Aurora Crusade

Aurora Crusade is a work of fiction. Any character resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

Copyright 2006 by John Ellison

Notice: I have changed my ISP and am fast losing patience trying set up a new e-mail account with the fools. Please comment using my account at: paradegi@hotmail.com.

Yours aye

John

Aurora Crusade

Chapter 5

The public lavatories, which were in the basement of the Blessing house, were a clone of every public bathroom in any public building in the country. Along one wall was a long line of cubicles containing the toilets. Opposite were the white ceramic urinals and, beside them, a short line of sinks. The room was designed to be functional, and easy to clean. It smelled faintly of stale urine and whatever stern soap the cleaning staff used to wipe down the tiles of the place.

The floors were ceramic tiles in which were set at regular intervals small drain holes. Extending up from the floor to a foot above the white urinals and sinks was a tile splashguard. The tiles were uniformly institutional green. Above the tiles on the walls the paint was a pale cream, beloved of architects for public spaces. The room was designed to allow a large number of men and boys to defecate or urinate quickly, and discouraged loitering.

Peter Race, Jeremie Cher, Randy, Joey and Calvin Hobbes, who had followed his friends from the church and seen them walking toward the Blessing House, entered and saw the room was empty, save for a little boy who was standing in front of a urinal almost exactly in the middle of the row. From the look on his face the boy was obviously enjoying a most satisfactory pee.

Achille was dressed in what was considered de rigueur for little boys attending a funeral. His mother had laid out his clothes, new, and freshly come from the small village store: a black jacket, with matching short trousers, a stiff, white shirt, a black bow tie that clipped to the collar of his starched shirt, white socks, and new black shoes. Achille had whined loudly about having to wear the new clothes but had shut up when his father informed him that Le General had decreed strict formality for the funeral. He had also supplied mourning clothes for half the village. Le General would brook no argument and every villager would attend his nephew's funeral!

The morning that Le General's nephew, Sylvain, had left the chateau without telling anyone of his departure, Achille had spent mostly in a small bedroom, whimpering and glowering. His bum still hurt from the old batard's most recent assault, which to Achille seemed to be more brutal. Was it his fault that Sylvain had disappeared? Le General had sent for his nephew, so that he could meet the man Achille called "The Snake". Claire-Louise, the maid, who was fat, and gossiped, had returned to say that Sylvain was not in his room - but had been, and not alone she would later spitefully relate to Achille's Maman.

At first Achille could not understand why Le General raged at the servants, demanding answers to questions that had no answer. Nobody knew why Sylvain had left, not even the blond-haired Anglais boy who had spent the night with him.

In a way Achille had admired the Anglais boy, whose name was "Paul", who had stood up to Le General's raging questions with a nasty, sly look on his face. As Achille listened - he had opened the bedroom door a crack when he heard all the yelling - the Anglais boy had coldly informed Le General that all he and Sylvain had done was fuck. At least Achille thought that was what the Anglais had said, for he had no English. The words, however, were more or less the same in either language and Achille got the gist of the words. Not that it mattered to Achille, although he did enjoy seeing the old batard getting his own back for a change.

As Achille had peeked from the door he saw Le General and The Snake hold a whispered conversation. Then the two men parted and The Snake, with the Anglais boy, left the chateau.

A silence seemed to settle over the house. Le General brooded in his office and Achille sulked in his bedroom, wondering when Le General would take him into town to purchase the bicycle he had promised. Achille new exactly what he wanted, a red and silver beauty that he had seen in the window of M. Toqcueville's shop. He also spent some time watching cartoons on the television, but the reception was fuzzy so he sat on the window seat that overlooked the driveway.

So, he thought, Sylvain had been more than just a "nephew", and Achille wondered if Sylvain had been pleasuring Le General as well as visiting Anglais boys. Achille's brows furrowed. He knew positively that Sylvain had been in residence on more than one occasion when there were other boys there, including Achille's brothers, Hippolyte and Placide. Achille glowered at the thought! His brothers had received their reward for staying at the chateau, and when both had turned 16 they had received fine new motorcars! All Achille wanted was a new bicycle, and the old batard had not mentioned it!

Achille's anger was further increased when suddenly Le General appeared, locked the door, and ordered the boy to lie on the bed and spread his legs. Achille, who had not bothered to put on any clothes after his breakfast session, quickly complied. Much to Achille's surprise Le General had taken his little souris into his mouth and, grunting and snuffling, sucked the child to rapid orgasm. After Achille had ceased squirming like an eel, Le General had flipped him over onto his stomach and unzipped the fly of his trousers. The pain was intense as Le General entered him, and the zipper scraped against Achille's plump bottom as the man thrust into him, groaning loudly. Whimpering, Achille felt the last, final thrust and then the weight on his body was gone.

As he stood beside the bed Le General had shoved his penis back into his trousers - without cleaning himself, the pig - and told Achille to dress. His father would be coming to take him home and Achille was to be ready!

Dressed, Achille waited in the front hall. Madame La General, sour faced and obese, waddled by and ignored the little boy sitting on the tapestry bench by the door. Madame had endured years of humiliation at the hands of her husband. Her inability to have children had been the first wedge driven into her marriage to Le General. Then had come the "aides de camp", handsome young men who spent an inordinate amount of time with her husband behind locked bedroom doors. Madame knew what went on behind the locked doors and was, at first, shocked and appalled. Then she found comfort in a bottle of Absinthe, and ignored the change in her husband's taste in companions when the young men became young boys, just as she now ignored Achille's presence in her house.

Eventually Achille's father put in an appearance. Le General left the safety of his office to confer briefly with his Intendant. Achille noticed a large wad of bank notes being passed to his father, and started to whine loudly. His father had not had Le General's souris up his bum! His father had not sucked on the head of Le General's baton or been forced to suckle on his puce! Why, Achille demanded in the whining, wailing tone of small boys, was his father receiving money? Where was his new bicycle? He had been promised a new bicycle for his first emission!

The only answer Achille had received was a sharp slap across the face and a guttural order to be quiet from his father. As he was dragged to his father's car, shrieking his outrage, Achille turned his head to glare with hate filled eyes at the old man who had taken from him something he did not quite yet understand. Achille vowed then that he would have his revenge. He hated Le General for what he had done, and for not keeping his promises!

At first Achille paid no attention to the small group of uniformed boys who had entered the lavatory. He was much more interested in relieving the pressure of his bladder. He was standing with the front of his short trousers unclipped and pulled wide. With one hand he was holding up the bottom of his shirt, and with the other holding down the waistband of his white briefs - not new, and the only style of underpants his mother bought for him. His little souris was half hard from the need to pee, and a long, pale yellow stream of urine issued from the wrinkled tassel of skin that covered the head of his penis.

At first neither Peter nor Jeremie paid the olive-skinned, skinny little boy any attention. They stood in front of their selected urinal, unzipped, pulled out, and let fly. Both looked down to make sure that they were aimed properly, and then stared at the tiles in front of them. Randy, Joey and Calvin ranged themselves on the other side of the little boy and repeated the movements of their seniors. They all knew that it was not done to peek, although they all did it, especially when there was a particularly interesting specimen on display.

Achille, who was only 11, and curious, was not constrained by proper bathroom etiquette. Other than the souris of his brothers, he had seen very few others. He looked first to his left, and saw three pink, hoodless souris. To his right, where Peter and Jeremie stood, he saw two very nice hooded souris, one average, and one . . . huge. At first he gasped, then he giggled and began chattering away in French.

Peter, who did not appreciate little boys scoping out his upper deck fittings, scowled. He did not understand a word of what the boy was saying so he asked Jeremie what the little brat was on about.

Jeremie, who was finished, shook his massive organ free of any errant drops of urine, released his thick foreskin - he always pulled it back to pee, thinking it much more hygienic - and tucked himself away. A smile played at the corner of his lips. "He's fascinated by your dick," he said, exaggerating. "The kid thinks it's the prettiest little dick he's ever seen!" Then he added with a grin, "He thinks I've got a whopper! Biggest he's ever seen!"

"Bullshit!" snarled Peter, who had not pulled back his wafer thin foreskin - he couldn't for it barely cleared the head as it was - and tucked his member into his Fruit of the Looms. "You should tell him that little boys don't go around checking out guys' dicks in a public loo!"

Still chattering, Achille offered his diminutive penis for inspection. As he did so he pulled back his foreskin, baring the light purple acorn. He looked down the row of urinals at Randy, Joey and Calvin.

"What the fuck is he saying?" demanded Peter as he moved aside and walked to one of the sinks.

Jeremie translated. "Well, he wants to know why you didn't pull your skin back when you peed. He also wants to know if Randy and Calvin are brothers because their dicks look alike and they have red hair around their cocks. He also wants to know how come Joey's dick looks like Randy and Calvin's but he has black hair. "

Both Randy and Calvin look down and agreed silently that they did look alike, although their crops of red pubic hair were nothing to become excited about. Joey, who had much more hair than either of his friends, albeit as black as night, turned his head slightly and watched as Achille slowly release his foreskin, look at Randy, Calvin and himself, and then pull the skin back.

"That kid sure is dumb," opined Joey. "Ain't he never seen a clipped dick?"

"Guess not," responded Jeremie as he joined Peter at the sinks. "From his accent I'd guess he's from one of the little villages around here." Jeremie Cher shrugged expressively. "I'm Ontario French and I can't understand half of what the little bugger is saying."

"He sure says a lot!" observed Randy as he went to wash his hands. Achille had never, in fact, seen a circumcised penis before. Not that he had seen all that many penises in the first place. There were his brothers, but they looked just like he did, and . . . he frowned spitefully . . . he had seen Le General's, but nothing quite like the three unhooded ones the three young cadets exhibited. Achille looked admiringly at Jeremie Cher and then hungrily at Peter Race. He liked the slim, dark-haired, fair-skinned boy very much, who was very different from his brothers, and the now hated general. As he tucked himself away and straightened his short trousers, Achille chattered away in the rapid-fire patois of his region.

Peter, who had finished washing, was drying his hands on some paper towels, not paying any attention to the annoying little boy. He glanced at Jeremie, who had a martyred look on his face from listening to the boy. At first Jeremie smiled in the impatient manner of older boys being pestered by little boys. Then, much to Peter's surprise, his friend's jaw dropped, and he paled visibly.

"What?" Peter asked as he saw Jeremie reach out and grasp the boy's arm. Jeremie paid Peter no attention. He looked deep into Achilles eyes and asked slowly, so that the boy could understand, just exactly what he meant. From the corner of his eye Jeremie saw Peter about to interrupt again and held up his hand, silently ordering Peter to keep quiet. Achille continued to chatter his answer and Jeremie's face grew hard.

The others understood almost nothing. They heard mention of "Sylvain", and "Paul", and "Le General", and "Le Serpent", but beyond that they were ignorant of what the boy was saying.

Randy, Joey, Calvin and Peter watched as Jeremie slowly shook his head and then return to the sink, where he doused his face in cold water. Still shaking his head, Jeremie turned to face his fellow knights. "Jesus," he breathed. He ran his hand across his face and then turned to looked at the other cadets. "Jesus," he repeated, "I . . ."

Peter reached out to touch his friend's arm. "What did the kid say?" he asked softly.

Randy, Joey and Calvin, mystified, move closer to Peter and Jeremie. None of them had been paying attention to what Achille had been chattering on about and their curiosity now was piqued.

Jeremie took a deep breath. "If what this kid says is true, then I think I know why Sylvain called us here! I think I know why The Phantom was called here!" Without waiting for a reply from the others, Jeremie smiled and reached out his hand to the little boy.

Peter, who was as mystified as the other three knights, listened to Jeremie's low, almost jocular tone as he spoke to the little boy. He heard his name mentioned, at least he assumed that "Pierre" was a reference to himself, and he also heard something about a general. This confused Peter, as they knew no general. He continued to listen and then saw the boy dart a glance in his direction and bob his head. More confused than ever, Peter waited for Jeremie to explain what in hell was going on.

Jeremie finished speaking, nodded firmly to Achille and then straightened. He regarded Peter a moment. "We need to find Phantom. We need to find Phantom now!" He took Achille by the hand and began to lead him out of the public washroom.

As they left the building, Jeremie told Peter, "It's hard to believe, but this kid is on to something."

"Well, what is it then?" demanded Peter impatiently as the hurried toward the grove of trees at the far end of the basilica enclosure. "And what did he say about me? And what did you mean when you said you thought you knew why we were called here?"

His eyes scanning the groups of people sitting on the benches under the trees, searching for The Phantom, Jeremie replied in a diffident, off-hand manner. "Well, if you must know, the kid is queer for your dick!"

Peter blanched. "He's what?"

"He thinks your dick is the cutest little thing he's ever seen!" replied Jeremie with a slight, tight grin. Then he frowned. "At first he said that when he grew up he wanted to have a dick as big as mine."

"I wonder why?" huffed Peter. "You're big!"

Jeremie ignored Peter's huffiness. "The kid might want a dick as big as mine but he wants one that looks just like yours."

"You're kidding!" scoffed Randy, who had seen Peter's dick. "Why the thing is hardly as big as . . ."

Jeremie stopped abruptly. "Am I telling this, or are you?" he asked in an impatient growl. "And the size of Peter's dick is not important!" He began walking again.

"Well, excuse me!" replied Randy.

"There is no excuse for you!" retorted Peter sharply. He was not Harry and was under no illusions with regard to the size and/or "prettiness" of his penis. He also had no desire to discuss his penis in public! Certain things, after all, should remain firmly behind closed zippers! He quickly changed the subject and addressed Jeremie again, "What the hell are you on about? " he demanded. "Just what did that kid say to you, Jeremie?" For some reason Peter suspected something much more sinister in the boy's agreement to talk to The Phantom, and he sensed something more than a simple agreement.

"Your dick is what fascinates him!" said Jeremie. "So much so that he's agreed to tell The Phantom what he told me." Jeremie had the courtesy to blush. "Well, um, I sorta told him that he could, um, sorta touch your dick . . .?" Jeremie, embarrassed, allowed his voice to trail off.

Peter stopped dead in his tracks. "What?" he yelped. "What do you mean 'sorta' touch my dick?' What's so great about my dick? And why does he want to touch it? And you ain't got the right to . . ."

Before Jeremie could reply Randy, Joey and Calvin, who had been listening intently, giggled. Peter glared them into silence. "It's my dick!" he snarled at Jeremie. "Nobody touches it without my say so! Eion Reilly is one thing but I'm not going to . . ."

The others stared at Peter a moment and then set to laughing. Peter realized that he had just let a very large cat out of the bag and blushed furiously. His eyes shot daggers at Randy and Joey as he said, "Don't look at me that way! You two have been popping corn with each other, and with Phil Thornton for weeks!" He turned on Calvin. "And you've been hopping into Simon Keppel's briefs every chance you got!" Next he rounded on Jeremie. "And as for you, you told me yourself that you'd let The Phantom take Little Jeremie for a walk in the moonlight if he asked you! So, don't any of you get all holier than thou on me!" He straightened in self-righteous anger. "None of you have anything to say to me. Besides, what Eion and I do is our business!"

As they resumed walking Jeremie said placatingly, "You're right, Peter, it's none of our business."

"At least you won't have pimples," offered Joey. "Harry says that a good sex life at our age is great for not getting acne and . . ."

"Joey!" growled Peter menacingly. He again turned to Jeremie. "You'd better explain."

Nodding, Jeremie replied, "The kid wants to suck your dick." He saw Peter bristle and hurried on. "He told me that your dick is a very pretty dick, much prettier than the general's, which is smaller, and ugly." Jeremie's faced grew dark. "He only wants to play a little, but you can't stick it up his bum, like the general did."

Feeling ill, Peter looked at the little boy. "The general?" he whispered. "The general, he did that to him?"

"Yes," replied Jeremie sadly. "Apparently Achille - that's the boy's name - is not the only one that the general has molested. He mentioned his brothers. Also apparently, the general is great on rewarding good little boys who suck him off and let him fuck them. His brothers got new cars. Achille was promised a new bicycle but that hasn't materialised and he's right pissed at that."

Peter thought a moment. "Sylvain . . . he had a new car, a red Corvette. Does that mean that he . . .?"

Jeremie could not answer Peter's question. Achille could so Jeremie turned and asked him bluntly what Sylvain had been doing in the general's house. Achille giggled, shrugged and replied quickly. Jeremie translated Achille's words. "He says that so far as he knows Sylvain didn't sleep with the general. Maybe before, but not now because he was too old. The general seems to prefer little boys."

"Bastard," muttered Peter.

"Oui, un batard!" agreed Achille.

"The kid had only been in the general's house for a couple of days and he spent most of his time with the general, sucking the old bastard's dick, and getting it up the butt. All he knows is that Sylvain showed up and then some guy, who Achille calls 'The Snake' came calling. He had a young guy with him, a guy name Paul. This Paul was blond, very skinny, and very horny because he and Sylvain spent the night together."

"There's more to his story than meets the eye!" exclaimed Peter. "Sylvain was here for a reason and this kid knows."

"Yeah, he does," he agreed Jeremie. He gestured toward the trees. "Look, there's The Phantom. Let's let him know what's going on and maybe the kid will tell us more!"

"He will if Peter lets him do what Eion did!" muttered Calvin.

"Calvin, shut up!" said Peter and Jeremie together.

The Phantom ran his hand across his face. "I'm going to tell you something, and then you'll understand," he said excitedly. "Sylvain served with us in Aurora. He green sheeted, left early and came here, to Ste. Anne de Beaupre. He must have found out something about his uncle, something so bad that he jumped in his car and headed for the airport. That's when he had his accident and . . ."

Before The Phantom could continue he heard his name being called. He looked across the plaza and saw Jeremie Cher and Peter Race hurrying toward him. Between them, holding their hands was a young boy dressed in a black suit with short trousers. The boy was chattering away in French. Behind them Calvin, Randy and Joey, white-faced, followed.

The Phantom rose, waiting, and heard Peter Race's high-pitched voice. "Phantom! Phantom you won't believe what this kid just told us!"

Taken aback at the obvious excitement of Peter and the others, The Phantom held up his hand. "Hold on, hold on," he said softly. "What's all the commotion about?"

Jeremie Cher, miffed at Peter's usurping his place, spoke quickly. "Phantom, this kid knows why Sylvain was here. He also has a story . . ." he glanced uneasily at Brendan. " . . . um, there's also something going on that the law might want to know about."

Brendan's eyes narrowed. Then his training took over. "Perhaps you'd enlighten me."

Jeremie glanced nervously at The Phantom. "Um, it could get ugly," he offered.

The Phantom looked at Peter, then at Jeremie, and then at the four young boys hanging back. It was obvious that what they heard had had an impact on them. "Okay," he said slowly. He regarded the young boy. "And who is this?" he asked.

"This is Achille," replied Jeremie, "Achille Samson. His father is the Intendant to General de Lamer. He is also, or at least he was, the general's bum boy," Jeremie reported flatly.

The Phantom and his brother stared at each other. "Did I hear right?" asked Brendan, frankly shocked. "The general's . . . 'bum boy'?"

Jeremie nodded gravely. "So he said. He also said he's not the first."

The Phantom paled slightly. "The general . . . Sylvain's uncle . . . he likes little boys?"

Again Jeremie nodded. "So the kid says."

"Sylvain?" asked The Phantom softly. He impulsively squeezed Brendan's hand. "Was Sylvain . . .?"

Knowing what The Phantom wanted to know, Jeremie quickly reassured his friend. "No, not so the kid knows. Sylvain was at the general's house to . . . Achille doesn't know, really. All he knows is that Sylvain was there, and slept with some young guy who . . . hell, Phantom, it's a long story."

Brendan interjected. "If it's a long story then let's let the boy tell us himself," he suggested. He glanced over to where Chef and Staff Sergeant Farquarson were sitting. He rose slowly, drawing his brother with him. "If the general has been having at this lad, or other lads, it's a criminal offence, and I think we'd best let the Staff Sergeant in on what is going on." He looked at the inquisitive looks being offered and said, "This sounds like it's bigger than any of us realize. We can't keep the Staff . . ." He looked at The Phantom firmly, " . . . or your Chef, out of the loop."

Chef was regarding the now empty flask morosely when the small group of knights, Brendan, and a strange little boy approached. He looked at the Staff Sergeant, who saw the troubled look on his subordinate's face and started to rise. Trouble, Chef was thinking when the young men and boy formed a small semi-circle in front of him. Trouble with a capital "T"!

"Ah, Phantom darlin'," began Chef. "And have you been solving your issues with this fine, strapping brother of yours?"

The Phantom, who did not want to get Chef started on leprechauns and besoms, Knights of Kerry or anything else, quickly spoke up. "Chef, this is Achille. He is the son of the general's Intendant, and I think you and the Staff Sergeant should hear what he has to say."

Chef noted the strange, firm tone in The Phantom's voice. "All right," he nodded. He leaned forward ponderously and offered his hand to the little boy. "Bonjour, petit l'un. Mon nom est le Chef. Ne pas avez peur. Je veux vous parler seulement."

Achille, who was not at all afraid, and frankly impressed with not one, but two red-coated Gardes Royale, and with the shiny medals on the white-uniformed fat old man's chest, shook Chef's hand formally. "Je m'appelle Achille."

"This must be done delicately," advised Chef as he looked at the Staff Sergeant.

"And carefully," agreed Farquarson.

Chef patted the bench beside him, inviting Achille to sit. The boy scurried to sit beside the old man and smiled winningly at Brendan. He said something and Jeremie translated, "He likes your hat," he said, addressing Brendan. "He wants to know if he can wear it."

"Of course he can," said Chef quickly. As he held out his hand for the hat he said to Brendan, "The lad is making some very serious accusations against a very important person." Chef frowned. "I've no love or respect for de Lamer, but he's entitled to due process and all that rot. If the lad has something to say we must listen, and make it as easy as we can in the process."

"He's not lying," interjected Peter. "He's telling the truth."

"Faith and it's a trained investigator you are then?" grumbled Chef.

"No, he isn't," said Jeremie forcefully. "Neither am I, but we're a lot closer in age to him, and we all have little brothers. We can tell when they're lying, and this kid is not lying." He turned to Randy, Joey and Calvin. "What do you guys think?"

All three younger boys nodded their heads and Joey spoke for them all. "He doesn't know us from Adam, and he has no reason to lie to us. We think he's telling the truth."

The Phantom, who had remained silent during the exchange between Chef and the young knights, suddenly knelt in front of Achille and helped him adjust Brendan's hat, which was much too big for the boy's head. "He's a little boy who's been hurt," he said. His voice was low, and very kind. "Jeremie Cher, ask him if it's all right if we ask him about Sylvain."

After Jeremie translated The Phantom's request Achille, who had never had so much attention paid to him before in his life, nodded. He looked into the cool, emerald eyes of the boy kneeling in front of him, saw the look of concern and caring, and spoke.

"Sylvain was the general's nephew," Jeremie translated. "He came to the chateau only rarely, only when there were other guests in the house . . . like the last time."

"What kind of guests?" Chef enquired in French, looking carefully at the boy.

Again Achille spoke and again Jeremie translated. "Men mostly, but Achille doesn't know who they were. He says that the villagers heard rumours that they were politicians and army types, but . . ." Here Achille shrugged. "He can't say. He only knows that when he was at the chateau there was a man there, a man he calls 'un Allemand sale' - a dirty German." There was a rush of words from Achille. "He says the man was a snake, 'un serpent', and he had a boy with him. The general called the man 'Stennes' when they had breakfast the morning Sylvain left."

Chef glanced uneasily at The Phantom. Chef had heard that name before. Before he could say anything, however, The Phantom asked, "Was Sylvain with this . . . Le Serpent?"

Achille fiddled with the Mounty hat that was too big for his head and replied with a dark look that no, Sylvain had not been with the Snake. He had been with the boy that had come to the chateau with the German, though.

"What boy?" The Phantom asked.

"A young boy, a boy named Paul," began Jeremie. "He was young, very skinny, not too tall, and had very blond hair."

Chef and The Phantom remained silent as Jeremie continued translating Achille's words. "Achille did not see them together, but Marie-Louise, who is the maid at the chateau, and who also is fat, and ugly, and gossips with Achille's mother said that they were together in Sylvain's room. Marie-Louise said that the bed sheets were in a horrible state, all stained and yucky - his words, not mine - and that she knew what they were doing. She couldn't say anything more because his father yelled at them for gossiping and sent Marie-Louise home."

Staff Sergeant Farquarson spoke for the first time. He looked at Chef as he said, "Secrets known and best left unspoken?" he asked.

Chef nodded his agreement. "There is an old saying that if you truly want to know a man speak to his butler, or in this case, his estate manager. The man had to know what was going on, I'm thinking."

"I agree." Farquarson looked thoughtful. "There is something rotten going on at the general's chateau and I intend to find out exactly what is."

"Please, Sylvain?" prodded The Phantom, trying to keep the impatience he felt out of his voice.

Jeremie's voice was again clear, and very calm, although his complexion grew paler and paler as he translated what Achille was saying.

"Achille does not know what Sylvain was doing at the chateau. He never came unless the general wanted him to come, and always when there were important men around. It was gossiped around the village that some of the boys - his brothers, Hippolyte and Placide - were two of them. Also, sometimes young girls were called to the chateau. The old women said that they were there to 'play' with the guests . . ."

Much to everyone's surprise Jeremie fell to his knees beside The Phantom. "It's . . . horrible!" Jeremie exclaimed as he buried his face in his hands.

The Phantom reached out his arm and held his friend close. "It's all right, Jeremie Cher."

With tear-stained eyes Jeremie regard The Phantom. "No, it isn't!" he snapped fiercely. "You . . . you won't believe what Achille said!"

Chef reached down to touch Jeremie's face softly. "Yes, we know it is horrible, and I am sorry that it is you that must relay the words. They are this lad's words, not yours. You must be calm, dearest son, and tell us what the boy has said."

Knowing that Chef was right, Jeremie nodded and took a deep breath. "Achille thinks that the boys and girls were at the chateau to have sex with the general and his friends. He knows that his brothers did because he heard them whispering about it. Also, the general always sent them back home with gifts, and when his brothers turned 16 he bought them new cars. When he left the chateau the morning Sylvain went away the general gave his father a large sum of money. Achille is very angry about that because the general had promised him a new bicycle for . . ." Jeremie swallowed hard and continued with difficulty. "Achille was brought to the chateau to please the general. Pleasing the general meant being naked all the time and letting the old fuck play with his dick."

Achille, who could not understand English, but did understand that the French cadet was speaking for him, exclaimed, "Oui, et plus!" There followed a torrent of words that left the boy red-faced with anger.

"He says that the general would suck on him," whispered Jeremie, appalled at what he was translating. "He says that the general also . . . dear God! The old bastard butt fucked the kid! Achille says it hurt very much and that the first time he was bleeding when the fucker got off of him! Oh, Jesus, Phantom, oh Jesus!"

The Phantom hugged Jeremie closely. "Please, Jeremie Cher, please, please try to stay calm. We must find out about Sylvain. Please?"

Nodding, Jeremie spoke briefly to Achille, who once again related his tale.

"The general likes little boys. Achille knows that he did the same thing to Achille's brothers. He doesn't think that the general did anything with Sylvain because he was much too old when he first started coming to the chateau." Here Jeremie paused and stared at The Phantom pointedly. "The general likes them young, like Achille, and his brothers and he thinks some of the other village boys before him. He thinks that Sylvain was rewarded, as they all were, for being with the general's guests. Achille never saw Sylvain at all. He was with the general's other guest, Paul. He is evil, that one. He has cold grey eyes and he looks as if he would do bad things to people."

"Does this Paul have a last name?" queried the Staff Sergeant.

"Achille says he must, since we all do, but he never heard it mentioned."

"I know who it was," muttered The Phantom. His green eyes sparkled with anger as he looked at Chef. "And I think you do as well!"

"Aye, lad," nodded Chef. "I think so as well, but let us not rush to judgement." He regarded Achille. "Does the lad know of any reason why Sylvain would suddenly leave the chateau?"

After listening to Jeremie translate Chef's question, Achille thought and thought and then answered.

Jeremie flushed deep red and then spoke, his voice filled with resignation and disgust.

"The morning that Sylvain went away Achille was having breakfast with the general, and the Snake. The boy was not paying too much attention to what the men were saying because he was sitting in the general's lap, naked. He was also very hungry and eating. While he was eating the men were talking and the general was playing with his dick." Jeremie's voice went flat, emotionless, as if he were a robot conveying information. "Achille says that he, um, well the only words I can use are that he 'came' twice. He didn't squirt but it felt very good. Anyway, between eating and not squirting he was eating breakfast and he heard the two men talking. From what he could understand the general and the Snake had a business going. They were talking about finding new boys for their customers. The Snake told the general that he, Achille, would fetch a good price because he was so young, and very pretty."

"God in heaven!" gasped Farquarson.

"I am going to be sick!" exploded Peter. "How could . . ."

Chef held up his hand. "Be calm, and be quiet." He regarded the inquisitive knights and spoke firmly. "There are things that were once concealed from you. Soon all will be revealed." He returned to look at Jeremie. "There is more, I'm thinking."

Jeremie nodded and continued. "The general told the Snake that he could not have Achille because he was 'pur laine', you know, a true French-Canadian boy. Then the general said something about not finding boys at home and the Snake said that he had some new boys, other boys anyway, Russians, or something like that."

Jeremie paused, feeling The Phantom's strong arm holding him, absorbing Achille's words. Then he spoke again. "The general complained about money, saying that somebody had stopped paying him, or something like that, Achille was sure because when the general was complaining he was also playing with Achille's dick - again - and this time Achille squirted!" This time Jeremie could not continue for a long time. When he finally regained his composure, he said. "The general was very pleased with Achille. He promised a new bicycle as this was the very first time Achille had 'squirted'. Achille is still very angry that he didn't get his bicycle. All he got was a slap from his father and a new suit!"

The Phantom could not help smiling sadly. Little boys put great store in promises made by their elders. A promise broken could never be forgiven.

"Achille was very happy, more about the bicycle than his first 'squirting', I think," observed Jeremie. "Anyway, the Snake told the general not to worry because he knew where to find some new boys, and that he also had other men wanting boys, Arabs, or so Achille thinks. The Snake then said something about Jews, which Achille didn't understand because the general was playing with him and his souris was very tender."

Chef slumped on the bench, his face sad, his eyes filled with rage. He now knew what the general was up to. He regarded Staff Sergeant Farquarson and asked, "You will do what you have to do, then?"

Nodding, Farquarson replied, "An accusation has been made and the law mandates that an investigation be held. I have no choice."

At that moment the church bells began tolling and the bearer party appeared at the main door of the Basilica. Sylvain's funeral was over and the mourners were leaving.

Farquarson watched as the coffin was carried down the steps of the basilica and loaded into the hearse. He saw the mourners, and he saw the general. "He has powerful friends, and to be honest I fear their power."

"You need not," replied Chef ominously. "You have powerful friends, although you do not know it. A boy has made statements that must either be refuted, or confirmed. You cannot ignore what has been said." He waved his arms towards those gathered around him. "The boy has said things in front of these witnesses, and myself, and one of your own!" He looked at Brendan and saw a familiar look in the young man's eyes. God knew he had seen the same look in The Phantom's eyes many times, a look of determination to do right!

"I shall make a statement," continued Chef. "I will write down what I have heard, and if necessary young Jeremie Cher shall write down that he translated the words the lad spoke." Chef looked sternly at the Staff Sergeant. "You have no choice, my friend."

Staff Sergeant Farquarson sighed. "I know." He regarded the crowd of mourners exiting the basilica and saw a familiar, red-coated figure. "The Deputy Commissioner is here. I will speak to him, and then we will begin." He rose slowly. "The boy will have to be questioned formally, in the presence of a parent. Official statements will have to be taken down, and the general will have to be informed of them."

"That is understood," said Chef, his voice calmer than he felt. He stood and looked into the distance, not seeing the parking lot, not hearing the tolling bells. "You should begin, I think."

"Wait," The Phantom said suddenly. He looked pleadingly at Jeremie Cher, and then at Achille. "Is it possible that Sylvain knew about the general, and the boys? Could he have overheard when the general and the snake were talking?" Achille, who had no reason to lie, shrugged when Jeremie translated The Phantom's question. He looked directly at The Phantom and told what he knew.

"He says that maybe Sylvain heard. They were in the salle a manger, the dining room, and the doors were open." Jeremie paused and then continued. "He knows that the boy, Paul, was up and dressed because Achille saw him and he thinks Sylvain was too because the maid, Marie-Louise said she always does the beds when the general and his guests are at breakfast. She told his mother about the state of the bed in Sylvain's room, but she never said that she saw him, or the other boy."

Chef reached down to help The Phantom rise to his feet. "I think you have your answer, Phantom."

Sighing, The Phantom nodded. "It fits. Sylvain overhead the general and the snake and was coming to tell me, tell us, what he heard. I believe that with my heart and soul, Chef."

"As do I, lad, as do I," replied Chef. He held out his hand to Achille as he addressed Staff Sergeant Farquarson. "You'll want to keep the boy for a time while you find his father?"

"Yes." The Staff Sergeant turned to Brendan, who was having trouble retrieving his hat. "Lascelles, take the boy to the Detachment Office. Call Quebec City and have them send out an official interpreter." He looked toward the crowd in front of the church and his eyes once again found the Deputy Commissioner. "Tell Quebec City that the matter is sensitive."

"What about my boys?" Chef inquired.

Farquarson thought a moment. "I'm not sure just how valid their statements will be or if their statements will hold up in a court of law . . ." he began doubtfully.

"Hearsay evidence?" asked Chef.

Nodding, the Staff Sergeant replied, "A good lawyer will call it so. They heard the boy talking, but they don't understand French, or at least the boy's version of the language. They heard this young man's . . ." Here the Staff Sergeant gestured toward Jeremie. " . . . translation of what the boy said, but again, they cannot vouch that it was a true translation."

Chef immediately bristled. "I will have you know, Staff Sergeant, that Petty Officer Laroche is as fine a young man you will ever meet!" he growled ponderously, his tone telegraphing a wealth of meaning. "He is as truthful, and honest as the day is long! He has no reason to fudge, or prevaricate, or dissemble!"

Farquarson had no doubt that Jeremie's translation was exact, and said so. "It is not I who would doubt," he averred. "It will be some poxy lawyer!" Before Chef could explode the Staff Sergeant held up his hand. "However, yes, I want statements from your lads." He turned to Brendan again. "Take them all to the Detachment Office. Start an incident report." He returned to Chef. "We'll keep this as by-the-book as possible, which means that they can give their statements but only in the presence of responsible authority, an officer if possible."

"Will a Commander, a Sub-Lieutenant and an American officer be "responsible" enough for you?" demanded Chef testily. He pointed toward a shoal of white caps in a sea of black mourning. "They are all over there and will be more than happy to sit in!"

"They will do admirably," replied Farquarson equably. "While I go and fetch the Deputy Commissioner you can speak to your officers," he told Chef.

While Brendan led the small group of young knights toward the Detachment Office, and fought a losing battle with Achille over the return of his hat, he turned to his brother and said, "This is going to get ugly, Phantom. Real, kick-in-the-balls ugly."

The Phantom regarded his brother a moment. Then he spoke softly, "More than you know, Brendan, more than you know."

The apartment was very quiet as Lester put the final notations on what he, and The Gunner, called the status board. Outside the open windows and glass door leading to the balcony came the low, muted sounds of traffic on Bloor Street, far below. The sound of the traffic seemed softer than normal for a hot, muggy Saturday afternoon in Toronto. Of course, Lester reflected idly as he walked into the kitchenette adjoining the living/dining room, since it was a hot, muggy Saturday afternoon in Toronto anyone with the sense God gave a goose had long since fled to the northern cottage country. That did not mean, however, that the streets were empty - far from it.

Lester knew from experience - at one time Bloor Street had been his hunting grounds - those who did not have a cottage to flee to, or who had been born without the sense God gave a goose, swarmed the street in droves. There were the window shoppers, the wanderers, the tourists, the young lovers, walking hand in hand, strollers, gawkers and, as one approached Yonge Street, the beggars and the panhandlers. The entire world seemed to flock like lemmings to Yonge and Bloor, the hub of the universe for Torontonians, especially on a hot, muggy Saturday.

Settling himself on the one comfortable chair on the balcony, Lester wondered what the attractions were. Bloor Street east of Yonge was hardly the Avenue des Champs ?lysees, or even the Mall. There were no palaces lining the street, no architectural marvels, unless one included the Manufacturers Life Building with its high columns, massive bronze door and surrounding gardens, no great cathedrals, and St. Paul's, while an historical and well-designed church, was hardly even a cathedral. Still, Lester reflected, people were drawn to the street, just as he had been, what seemed liked years before but in truth was only a month or two ago.

Lester, of course, had a much more sinister motive for strolling the streets in the most provocative outfit his wardrobe would allow. West of Yonge, which was fast becoming a "Golden Mile" of expensive, high end shops catering to the carriage trade, was U of T country, filled with frat boys from St. George Street, and Varsity Stadium, home to the Varsity Blues, the university football team, that on game days drew thousands of raucous, oversexed, and often half blitzed college boys.

Although Lester sighed at the memories, that was all in the past. For the first time in his life he had found a purpose, a reason for living, and an interest that did not include horny tourists or libidinous jocks with their cocks in their hands and sex on their minds. He was, now, a very important cog in a well-organized, well-run, organization. Lester kept the books, and kept track of the people whom The Gunner had come to rely upon. The Gunner had said that Lester, with his organizational talents, was better than one of the new-fangled computers. Lester had to agree that he was.

From somewhere down below came the low growl of a siren. Lester did not bother looking over the balcony railing to see what the noise was. Most likely the siren announced the approach of one of the rigs from the fire hall to the east, past Sherbourne Street and just before Bloor Street crossed the Prince Edward Viaduct to become Danforth Avenue, "The Danforth" to natives, or it could be an ambulance rushing some poor soul to the Salvation Army's Grace Hospital.

In a way, Lester preferred the hustle and bustle from down below to the quiet of the apartment. For days it seemed that the place had been filled with people: Ace and The Gunner constantly on the go, trying to finish the necessary arrangements for the new hospital in Kensington, and helping Sophie Nicholson keep her vigil at the Chinese Community Hospital, where the young German boy, Eugen Arenberg lay in a coma. Sophie refused to leave the boy's side even though there was nothing the doctors could do anymore. He would survive, or he would not. It was all in the hands of a power greater than Old Doctor Langford's. Both The Gunner and Ace were now in the main bedroom, sleeping Lester hoped, although earlier he had heard some very strange noises coming from behind the closed door.

The small group of men that Lester had helped recruit were also absent. Usually they were barging in and out, reporting their goings on and generally making pests of themselves. They were all such determined jocks! But they were young, and handsome, too much so for their own good, in Lester's biased opinion, and loved them all. They, like The Gunner and Ace, were taking a much-needed rest - a "Stand Down" The Gunner had called it.

As he sat and sipped his coffee, Lester realized the he missed the locker room antics of the Rangers, the camaraderie that filled the apartment. He missed the foolish cracks and jokes of Gil and Shane, and Sam, of all the Rangers. He missed Jeff MacDuff and Teddy Vian tossing a football back and forth in the living room - it helped them "cerebrate" Teddy claimed. Unkindly, Shane Kingscote had observed that how either Jeff or Teddy could function, let alone "cerebrate" was beyond him, seeing as there wasn't a brain between them. This had elicited loud guffaws from the others, but not as loud as when Lester had walked by and Gil Stephenson had ripped down Lester's shorts, taking his boxers as well, and exposing his naughty bits to all and sundry.

Lester had been embarrassed, but not half as embarrassed as he would have been had he been wearing his normal underwear: thin, red, Italian silk briefs given to him by his lover, Ames Cale. Mind, the embarrassment had changed to secret pleasure, what with the loud guffaws, two wolf whistles, and a round of applause and Max Hainey calling "Stud!"

Lester had never known such camaraderie before. In high school, which he had left before graduating, most of the boys had been more interested in getting into his pants than in pulling them down as a schoolboy joke. It felt good, Lester thought, to really be a part of this special group of men.

Although he knew he should get some rest, Lester continued to enjoy the afternoon. He knew exactly where every man was, and how to get them in a hurry, if he needed to. Shane and Max were only a short distance away. They shared a huge apartment in a large, old-fashioned block standing at the corner of Church and Hayden Streets. Lester smiled and said a silent prayer for any young missionaries spreading the gospel according to the Church of the Latter Day Saints who might be canvassing the neighbourhood!

As the afternoon was waning into evening, and the dinner hour approaching, Teddy Vian would be at home, getting ready for dinner. He dined every Saturday evening with his parents at Winston's, the gathering hole for Toronto's elite. Teddy said that it was a necessary evil that kept his parents happy and his allowance cheques flowing.

Gil Stephenson, with Jeff MacDuff and Sam North as his guests, was attending a dry military lecture of some sorts at the Royal Canadian Military Institute on University Avenue, a very old, very posh club for officers only. It was the kind of place where everything, from cigars to the after lecture buffet was signed for, and Lester would not have been allowed in except perhaps to wash the dishes. The cost of drinks was in keeping with the imagined wealth and status of the members. Not that Gil had to worry, as he would be entertaining on his father's membership card. Nice, Lester thought, for some.

Terry Hsiang had dropped by earlier. His men, he reported, were all in place, keeping a careful, and discreet watch over the men The Gunner would soon destroy. Terry had not stayed long as his brother's wife had finally delivered a son, and there was much planning to be done for the "sealing" of the newborn boy. Terry promised a bang-up party and of course, everyone was invited.

Ames Cale, Lester's policeman lover had not appeared. Lester was not surprised. Ames was off shift, which meant that he was at home with his wife and two sons. Sighing as he thought of Ames, Lester knew that it would soon be time to come to some sort of a parting of the ways. Ames was married, would always be married, and Lester was tired of being the "other woman", so to speak. He loved Ames, but Ames would never change, would never leave his family. It was time, Lester thought, as The Gunner had said would happen.

Lester decided that when the present operation was over, and things settled down, he would have his talk with Ames and end it. It was for the best for both of them and . . .

The jangling sound of the telephone interrupted Lester's planning. He shuffled into the living room and picked up the telephone. "Hello?"

"Pax tecum, frater," came a deep, firm voice.

"Um, pax vobiscum?" replied Lester, who had never answered a call such as this and, not being a knight, did not know the protocol.

"Close enough," came the voice again. "Is the Chancellor about?"

"Um, he's, um, he's resting." At least Lester thought he was resting, but with Ace in the same room with The Gunner you never knew.

"Please be good enough to advise him that the Proctor of the Order is on the line. He will want to speak with me."

Lester knew enough of the organization of the Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre to know that the Proctor was a very important man, third in order of importance. "Please hold, sir," he said and quickly laid down the phone.

After knocking on the bedroom door, Lester waited a full minute before opening it and sticking his had into the room. He saw The Gunner curled up against Ace, who was lying on his back, a most satisfied look on his face.

"Uh, Steve . . . Gunner?" Lester called out softly.

The Gunner's eyes opened and he shook the sleep from his head. "Yes?"

"Telephone," said Lester. "It's the Proctor, calling the Chancellor."

"The Proctor?" The Gunner shook his head again and threw back the light cotton sheet, giving Lester a fine view of his neat, and tidy upper deck fittings. Leaving the bed, The Gunner pulled on a pair of rumpled white boxers. He had a look of concern on his face. "It must be important. The Proctor is in Quebec City, with the new knights."

Lester turned and walked to the kitchenette and poured some coffee for The Gunner, who picked up the telephone. "Pax tecum, frater," he said clearly.

"Stevie darlin'," boomed Chef.

"Chef," replied The Gunner, unable to stop a smile from forming on his face. "How are you, you old reprobate! What's up?"

Chef was very serious when he replied. "Stevie, as sure as Saint Patrick was an Englishman, all hell is about to break loose up here."

"What? I thought all you were doing was attending a funeral!" exclaimed The Gunner.

"I was, and I did," replied Chef. "But events have overtaken me, so they have."

"What events?" asked The Gunner. "And please, Chef, straight out. Is it one of the boys?"

"Not directly, no," replied Chef in his usual maddening procrastinating manner. "We have uncovered a part of the mystery, a part that has direct bearing on what you and Michael are planning to do."

"Explain, please," said The Gunner briskly.

Lester, who was listening to every word The Gunner spoke, quickly moved to his worktable and picked up a pad of paper. He had no idea what was going on, but he had a feeling that he would be very busy very soon.

"Quite by accident, well, if the truth were told, Peter Race, and young Jeremie Laroche went for a pee and met a young lad."

"Chef!" snapped The Gunner.

"Patience, Stevie darlin'. It is a virtue of princes and kings." Chef cleared his throat loudly. "It seems that poor Sylvain's uncle, General de Lamer - you remember the pusillanimous polecat, do you not Stevie . . . anyway, the polecat is even more pusillanimous than we thought!"

Chef went on to explain what he had learned from Achille. "And the upshot is that the RCMP have started an investigation. The lads have given statements and the Mounties are trying to get the General to talk, but he's lawyered up, so he has."

"You're certain that Stennes was at the general's house?" asked The Gunner.

"Very," confirmed Chef. "He was also with a young man, a boy really, who was described as being a short, skinny blond, with an evil face and cold, grey eyes. Does that remind you of anyone, Stevie darlin'?"

The Gunner sat down in the chair beside the telephone table so abruptly that Lester feared he would do himself an injury. His face was white and for several minutes The Gunner remained speechless. When he recovered he said quietly, "It cannot be possible."

"It can, and I believe it is possible," returned Chef. The Gunner ran his hand across his face. "I saw him, not two nights ago, Chef. He was here, with a man! I thought I was hallucinating but now . . ."

"When and where did you see them?" asked Chef.

"It would have been the day after Sylvain's accident," said The Gunner. "We had to take action against Percy Simpson. Stennes and his boy had been at Simpson's house and beat one of Percy's boys half to death. We took him to hospital and while we were waiting for the doctors I happened to look out of one of the windows. I saw a man, with a young blond boy crossing the street below. I thought at the time it was Paul Greene, then dismissed the thought as being impossible."

"Entirely possible," said Chef. "The young boy Achille told us that Stennes and his boy left the chateau almost immediately it was discovered that Sylvain had fled." Chef paused ominously. "For Toronto."

"Toronto?"

"Aye. The general and Stennes are up to their necks in this boy selling business. Achille overheard Stennes telling the general that he had a 'delivery' to make in Toronto."

"A Russian boy, a child," interjected The Gunner. "By the time we got to Percy's lair, Stennes had been and gone."

"Well, I shall leave you to sort your end out," said Chef. "At the moment I am trying to have my lads released from the clutches of the local constabulary. I am also worried that this whole affair here will impact on what you have planned."

"How so?" asked The Gunner.

"Stevie, the general has powerful friends, it is true. It is also true that he has powerful enemies. He is accused of molesting little boys and while the RCMP are trying to keep things as quiet as possible it is only a matter of time before word of the charges reaches the general's enemies and is leaked to the press. The general wields a great deal of political power here in Quebec and his enemies will be standing in line to bring him down. Remember, he outwardly supports the Liberal Party line and the Separatists will be chortling with glee. His friends will be running for cover if they're smart. The general will be left hanging high and dry - which is no more than he deserves - but . . . once word gets out and the general's connections are looked into, the rats will start deserting the ship. The men you are watching all bought their boys from Stennes. If the police can make the connection the men will want to get rid of the evidence, and quickly."

"Damn!" The Gunner's mind absorbed the implications of what Chef had said. "We will have to act sooner than expected, then."

"You will," agreed Chef.

"Wait one," The Gunner said to Chef. He turned to Lester. "Get them all in, get them in now!"

Lester pointed bluntly at the only telephone in the apartment. The Gunner understood. "Chef, I have a lot to do. Tomorrow is Sunday and most of the men and boys are in the city." He looked at Lester, who nodded and mouthed "All!" Nodding, The Gunner returned to Chef. "I have to let Lester have the phone. We will start our work at 0300."

"Good," replied Chef. "I will inform Michael so he can act accordingly."

"All right, then . . ."

"There is one more thing," interrupted Chef. "I am bringing the boys to Toronto. Also Commander Stockman, young Kyle St. Vincent, Andy Berg, and three ladies."

"Jesus Christ!" exploded The Gunner. "What in the hell have got with you, a tribe?"

"Close to it," responded Chef calmly. "The fact remains that it is better to go to Toronto. Most of the lads are from Eastern Canada and they can make better connections home there than they can in Quebec City. They will need accommodations for a night or two."

Sighing because he knew better than to argue with the old cook, The Gunner said, "The new hospital is ready, more or less. It's where we plan to take the boys we rescue and it should be big enough to provide room for all." He thought a moment. "And having some of our boys present might help the new boys settle in." He paused, thinking, and then asked, "How much does Commander Stockman know? What about Andy and Kyle? And who are these 'ladies'."

"One is the mother of the Twins, whom you have met. The other two are her travelling companions," Chef answered. "Commander Stockman knows what is going on, as do Andy and Kyle. I will inform the ladies, with your permission. A feminine hand or three might come in handy, you know."

The Gunner agreed. "All right. Make whatever travel arrangements you need. When you know the arrival time ring here and Lester will arrange for transportation."

"Consider it done," said Chef. His voice grew low and soft. "Be careful, Stevie darlin'. Much is riding on what you do tomorrow morning."

"I will," replied The Gunner. "And you mind how you go. Bring our boys safe to Toronto." With that he hung up the telephone.

"Let's get crackin', Lester," The Gunner called out as he headed for the bedroom. "Ace, get up! We move tonight!"

It was barely gone lunchtime in Vancouver. Michael and Major Meinertzhagen were sitting in the Morning Room, discussing the plans that were afoot.

"So, everything is quiet then?" Michael asked the Major.

"Very," replied the Major. "Cousin Tommy reports that two of Diem's thugs are sitting in a car a few yards down the street from the Jade Doll, and watching the warehouse with more than casual interest. Their transparency is obvious," he finished with a contemptuous snort.

"They will see nothing," observed Michael. "Our men are already in place." It was a statement of fact, and not a question.

"Quite," returned the Major simply. "Miles Boulton has resumed surveillance of the Dallas Street brothel. There has been no sign of Diem, or of Minh."

"Which is not surprising, seeing as how the brothel is connected to the building behind and both Minh and Diem are smart enough to come and go through that building."

"There is a minor complication," advised the Major.

"Oh?"

"Miles reports that there is a nondescript, unmarked car parked at the corner of the street. Two men wearing dark suits occupy the car. Miles says that the men are from the Vice Squad."

Michael chuckled. "It took them long enough to discover what was going on," he said without rancour. "Another surveillance, I think. The police will watch, eventually they will send in an undercover officer, and then they will raid the place." He shrugged. "By then our business with General Minh and his lapdog Diem will be finished." He regarded the Major a moment. "Our plans are set for tonight?"

"The cars are ready. The Italians are co-operating. They have let it be known amongst their own that there is a meet tonight between yourself and Don Giovanni. Word has got back to Minh as he has one of Don Giovanni's soldiers on his payroll."

Michael's eyebrows rose slightly. "Don Giovanni knows this?"

"Of course," replied the Major easily. "It was he who arranged for the man to be susceptible to Minh's wiles. The man feeds Minh what Don Giovanni wants the Vietnamese trash to know."

Nodding and smiling, Michael opined, "The more I think of him, the more I think Don Giovanni is a man of respect and the more I am inclined to finance his new operation."

"I have spoken with young Manna, and I believe that the Italians can make a go of it," responded the Major. "I have seen the plates and a sample of the notes. They are as near to perfect as I have seen. There are still some minor flaws, though, and they have yet to find a supply of paper. That is the first thing that any competent investigator will look at. If the note feels right, it can be passed. It's been done before."

"Operation Bernhard," said Michael with a knowing smile. "The Germans."

"Yes, the Germans," said the Major contemptuously. "Mind you, they did it right, and damned near bankrupted the Bank of England!"

"It was quite an efficient operation," said Michael, unable to keep the admiration of the financial scam out of his voice.

The Major was forced to agree. Operation Bernhard had been the name of a secret German plan devised during the Second World War to destabilize the British economy by flooding the country with forged Bank of England £5, £10, £20, and £50 notes. The plan was directed by, and named after, SS Major Bernhard Krager, who set up a team of 142 counterfeiters from among inmates at Sachsenhausen concentration camp. Beginning in 1942, the work of engraving the complex printing plates, developing the appropriate rag-based paper with the correct watermarks, and breaking the code to generate valid serial numbers was extremely difficult, but by the time Sachsenhausen was evacuated in April 1945 the printing press there had produced 8,965,080 banknotes with a total value of £134,610,810. The notes were considered among the most perfect counterfeits ever produced, being extremely difficult although not impossible to distinguish from the real thing.

Although the initial plan was to destabilize the British economy by dropping the notes from aircraft, on the assumption that while some honest people would hand them in most people would keep the notes, in practice this plan was not put into effect. Instead, from late 1943 approximately one million notes per month were transferred to a former hotel near Meran-Merano in Trentino-South Tyrol, northern Italy, from where it was laundered and used to pay for strategic imports and to pay German agents. It was also reported that counterfeit currency was used to finance the rescue of the arrested former Italian dictator Benito Mussolini in 1943.

The Bank of England detected the existence of the notes during the war, when a clerk recording a bundle of returned notes in the bank's ledgers (every banknote issued by the Bank of England as late as the 1940s was recorded in large leather-bound ledgers, as the notes were a liability of the bank) noted that one of the notes had already been recorded as having been paid off. Following the evacuation of Sachsenhausen, the counterfeiting team was transferred to Redl-Zipf in Austria, a sub-camp of the Mauthausen-Gusen concentration camp. At the beginning of May 1945 the team was ordered to be transferred to the Ebensee sub-camp, where they were all to be killed together; however their SS guards had only one truck to convey their prisoners, so it was necessary for the truck to make three trips.

On the third trip the truck broke down, and the last batch of prisoners had to be marched to Ebensee, where they arrived on 4 May. By this time the guards of the first two batches of prisoners had fled because of the approach of the American army, and the prisoners had disappeared among the other sixteen thousand prisoners in the camp and while an order that the prisoners all be killed together had been given, none were actually killed. They were liberated from Ebensee by US forces on 5 May 1945. It was believed that most of the notes produced ended up at the bottom of Lake Toplitz, near Ebensee, from where divers recovered them in 1959, but examples continued to turn up in circulation in Britain for many years, which caused the Bank of England to withdraw all notes larger than £5 from circulation and introduce new, redesigned higher denomination notes much later.

Michael regarded the Major a moment and said, "I am intrigued that the German operation was brought down by an anonymous clerk buried deep in the bowels of Threadneedle Street. He made an observation, a routine check, and the German house of cards began to crumble." The Major understood what Michael was getting at. "The Americans guard their currency with great care. The FBI has a whole department dedicated to rooting out counterfeiters. One misprint, one small mistake in the engraving and we could be in deep trouble," he said.

"We cannot back out once we are committed," Michael observed. "While we have not committed to the Italian plans we will, and when we have settled this business with Minh, we will owe them a 'favour'."

"So what do we do?" asked the Major.

Michael turned in his chair and stared out of the window overlooking the gardens. "The Italians have spent a great deal of money developing this scheme. They wish to recoup some of that money, so they ask us to 'invest'. They will, when their plans are finalized, wish to distribute as many of their notes as possible. We can help them there. Remember, Richard, that every Chinatown in North America attracts tourists, hordes of them, looking for food, entertainment and bargains. Also, the Chinese love to gamble and we have casinos and backrooms filled with them, blithely spending their money on foolish games of chance." He turned and looked at the Major. "While we have an excellent method of distributing the counterfeit notes in our gambling rooms and restaurants . . ." Michael paused and allowed a sly smile to form on his normally impassive face. " . . . I intend to offer the Italians a distribution network that will allow them, when the time comes, to move millions."

The Major started. "You do?"

Michael chuckled. "When Minh leaves to join his ancestors there will be a vacuum in the narcotics trafficking. The Italians will be quick to exploit Minh's death. They know that I will having nothing to do with drugs and will not interfere when they take over Minh's operation - as they will." Michael leaned forward. "Now, Minh smuggles narcotics into this country and distributes the drugs to buyers, yes?"

The Major nodded. "He has connections in Vietnam, and in Thailand. He doesn't have to worry about supply."

"No, he doesn't. More importantly, how does he pay for his supply?"

"Why with United States dollars," replied the Major.

"Quite so. Minh, or his agents, pay the drug lords of Thailand, Laos and Vietnam in dollars. Dollars are the most accepted, and preferable currency to those people. They are not alone. The Arabs sell their oil for dollars. The Columbians sell their cocaine for dollars. Everything is based on dollars, dollars and more dollars!" He shook his head. "From my perspective what we might do with the Italians will be nickels and dimes, small change compared to what others, with more connections, more international interests, might do."

The Major broke into a wide smile. "You are going to con the Hong Kong and Taiwanese triads!" he exclaimed, laughing.

"Not at all," returned Michael with a straight face. "We will introduce them to our Italian friends. If the notes are as good as the Italians would have us believe them to be, our friends will be stumbling all over themselves to get in on the action."

"A dangerous game if the Americans discover the forgeries," warned the Major.

"Oh, they will," replied Michael with conviction. "The FBI has agents in every major city in the world and sooner or later one of them will hear that high quality American bank note forgeries are on the market. When that happens the Americans will aggressively investigate and trace the notes back to their source."

"The Hong Kong and Taiwanese triads."

"Exactly. We will not be involved because our friends in Asia are greedy, and do not like to share with their minor partners here in North America. At first they will offer us a part of the profits, a commission. Later they will think they are squeezing me out. They will laugh behind my back and think that they have had their revenge for my throwing their spies out."

"And for executing Captain K'ang," reminded the Major.

"That as well," said Michael without remorse. "The Soongs will be in heaven because they will have their revenge for my cancelling the marriage contract with a daughter of their house. In the end their greed and their desire to avenge themselves will cost them far more than they realize."

Sighing, the Major shook his head. "I have a feeling I shall be updating my passport soon."

"No," Michael said sharply. "Cousin Tommy will initiate the first negotiations. The Soongs and the Triad lords do not feel comfortable dealing with a Westerner. Alistair will accompany Cousin Tommy."

"But Michael," remonstrated the Major. "Alistair is just a schoolboy!"

"Who will be my successor," countered Michael. "He must learn his new duties as I learned them, in the trenches. Alistair's presence, as my named heir, will sooth any suspicious natures." He regarded the Major a moment. "Cheer up, Richard. The Italians are long way from being in a position to move." He cocked his head slightly as he looked at the Major. "I shall, of course, only act after our own people have inspected the merchandise. I shall insist on that."

Somewhat mollified, Richard nodded and made to rise. The muted ringing of the telephone that Michael kept locked in a drawer of his desk gave him pause. This was a special telephone, rarely used, and only two other people, Chef and The Gunner, knew the number.

"I wonder what this is," said Michael as he unlocked the drawer and drew out the telephone. He picked up the handset and murmured, "Pax tecum, Frater. Is there a problem?"

Michael listened to the voice on the other end of the line, his eyes widening slightly. When the man on the other end stopped speaking Michael blew out a long breath of air and then said, "Very good. You have done well. Now, you must ensure that no knowledge of the Order is made public. You must also protect my knights!" His voice was calm, but very clear and forceful.

Michael listened again and then said, "I agree. Their statements will more than likely be tossed out as hearsay. Still, be vigilant! Remove the young knights as soon as possible and keep them away from anything resembling the media! A case such as this will draw reporters as sure as rotten meat draws blowflies!"

Michael carefully replaced the handset in its cradle and looked at the Major. "Our plans regarding the renegade knights are ready?"

The Major nodded. "The Tsangs are ready. Cousin Eddy is ready. The subjects are being carefully watched and there has been nothing out of the ordinary to report," he advised.

"The men who will suddenly decide to seek more pleasant climes?" asked Michael pointedly.

"We can take them out before midnight, if you wish it. Two are staying at their summer retreats, isolated cabins, one near Brackendale, and the other on Harrison Lake. They have their boys with them."

"They are being watched?"

"Yes," said the Major. "Both Pete and I felt it best if his men were used. They are skilled woodsmen."

"Good. The men who will impersonate these rogue knights?"

"Ready to go. We might have to rebook their flights if you want to start early."

Michael sighed. "I have no choice. That was Chef on the line. It seems, dear Richard, that all hell has broken lose in Quebec!"