Lester's shoulder. "There are things going on, happening right now, that you don't know about. Perhaps it's time I filled you in." He squeezed Lester's shoulder gently. "I think my Chief of staff should know everything."
Lester gulped, and then whispered, "Chief of Staff?"
"Of course," said The Gunner. He waved toward the dining room table. "Look what you've done! Everything is listed, in perfect order. You know to the penny how much the new hospital has cost us. You know the addresses of all the paedophiles we have under surveillance, and the number of boys they harbour." He laughed quietly. "I bet you know half the names of the boys by now."
"Well some," admitted Lester. "But not all. They're a very close-mouthed bunch."
"What matters Lester, is that you know a lot, but not everything."
Sinking to a chair, Lester looked at The Gunner. "Steve, I . . ."
Once again The Gunner held up his hand, preventing any further discussion. "Lester, please don't give any more of that 'I'm just a little fairy faggot' shit! A week ago you were, now you're a man with a purpose. You've touched a hidden chord in yourself that you never knew existed."
"Ha!" returned Lester sharply. "You touched it when you squeezed my balls!" He looked warily at The Gunner. "You're, um, you're not going to . . .?"
"Nope," replied The Gunner. Then he joked, "But then again, look what happened with one little squeeze. Think what a good one might discover in you!"
Shrinking back slightly, Lester snickered, "It was a very large squeeze!"
"Kick started your engine, though," replied The Gunner with a grin. "Lester, have you ever heard of the Aryan Brotherhood?" he asked suddenly.
Thinking, Lester nodded slowly. "I seem to recall . . . something about a gang of punks hanging around Yonge and Dundas," he said presently. He scratched his chin, thinking further. "If memory serves, they all dressed in blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up, and white T-shirts, and shit-kicker boots and thought they were God's gift, if you know what I mean. They were really only street punks with tattoos of swastikas and some racist totem on their arms. They were more of a nuisance, yelling epithets at anyone of colour that walked by, and generally making pests of themselves. But they haven't been around for oh, a year, maybe a year and a half."
"What happened?"
"Well, the cops busted their leader and two of his buddies for drug trafficking. The rest sort of drifted away, and I know for a fact that two of them worked Boystown for a while." His brow furrowed as he scowled. "They were very rough trade and one of them ended up a floater off of the Alexandria Yacht Club. The other works the Barracks."
"That's a bath house?" asked The Gunner, as he remembered Ace mentioning the establishment.
"Yes."
"Can you find him?"
"He's not lost," said Lester with a snigger. "I told you, he works the Barracks - the top floor, which is just a huge loft filled with private cribs. He charges $10.00 a trick. Hardly a high class hooker." Then he looked inquisitively at The Gunner. "And why would I want to find him?"
The Gunner took a deep breath. "Lester, he might know about Stennes."
"Stennes?" exclaimed Lester. "I don't understand at all! What has he got to do with a no-account band of street toughs?"
"Perhaps nothing," conceded The Gunner. "But I need to know everything about Stennes and his organizations, or whatever."
"I thought he sold little boys," countered Lester.
"He does, but he's also involved in something else." He returned to his seat on the sofa. "Stennes is a pimp," he said simply, "and he sells boys to customers in North America. Depending on the age of the boy, the price is around 100,000 US dollars." The Gunner ignored Lester's whistle at the sum. "The trouble with large sums of money is that they cannot be easily moved out of the country."
"If Stennes' 'clients' paid cash, that could be a problem," observed Lester.
"Very much so," agreed The Gunner. "Stennes trusts in God only. All others pay cash. I also believe that he pays cash to his principals back in Europe - East Germans, Poles, and I suspect Russians. He needs cash to buy the boys, and he deals in cash only. To help with the cash flow he conspired, with three of his 'clients', Percy Simpson, a banker named Willoughby, and a stockbroker named Hunter. They set up a dummy corporation in Germany called 'Sporinfabrik' which manufactures nothing and pays no dividends. It does, however, issue a whole lot of stock."
"The stock issued just happens to coincide with the amount of money Stennes needs to move overseas." Lester did not ask a question.
"Yes. Unfortunately for Stennes his partners found themselves in financial difficulties - poor investments in Venezuelan oil, for one - and dipped into Order funds to cover their losses."
"Buying worthless stock in a bogus corporation," observed Lester.
"Yes. Michael Chan, as Grand Master, noted the discrepancies and ordered an investigation. Two very good men, Joe Hobbes and Gabe Izard found a connection between Stennes, and the ring of paedophiles."
"And the connection between Stennes and this 'Aryan Brotherhood'?" asked Lester, frankly intrigued.
"I'm getting there," The Gunner assured Lester. "At the beginning of this month we - the Aurora cadets and I - were in Esquimalt, practicing for a parade. A friend of mine was also there and he gave me a heads up on a cadet whose father was writing letters to Special Branch."
"Which is?"
"Naval Intelligence, actually a combined operations force. Anyway, at the Conclave where I was elected Chancellor, I met the head of Special Branch, Rick Maslen. He told me that they were investigating a subversive organization called the 'Aryan Brotherhood'. They were specifically interested in a Supply Sergeant, whose son just happened to be a cadet in Aurora."
"Hmmm," murmured Lester as he rubbed his chin reflectively. "Curiouser and curiouser."
"Special Branch was interested in this Sergeant because of his connection to the Aryan Brotherhood, which Special Branch suspects has been making inroads into the Canadian Armed Forces."
Somewhat forcefully, The Gunner raised his forefinger. "So now we try to connect some of the dots."
Lester's mind seemed to race as he thought about what he'd been told. "Stennes, the pimp, shows up in Toronto with a blond-haired boy, a boy you think is the same cadet who was at Aurora."
"Yes. His name is Paul Greene. He was sent to Aurora to recruit, or find evidence of sexual impropriety that his father could use against the Sea Cadets," replied The Gunner. "The other boys were listening when my friend in Esquimalt told me what was going on. They watched and frankly stole some of Greene's letters to his father. Then they took care of him." The Gunner did not feel it right to tell Lester all the details of Little Big Man's downfall.
"I can see the brat looking for something," agreed Lester. "The easiest way to discredit a man, or an organization, is to accuse him, or it, of doing the nasty with boys."
"Sadly true," replied The Gunner with a heavy sigh. "Now, the Vice squad is keeping tabs on a house they suspect is some kind of a male brothel and who shows up but three soldiers and a man with a blond-haired boy! I can understand Stennes going to Simpson's house - he had merchandise waiting to be picked up - but a brothel in Chinatown?"
"A title search," said Lester.
"A title search?"
Lester nodded. "If Stennes is using the place, and if it is a place of, shall we say business, someone has to own it. Stennes does not seem to me to be the type of man who is very trusting. He would, I think, want to keep everything in his own name, or at least in a way that he can realize its value if push comes to shove."
"Dangerous, but plausible."
"We can ask Ace's father to do a search. He's a lawyer and they do that all the time."
The Gunner nodded his silent approval. "Perhaps Terry Hsiang might add something?" he queried.
Lester made a face. "If I know Terry, he is already aware of the place. He has to tread carefully, though. The Circle K boys control everything east of Spadina. If they see any of Terry's people snooping around they're liable to cause unwanted trouble, and the last thing we need is a gang war."
"Well, talk to Terry anyway," asked The Gunner. "He can make his own decisions." He began to rise from his seat. "I need to call Ottawa. Rick Maslen will want to know about the three soldiers. If they're involved with the Aryan Brotherhood, he'll want to turn off the Toronto Vice Squad." He saw Lester's questioning look. "Special Branch have been investigating the Brotherhood for quite a long time. They think the rot is deep in the Army and they won't want anyone to queer their pitch - at least not yet."
Lester agreed silently and then looked at The Gunner. "Steve, did you have a chance to look at all that crap we found in Aubery's carryon case?"
"The papers?" The Gunner shook his head. "No. Why would you ask?"
"Well, I did. Aside from the lists of names of dirty old men diddling boys, I found something that doesn't add up." He stood and found what he needed amongst the papers on the dining room table, a small manila folder. "Here, look at this," he said as he handed The Gunner a yellowed piece of newsprint.
The Gunner read the small piece of paper. "An obituary notice?"
"Look at the name," said Lester.
The Gunner looked and his eyes widened in surprise. "Hunter?"
"He was 14 and 'died suddenly'," said Lester. "No cause of death, and you notice that the funeral was held from the funeral home. I have to ask myself how a 14-year-old boy dies suddenly, without warning. I also ask myself why a student at St. Michael's Choir School isn't buried from church."
The Gunner saw where Lester was heading and cautioned him. "It could mean something, it could mean nothing."
"It could also mean that the kid committed suicide," responded Lester. "I've seen it before, a bare bones announcement - no details as to cause of death - and the Catholic Church never allows suicides to be buried from the church, or in consecrated ground."
"Still . . ." hesitated The Gunner.
"Something's fishy, Steve," Lester pointed out. "Why would Aubery keep an old obit for a boy he couldn't possibly know, a boy who just happens to be the son of one of the money launderers, and worse, of Stennes? It doesn't add up."
"We know that Stennes is a violent man, and enjoys inflicting pain on his unwilling partners," mused The Gunner, thinking aloud. "Perhaps we should look into this a little further."
"I'll do it," said Lester. "The death certificate is a matter of public record. I know some people in the Archives office."
"Do I want to know how you know them?" asked The Gunner with a slight, knowing grin.
"No," replied Lester. "And since you're in such an agreeable mood it's time for the accounts."
Groaning, The Gunner asked, "Where do I sign?" Then he thought that at the rate the hospital was draining money the advance that he had received from Chaim Goldschmidt would soon be reduced to pennies. As he went into his room to find his chequebook, The Gunner wondered if he should take the emerald parure that he'd kept back from the sale to Chaim. Founding a hospital was much more expensive that he'd ever imagined, and they had just started!
Cosmo "The Bull" Manna, slowly slid the envelope across the polished teak table toward Michael Chan. "Don Giovanni hopes that this proves acceptable," he said, his voice unaccented. Michael regarded the young Italian a moment. Manna was a strong, well-built young man with jet-black hair and bright, constantly searching eyes. He was the son of Don Giovanni's consigliere, and reputed to be the rising star in the Family. Manna was also reputed to be ruthless and completely without a conscience. In a way, he was Don Giovanni's "Tsang".
There was no question that Michael would actually open the envelope to check the contents. Such things were simply not done. To do so would have suggested mistrust, doubt that the favour had not been given in full. As Manna expected, Michael smiled, and pushed the envelope to one side. "I am sure that everything is as is should be," Michael said quietly. He waved for a waiter. "Perhaps you will join me in a drink?"
Manna looked around. The Imperial City Restaurant was filled with lunchtime diners. When he had been told to meet with the Chinese "Serenity" he had almost automatically gone to the restaurant. He knew that Michael had a fine home in British Properties, just as he knew that Michael never conducted "business" there. Business was always conducted in the back booth of the restaurant.
As the waiter returned with the drinks, Manna waited quietly for Michael to continue the conversation. Delicate matters, such as they were now engaged in, were handled according to a very strict etiquette. Why Michael had needed a letter of resignation from a non-descript, barely known naval officer, Cosmo did not know. All he knew was that Michael Chan had asked for a "service", a favour, and it had been done, the letter, written on authentic DND notepaper, had been crafted by an artisan, the best man in the business. Cosmo, as a low-level, but highly trusted "soldier" in Don Giovanni's family, had been tasked with delivering the letter. He had been in the Family business since his formative years, and had learned that such "services" were never paid for, at least not in something as crass as money.
There would be no passing of envelopes stuffed with large denomination bank notes. Instead the "service", in Michael's case, would be acknowledged by a small gift and Cosmo knew that when he returned to his car there would be a small, anonymous box sitting on the seat. The box would contain a piece of jade, or gold, jewelled perhaps, but an acknowledgement that Michael Chan owed the Don a service. The service might be acted upon, but then again, it might not. It was enough that Michael owed the Don.
As he sipped his drink, Cosmo regarded Michael carefully. Cosmo had been charged with several other duties. "My father has asked to be remembered to you," Cosmo said presently.
Although Michael knew Cosmo's father, Don Pietro, they were hardly close friends. What Cosmo was actually saying was that the Don had become involved, or soon would be involved, in a project that would be mutually beneficial. Michael's face remained blank as he replied, "I trust that he is well?"
Nodding, Cosmo continued. "He is well. He is busy, as is to be expected. To relax he has developed an interest numismatics."
Hmmm, Michael thought. This sounds interesting. "Coins?" he asked.
Cosmo shook his head. "Bank notes," he said simply.
Michael's face barely registered his surprise. "Bank notes" meant counterfeiting, which was not as exact a science as many people thought. There were too many opportunities to make mistakes. Any fool could engrave a printing plate, but then again, any fool almost always made a slight error in the engraving. Then there was the paper. The Government used one paper mill to produce the paper bank notes were printed on, and the formula was a state secret. It had been Michael's experience that if the paper was crap, the bills would be discovered and the counterfeiters apprehended, which was why he never involved himself in such activities.
"An expensive interest," Michael said without inflection. This reply conveyed Michaels's thoughts: to do the job right cost a small fortune in start-up costs, and would be fraught with danger if anything went wrong. He added, to emphasize his point, "And I admit, not a hobby I would engage in." He smiled bleakly, "I prefer roses."
Cosmo, as were all of Michael's business associates, was well aware of Michael Chan's passion for roses. Cosmo was also aware that Michael had really said, "Thanks, but no thanks." Still, he had a message to convey.
"My father grows tomatoes," he said with a small smile. "Still, he enjoys his new hobby. He has read some books and discovered that collectors pay a higher price for replicated notes than for the real things."
Michael's curiosity was piqued. "Replicated" was a far cry from counterfeit. "Really," he answered, feigning disinterest.
"Oh, yes," Cosmo said calmly. In negotiations of this type one took great care to never show emotion, or interest, or to show one's thoughts. "Did you know that during the war the Germans replicated millions of Bank of England notes?"
Michael's curiosity heightened. "They did?"
"Yes. They called the program 'Operation Bernhard.' They used the finest engravers they could find - some from the concentration camps - and not only did they duplicate the paper exactly, they replicated the type and signatures. The notes were absolutely authentic, except that they were printed in Germany, and not London. They were so good that the English never discovered what was going on until hundreds of bank notes started popping up in a remote lake where the fleeing SS had thrown boxes of notes, and the printing plates."
"Exact replicas?" asked Michael.
"Down to the serial numbers," assured Cosmo. Then he shrugged expressively. "Such an operation must have cost a bundle in R & D costs. I understand they had trouble with the paper, and some of the engraving. It took them two years before they got everything right, to the extent that the notes were so good they were never questioned, not even when some of them were taken to a Swiss bank for authentication."
Michael thought carefully. He knew now what Don Pietro, and Don Giovanni were up to. The man who made the letter was a master artist. He could duplicate, in time, and for a fee, any official document, from a Royal Pardon to a passport. The Dons obviously felt that they could repeat the German effort. They had the connections to flood the continent with high quality notes - more than likely United States dollars, as the basic colour scheme was easily duplicated, unlike the Europeans who thought that the more colour the better. It could be done, of course. But, as Cosmo had pointed out, "replicating" bank notes was a tricky, and very expensive undertaking. So expensive that the Dons were offering Michael a piece of the action - for a piece of the start-up costs.
Michael was not worried about the money. He could bring in the Hong Kong Triads, who would put up the bulk of the money. They would expect a handsome return on their money, of course, and if the enterprise failed, Michael's head would be on the block - literally as well as figuratively. Still . . . He reasoned that the enterprise was still in the planning stages. He could not become involved but . . .
"My associate, Richard Meinertzhagen, is British, as you know. I am sure that he would be interested in your father's new hobby. He is an amateur historian and would no doubt be intrigued by the story of 'Operation Bernhard'. Perhaps your father would be kind enough to share with Richard his newfound passion."
Cosmo nodded his understanding. He knew that the Major was more than Michael's associate. He was Michael's right arm, and loyal friend. The Major spoke with Michael's authority. Michael's words told Cosmo that the Serenity was interested, but not committed. A meeting would be arranged and Don Pietro would lay out the plan. The Major would listen, and if he approved of what he read and heard, Michael Chan, and his connections with the Chinatowns of North America, would come on board.
"I am sure that my father will be pleased to meet with the Major," said Cosmo. The meet would be set up. He frowned slightly. "It will be a pleasant diversion from the pressures of business."
"Another problem," thought Michael. He said aloud, "There are always pressures I am afraid."
Cosmo nodded. "For many years my father dealt in textiles with men of honour in the Chinese community. Now others have come along, foreign entrepreneurs, men without honour, who offer the same goods at lower prices. They grow more aggressive in their business practices and forget that others came before them."
Michael nodded, hearing different words. The Italians had long held power in Vancouver, and controlled the drug trade. Michael did not involve himself in the business, but he could understand the Italians' problem. Their biggest moneymaker was being snatched before their eyes and they were powerless to do anything about. They were unwilling to start a war, but would do so if their business interests were threatened.
The message was clear, however. Don Giovanni was not at all pleased with the Vietnamese muscling in on his business. The use of the term "foreign entrepreneurs" told Michael that the Don knew that he was not involved in Minh's business. What would never be said, was that the Don was tired of Minh, and his cronies, and wanted something done about it, and expected Michael to take care of the "something". A service had been given, a service was expected in return, and sweetened with an offer to participate in an enterprise that gave great promise.
Michael made his decision.
"Your father is wise to worry about these foreigners," he said flatly. "I too am worried that they interest themselves in things they should not." He feigned a chuckle. "Not that I am interested in 'textiles'. Still, these foreigners are troublesome." He raised his glass in a small salute. "You know Cousin Tommy Chan?"
Cosmo shook his head. "I know of him," he replied carefully.
"Cousin Tommy is going fishing later in the day," said Michael. "Deep sea fishing. You might care to join him."
Cosmo's hand slowly closed around his glass of whiskey. He smiled slowly at Michael, not having to say what he thought: that Cousin Tommy's sudden interest in deep sea fishing meant that someone, or the remnants of someone would soon be sleeping with the fishes.