Aurora Tapestry

Aurora Tapestry 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 2005 by John Ellison

As this novel contains scenes of consensual homosexual erotica between adults, and teenaged boys and if works of this genre offend you, please move to another, tamer sight. If possession, reading, downloading, works of this genre is illegal in the area where you live, please move on. If you are not of legal age (a toss up, I know, 18 (?)/ 21 (?), please move on.

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 29

The Phantom took advantage of the confusion as the newcomers were introduced to Chef, Commander Stockman and Number One to slip outside for a smoke. Colin accompanied him, as did Jérémie.

Looking grumpily at his lover and his new companion, The Phantom scowled. "I'm only having a smoke," he said impatiently. "And I hope neither of you is going to follow me everywhere I go!"

Jérémie, not intimidated by The Phantom, returned the scowl. "I just promised to be your companion above all others," he reminded The Phantom, smiling. "And you shouldn't smoke. It's bad for your health!" He sat on the barracks stoop and crossed his arms. "Well?"

"Jérémie's right," interjected Colin before The Phantom could protest. "And it makes your mouth taste like an ashtray!"

The Phantom looked at Colin, and then at the cigarette he had just lit. "I never thought of that," he admitted. He dropped the cigarette to the dirt and crushed it with his boot. "I promise, no more. From now on my mouth will be 'kissing fresh'!"

Colin laughed and pulled The Phantom to him. "Now that's more like it!" he declared.

Jérémie coughed delicately and looked at the two men, one eyebrow arched, his head cocked.

The Phantom looked inquiringly at Colin, who nodded and then turned to face their companion of honour. "Jérémie, Phantom and I are in love," Colin said with a firmness that surprised both Jérémie and The Phantom. "If you are going to be our Companion of Honour you will have to understand that. If you have a problem . . ."

Without thinking, Jérémie reached down and adjusted Little Jérémie. "Figured that out," he said without inflection. He grinned evilly at The Phantom. "I guess this means that you and Little Jérémie aren't going for a walk in the moonlight."

The Phantom gasped. "Jérémie!"

Laughing, Jérémie reached out his hand. "Phantom, you are such a boob! I saw the way you looked at Lieutenant Arnott when he walked into the Gunroom. Talk about telegraphing! Heck, your whole face lit up."

Taking the younger boy's hand, The Phantom pulled Jérémie to his feet and hugged him. "You understand?"

Jérémie returned The Phantom's hug and nodded. "You're in love with him, and he's in love with you." He glanced at Colin, who was squirming in embarrassment, looking the officer up and down. "Not bad, Phantom, not bad at all," he finished with a grin.

"Jérémie!" exclaimed The Phantom. "How . . ."

"I told you," said Jérémie as he wriggled from The Phantom's enfolding arms. "I saw the way you looked. The look on your face was something, believe me, and said it all." He shrugged. "It's the same look that Chief Anders gets on his face when he sees Chief Lascelles and . . ." He turned to Colin. "Chief Cory, not Chief Todd. He's in love with Matt Greene, I think."

"You can tell that just by looking at him?" asked Colin, amazement written on his smooth, handsome features.

"Sure," replied Jérémie smoothly. "Just as I can tell that Sub-Lieutenant St. Vincent and Ensign Berg are in love. Or Jon and Chris. They have it bad!"

The Phantom sat down on the stoop and motioned for Jérémie to join him. "You understand then, that some of your companions have formed relationships?"

"Tell him the truth," interjected Colin. "Jérémie, many of your new brothers are gay. The Order is all about gays."

"Well, hell and sheeit," declared Jérémie with an easy smile, deliberately emulating his idol. "Tell me something I don't know!"

"And it doesn't bother you?" asked Colin warily.

"Why should it?" asked Jérémie in return, shrugging diffidently. "I knew before I took the oath what was what."

"Are you gay?" Colin asked.

"I don't think so," replied Jérémie truthfully. "I . . ." he smiled shyly at The Phantom. "I admit that I wouldn't mind doing something with the right guy, if you know what I mean." He looked pointedly at The Phantom. "And he would have to be very special."

Colin saw Jérémie's look and frowned. This was not the first time he had sensed that the other cadets had feelings for The Phantom.

The Phantom snickered at his lover's glowering. "Jérémie and I are just very good friends," he said as he deliberately planted a huge wet kiss on the French boy's forehead. Colin was jealous!

Laughing, Jérémie returned The Phantom's kiss, only he gave his friend a peck on the lips. "Very good friends," he said with drawling emphasis. The he grinned at Colin. "You shouldn't pout, sir."

Colin gasped and began sputtering. "Why . . . I . . . an officer . . . I am not pouting!"

"Yeah, you are," rejoined The Phantom. He chuckled and left Jérémie's side to stand before his lover. "And you're jealous and I love it, and I love you!"

As The Phantom and Colin embraced, Jérémie made gagging noises. "Get a room!" he muttered.

"Ah, come on, Jérémie," said The Phantom. "One day you'll be in love and then we'll see who makes snotty-nosed remarks."

"I can wait," returned Jérémie with teenage sang-froid. He glanced at his watch. "I think we'd better be getting back."

Colin nodded. "What's next, then?"

"Kaddish," The Phantom said slowly. "It's very important to Sandro. The men who just came in? They're part of the Jewish community over in Comox. One is Mr. Schoenmann, and the young guy is his grandson. I don't know who the others are."

Colin thought a moment. "I have a feeling we'll be meeting more than a few new people, people we never expected to meet, and people we never expected to be associated with people like us."

"What do you mean, 'people like us'?" demanded The Phantom. "I'm not ashamed of what I am."

"I never suggested you were," returned Colin, who had grown accustomed to The Phantom's impatient outbursts. "I am merely suggesting that being gay is hardly the most popular game in town."

"It's not a game, Colin," retorted The Phantom. "Things are happening that . . ."

"I've accepted you." Jérémie looked first at The Phantom, and then at Colin. "Isn't that all that matters, that people accept you as you are, with all your warts?"

"And here I thought it was because you wanted me to take Little Jérémie for a stroll in the moonlight!" returned The Phantom, laughing quietly.

"As if that's going to happen!" exclaimed Jérémie with a mock look of disappointment. "What is more interesting, though, is what you mean by 'things are happening'. What things?"

The Phantom and Colin exchanged a glance. Colin's nod answered The Phantom's unspoken question.

"Jérémie Cher," said The Phantom slowly, "when Chef said that an evil stalks the land he was talking about a group of men - a large group of men - who have been buying, and selling, young boys. How young I don't know, but the way Chef looks when he has to talk about it, well, I think really young boys."

"Some of the boys, we think, are as young as 8 or 9," supplied Colin. He saw the questioning look on The Phantom's face and said, "On the way up here, Lieutenant Clayton filled me, and Daniel, in. It was not pleasant." He snorted in disgust. "Clayton had the nerve to ask me if I had ever fucked a 9-year-old boy!"

Jérémie's, and The Phantom's, jaws dropped in shock! "Holy shit!" the French-Canadian boy exclaimed.

"Well he did!" Colin's look of disgust turned to one of anger. "As if I would ever . . ."

The Phantom's touched Colin's arm and said soothingly. "He had to ask, Colin. The Order is very careful about whom they enlist, and let's face it, we both know that there is ample evidence to suggest that knights are involved."

"Still, they didn't ask you, did they?" Colin raged. "Or Jérémie!"

"No, I wasn't asked," admitted The Phantom. "And if I had been asked I would have said no, because it would have been the truth."

The Phantom's face grew still as he remembered that morning when he had been sitting on the steps leading to his house, the morning when Robbie Jensen had come riding by on his bike and announced that he had to pee, disappeared into The Phantom's house, peed, returned and sat below The Phantom and . . .

"There are boys out there, young boys, who aren't backward coming forward when they want dick," The Phantom said forcefully. Abruptly The Phantom turned and stared toward the parade square. "There is a boy I know. He's . . . twelve, yes, twelve-years old. He once asked me last month if he could suck my dick."

The Phantom seemed not to hear the sharp intakes of breath that exploded behind him as he continued, "How do you explain that? How can you explain if sometimes a boy will take him up on his request? Whom do you blame? Whom do you condemn?"

"Are you having second thoughts?" asked Colin. "Are you trying to justify sleeping with a boy who . . ."

"Colin, I know what I'm talking about," said The Phantom coolly. "What I am trying to understand is what I am to do if somehow the boy's activities become known. And I need to understand what I must do if something bad happens to a boy like him? How can you not wonder what will happen when he asks the wrong guy to suck his dick? Or fuck him?"

Turning and facing Colin and Jérémie, The Phantom's stricken face was a mask of pain. "The boy I am talking about seduced his brother, who is almost eighteen." Grinding his fist in the palm of his hand The Phantom asked, "When that boy tries to seduce another boy, and the whole, sordid mess comes out, what do we, as knights, and as men, do? Do we turn our backs on him, or his brother?"

Colin approached The Phantom carefully. "Phantom, we must look at the whole picture. What Chef is talking about is something entirely different."

"I know," replied The Phantom sadly. "One boy wants to be in bed with his brother, or another boy. He actually wants to suck cock, to feel another boy's dick in him!"

"Phantom, please, calm down and listen to me," said Colin gently as he led The Phantom back to the barracks steps. Jérémie sat as close as he could to The Phantom and gently rested his hand on The Phantom's knee. He said nothing, his dark eyes sad and strangely knowing.

"Phantom, the Order is not about boys seducing their brothers. I have brothers and they parade around bare-assed whenever they can. I never wanted to play with them, or have them play with me." Colin slipped his arm around The Phantom's waist. "We are about to embark on a crusade of sorts, to save boys who are doing things they might not want to do, who are being forced to perform sexual acts against their will. I don't pretend to know all the details, and I don't pretend to know all the answers. What I do know is that you are struggling with the knowledge that someone you know, someone you care about, or maybe even once cared for, has done something that is, in the eyes of the Order, and the eyes of the law, terribly wrong."

"Yes," whispered The Phantom. "And I don't know what to do! The Order would condemn him as a paedophile! Yet is he? He fell in love with his brother. He has never slept with another boy, of that I am sure. What he is doing is wrong, yes, but damn it, can I condemn him for that? Tell me, Colin, what do I do?"

"You can live with the truth and when the pit threatens to swallow him, hopefully you will reach out a helping hand," came a soft, low voice.

The Phantom, Colin and Jérémie turned their heads. Harry had quietly left the Gunroom and stood before his mates. "Tell the truth Phantom. Tell them the whole truth."

"I did," responded The Phantom.

Harry smiled ruefully. "You just didn't tell all of it," he said quietly. "What is bothering you is me."

"Harry, don't!" begged The Phantom. He reached out his hand. "Harry . . ."

Squeezing The Phantom's hand, Harry looked evenly at Colin. "I love Phantom. I've been in love with him since the day he came to me and told that he was going to do something, something that he was afraid I would condemn him for. He asked me to think well of him." He smiled. "Phantom, my only regret is that I was never allowed to be there after you did what you did." Harry returned to Colin. "One day Phantom will tell you what happened."

"He doesn't have to," replied Colin. "It's enough to know that he did something to make you regret not being involved. It must have been something very . . . daring? Heroic? Perhaps . . ."

"It was disgusting," spat The Phantom. The memory of Paul Greene - Little Big Man - moaning and squalling, demanding to be fucked harder, harder, filled The Phantom's memory. He regarded Harry and shook his head. "Enough," he ordered.

"No, Phantom, it has to be said." Harry was well aware of what he was doing. "Phantom, you hurt inside for mistakes others have made. You want to do the right thing, and at the end of the day, you will. You always do because that is the way you are. I made a mistake. I fell in love with a thirteen-year-old boy. I shouldn't have, but I did, and that's the way of it, sir." Harry's shoulders slumped. "I do not regret having fallen in love. I do regret hurting my friends, you most of all Phantom."

"You never hurt me, Harry," responded The Phantom with genuine emotion.

"Yeah, I did," said Harry sadly. "You never let your heart rule your head, or your dick rule your heart."

"That is not what happened," growled The Phantom. He grabbed Harry's arm and shook it. "Stefan fell in love with you, and you responded. Nobody forced Stefan to do what he did, or forced you to do what you did!"

"Just as no one is forcing your friend," began Jérémie, speaking for the first time, "to respond to his brother. You're beating yourself up, Phantom, and you shouldn't."

Colin agreed with Jérémie. "What your friend is doing is wrong, yes, but he's not forcing his brother into having sex. Harry, when he had his affaire de coeur, did not force . . . Stefan?"

Harry nodded. "Stefan."

"Harry realizes that what he did was wrong, and now he is trying, to come to terms with what he did. Your friend in Comox will have to do the same thing," said Colin. "Neither Harry, nor your friend, have done anything with other boys, have they?"

"No," replied The Phantom, shaking his head. "Jeff only fools around with his brother." He smiled at Harry. "And Harry, he just loves Stefan. He could have, you know, with the Sea Puppies, 'cause he was their Sea Daddy. He never did anything with them."

"And I never will!" declared Harry stoutly. "I love Stefan, I admit it, and I always will."

"Then what are we getting all worked up about?" asked Jérémie as he rose to his feet. "All right, Harry had a love affair. It's basically ended, everybody knows about it, and everybody understands what happened." He glanced witheringly at The Phantom. "You're problem is that you love too much, Phantom. You feel too much."

"A lot you know," sniffed The Phantom, although he smiled at Jérémie. "You're going to make a good Companion of Honour." He saw Colin looking strangely at him. "What?"

Colin scratched his chin reflectively. "I think the answer is that you see good in everyone, or almost everyone, particularly the friends you care for. You are capable, my dear Phantom, of great anger, and that anger will be reflected when the time comes for you to make a decision regarding the knights who are involved in this evil scheme." Before The Phantom could protest, Colin held up his hand. "You will do what must be done, Phantom, and make the right decision. Equally, when your friend's secret is exposed, you'll be there, with your hand out." He turned to Harry. "You're secret is not that secret. As Jérémie has told you, everybody knows about it. If Jérémie knows, if the others know, then Chef knows and that means the Order knows. What is done, is done, and has been forgiven."

"And when all is said and done, Phantom will always be there with his hand out," opined Jérémie. "Hell and sheeit! He even liked Sylvain, which nobody else did!"

"Jérémie, that is so very unkind," snapped The Phantom.

"It is also so very true," remarked Harry. "I wish I could feel something for him, I really do. But I can't, and I am not ashamed to admit it."

"But you are prepared to mourn him," said Colin. "You don't have to be a part of this Kaddish. You can walk away, and not be a hypocrite."

Harry nodded his head in agreement but said, "I could, yes, but be he n'er so vile, he is still my brother."

"And now we all understand the truth in what we are doing," said Colin. He indicated the door leading into the Gunroom. "I suspect that we should go in."

Harry turned and then looked ashen.

"What? Harry, what is it?" asked The Phantom.

"Oh, God, Phantom I just had a horrible thought!" replied Harry. "What if somebody, say like . . . Little Big Man . . . what if he came to me, looking for help."

The Phantom's face grew hard, and his tone was icy. "Paul Greene was never a brother. He would take your help which, knowing you, you would give, and gladly. Paul would take whatever you gave him and then spit in your face. Jérémie says that I see good in everyone, that I love too much. Well, perhaps I do, but I can say without hesitation I saw nothing in Paul Greene but evil. Pure, raw evil! I don't wish him harm, but by the same token, I will not go out of my way to help him. Paul has chosen his path. Let him walk it and be damned to him!"

Jérémie stared after The Phantom. "There," he said to Colin, "is a man! He's a good friend and he's a damned hard enemy." He glanced at Colin. "You're a lucky man, sir. Luckier than you know."

"Oh, I know," returned Colin. "Phantom is a pain in the butt, but damn, is he something else!" He smiled. "And you can betcha ass on that!"

Laughing, Jérémie shook his head. "My ass is safe." He looked about the barracks yard, not seeing the greenery, or the deep blue waters of the harbour beyond the trees. "Phantom loves in many ways, sir. Sometimes, I think, he expresses that love physically. Most of the time, though, he expresses his love by a word, a look, a gesture."

"His love is genuine, Jérémie," responded Colin. "He went up against one of the most powerful men in the Order for you."

Turning slowly, Jérémie regarded Colin through hooded eyes. "I know that. Phantom went to bat for me when I asked him to help me become a part of the Order. He found a way, because he loves me. He found a way that didn't compromise his principles, or the Rule of the Order. That means something, sir, something greater than you know."

"I know," murmured Colin.

"Phantom loves deeply, sir," said Jérémie. "He loves too deeply perhaps." He slowly climbed the barracks steps. "I will return that love in any way he lets me." Jérémie waved toward the building. "Every guy in there will do the same." He grinned. "Betcha ass!"

At the side of the building the five cadets, who had overheard every word of the conversation in the barracks yard, stared at each other. Nicholas Scheer looked first at Eion, and then at Peter. "What in the fuck is that all about?" he asked, his eyes wide. "Just who was The Phantom talking about? What is going on with boys? And who is Stefan and what did Chief Hohenberg mean when he said he was in love with the guy?" He rounded on Peter Race. "Do you know, Petey?"

Peter loathed being called 'Petey'. He also knew that because of his slight frame, and boyish face, that he was stuck with the nickname, so he ignored Nicholas' use of it. He was remembering the night when The Phantom had come down to the Dockyard - Peter could not remember why - but he could remember that The Phantom had taken the time to stop and chat with him, taken the time to make him feel, well, welcome, and wanted. That meant a great deal to Peter and he looked fiercely at Nicholas. "I mind my own business," he said curtly. "Why don't you try it?"

Eion smiled inwardly. Like Peter, he had seen, and heard, things. Being buried in the Dockyard did not necessarily mean being isolated. Word filtered down, the rumour mill always turning, scuttlebutt rife with the doings of the shore-bound cadets. "Nicholas, one day you will come to understand that what Harry found here means more than some people can comprehend." He glanced upward at the window. "What a lot of people found here."

Mikey Logan spoke up. "Is that supposed to mean something? And what did Jérémie mean when he said he was a 'companion above all others' to Phantom? And what in the hell is this 'order' they were going on about?"

Eion glanced at Peter, who nodded his head almost imperceptibly. "I can't answer that," Eion replied. "I don't know what the order is," he said truthfully. He looked again at Peter. "But I intend to find out," he thought. "And so will Peter."

Before Andrew or Mikey could say anything more the cadets heard a light tapping on the glass of the window above them. They looked up and saw Chef, who was making "Get your asses in gear!" motions.

As they uncased their instruments and fiddled with the valves of the trumpets, tuba and French horn, Mike Knox spoke up. "And what's with Paul Greene? I served with him last year in Kingston and he didn't seem that bad a guy."

Eion studied the sheet music he held in his hand and then looked at Mike as he replied, his voice dripping with the hatred he felt. "Paul Greene is the type of guy who will fuck you in the ass, laugh while he's doing it, and not even have the decency to reach around and give you a hand job!"

"More like squeeze your balls to hear you scream louder," opined Mikey, who did know Paul Greene. "We're well rid of that little prick."

"You got that right," put in Peter Race. He squinted at the sheet music. "This is so wrinkled I can hardly read it!" he complained.

Eion reached out to take the music from Peter and looked at Mikey. "Count your blessings, Mikey. Little Big Man is long gone, and if I have anything to say about it, he'll stay gone!"

Stennes sat in the comfortable wing chair, sipping a very good brandy, and smoking a Cuban cigar. He was basking in the euphoria of a very satisfying session with the new arrivals from China. The two hulking young Chinese had been very acquiescent, and had satisfied the German's perverse need for violence with sex. What the two Chinese thought about the session was of no importance. So far as Stennes was concerned they were of lesser breeds, fit only to satisfy the whims and lusts of their betters.

After bathing, and donning a deep burgundy dressing gown, Stennes had peeked into the two-way mirror that hung on the wall of the room where his protégé lay, and smiled. Young Paul, his thin body flushed and sated, was being attended to by not one, but two, lithe, pretty Chinese. While the two Orientals bathed Paul with rose-scented cloths he fondled their penises, pulling and rolling their rubbery foreskins with his fingers, a smile of utter bliss on his face.

Nodding his conviction that he had indeed chosen his successor well, Stennes left the cubby hole and went into the lounge where he was cosseted by an ancient, silent, old man, who poured his brandy, selected a superb cigar, lit it, and then departed, leaving the pimp to his musings.

Paul was a treasure, Stennes thought. He is completely without morals, is vicious, and willing to do anything asked of him to gain his own ends. That the blond-haired boy was completely without principles and so obviously without a conscience pleased Stennes even more. The boy had a brain, dominated by venality, true, but he could think, and plan, and see the future.

Stennes contemplated his young charge and his character, and smoked his cigar reflectively. It was time to bind the junge closer to him. He had decided that Paul Greene was destined for better things, greater things. It was time to put the young man to the test. His loyalty must be complete, and Stennes was now ready to demand that loyalty.

Relaxed, and feeling a little drained, Paul allowed his body to be worshiped by the two Chinese courtesans, took as his due their ministrations, and then rose from the bed. Without instructions the Chinese boys opened a richly carved wardrobe and withdrew a stiff, embroidered, Chinese robe. This they draped over the "Great Lord's" shoulders, tying it loosely, and then withdrew a little way, waiting for their new master's approval or, may the gods decide otherwise, his disdain.

Paul stood in front of the mirror that was fixed to the inside of the wardrobe door, admiring his reflection. The robe felt so soft against his skin, and was embroidered with finest gold thread, which matched his hair. Smiling at himself in the mirror, he opened the robe. He regarded his naked figure and nodded. Skinny, but the muscles were starting to develop in his chest, and his stomach was flat, and taut. His slate grey eyes lowered and he frowned. He reached up and felt the sparse hairs nestling just at his breastbone, and then reached down to riffle the small cloud of dark blond hair that surrounded his genitals. Frowning, he made a decision and turned around.

Nhan, who had been standing with his eyes lowered, as became a courtesan, saw the movement and looked carefully at the boy who had so recently done what none of Nhan's clients had ever done before: taken him into his body, allowed his seed to spill deep within him, and groaned and thrashed with ecstasy. "The Great Lord is pleased?" asked Nhan.

The other boy, Nieh Shih-cheng, a golden-skinned Chinese, looked at the Great Lord, and wondered what would happen next. The ferengi was insatiable, he thought inwardly. So insatiable that he had allowed Nhan to mount him!

For a brief moment Nieh wondered if the ferengi would allow him to ride the great elephant to glory, but a quick glance at the ferengi's crotch, where he saw that the boy's hoodless penis was soft, and hanging lightly over his low hanging, depleted testicles, told him that there would be no riding, at least for a while. Nieh quickly averted his eyes, and sighed a deep, disappointed, silent sigh.

"The robe is acceptable," said Paul, emulating his master, Stennes, who pretended to disdain everything. "Bring a razor, and soap."

"A razor and soap?" asked Nhan. He looked at Nieh, who shrugged. Nieh had long ago learned never to question the requests, or demands, of his clients.

"And prepare the bed with towels," ordered Paul with an imperious gesture. "You will shave me."

Nhan's eyes widened. "The Great Lord wishes to be shaved?"

"Yes!" snapped Paul impatiently. "Bring what is necessary and remove this . . ." He pulled at his public bush. "I am displeased and wish to be clean shaven."

"All of you?" squeaked Nhan, surprised. Body hair was usually highly prized by Western males, particularly the hair that grew around their penises.

"All of me," growled Paul.

Gesturing for Nieh to fetch the shaving implements, Nhan quickly took some towels from the adjoining bathroom and spread them over the bed. "If the Great Lord will allow me to assist in removing his robe, and if he will then lie on the bed, we will be pleased to . . ." murmured Nhan, gesturing.

Ignoring Nhan's muttering, Paul shrugged the all but priceless silk robe from his shoulders, allowing it to fall softly to the floor. He lay on the bed, with his legs spread. He glanced at Nhan, who was greedily eying his parts, and cackled lewdly, "Just don't cut off anything important!"

Freshly shaved, and bathed again with scented oils, Paul joined his mentor in the lounge. Stennes, happily warm and content, eyed the boy. "You seem different, somehow," he said pleasantly.

Paul, who thought he knew exactly who and what he was dealing with, saw no reason to deliberately antagonize Stennes. He stood and opened his robe, exposing himself. "I'm trying a new look," he said with a dry chuckle.

Stennes motioned for Paul to come forward and without asking, ran his thumb along Paul's now bare pubic area. "It makes you look, younger," murmured Stennes. "Almost pre-pubescent." His hand drifted slower and he ran his finger down the length of Paul's flaccid penis, lingered momentarily at the curving, circumcised head, and then gently hefted Paul's testicles.

Paul's body stiffened. He hoped that Stennes was not getting ideas. Then he relaxed and allowed the fondling. Stennes, intent on his inspection of the boy, did not see the sly, evil smile forming on Paul's lips.

Laughing softly, Stennes patted Paul's genitals and motioned for him to return to his chair. "You have no worries, little one," he said as Paul sat down, pulling the robe tightly around his naked body. "I have plans for you, plans that will please you."

Paul offered a small smile. "For a moment . . ." he ventured.

Stennes laughed harder. "You have the frame, the look of innocence, the smoothness that many men find attractive," he said. "You could make a lot of money." Then he looked directly at Paul. "But you are not interested in money, are you?"

"Actually, I am," replied Paul honestly. "Money brings power. I believe in a world free of mud people, in a world where the white man has taken his rightful place. If money is needed to bring that about, then I will make money."

"You will sell yourself?" asked Stennes, wondering just how deeply indoctrinated Paul had become. "You believe in the Master Race?"

"Of course," returned Paul, his tone implying that every right thinking white man believed just that. Then he smiled knowingly. "But then, you would not allow that, would you?"

Stennes looked askance and then smiled. "You seem to know what you want."

"I do." Paul stood, walked to stand in front of Stennes, and then lowered himself to his knees. He pulled apart the lush robe that covered Stennes body, revealing his thick, long manhood and low hanging testicles. He took Stennes soft penis in his hand and slowly retracted the foreskin, revealing the purple-coloured, bulbous head. His eyes were cold as he looked at his teacher, who was breathing heavily from lust and desire. "Money, sex," he murmured as his lips touched the slimy glans. "Whatever it takes."

"Mein Gott!" moaned Stennes as Paul withdrew and resumed his seat. "You are very . . . experienced."

"Yes, I am . . . now," replied Paul as he gathered his robe up and slipped it around his shoulders. "I enjoy sex, although I prefer to have it with boys my own age."

"You are at least honest," grumbled Stennes. "If that is so, then why did you . . .?"

"Blow you?" asked Paul. He shrugged impassively. "You wanted it, I was prepared to give it. You're the first man I've been with."

"Really?" Stennes' eyes widened slightly.

"Let's be honest, Edmund," began Paul, for the first time calling Edmund by his Christian name. "You obviously have plans for me. I haven't known you long, but I know enough about you to understand that you never do anything spontaneously. Everything is planned out, everything is in place, before you act." Paul's face darkened. "You also don't trust me, or else why would you have filmed me with Nhan?"

Stennes was about to bluster and deny that he had done any such thing. The look on Paul's face told him not to bother. "How did you know?" he asked simply.

"The lights in the room were just a little too bright. Nhan was just a little too enthusiastic and kept looking over his shoulder. He also seemed to delight in moving to one side whenever he went down on me. When I fucked him he positioned himself on the bed so that I was facing the camera, which I suspect was hidden behind the mirror." He smiled coldly. "Two way?" he asked.

Nodding, Stennes said, "I will destroy the film."

"Why?" asked Paul easily. "If it is any good you'll no doubt get a good price for it."

"You would not object?" asked Stennes, surprised at Paul's easy acceptance of being filmed in such a compromising position.

"Who will see it?" asked Paul diffidently. He answered his own question. "A bunch of dirty old men who are too cheap to buy your product." He shrugged. "Just so long as I get my piece of the action I don't care what you do with it."

Stennes reached down and squeezed his now soft, and very warm penis. "After what you did, I think I shall keep it for my private collection."

"Suit yourself," replied Paul. He regarded Stennes. "You know my goals. I won't lie and pretend that you turn me on. You don't. You have a big dick and that's quite interesting, but it does not make me go all warm and fuzzy. Big dicks are available on half the street corners of Toronto. I want more than your big dick, Edmund."

This little man was very sure of himself, Stennes thought maliciously. But the boy was driven, and that meant a lot. "What exactly do you want?" he asked.

"You didn't drag me from Ottawa, to Quebec, and now here, to Toronto, on a whim. You've hinted at making me a part of your organization. You tell me."

Stennes stared silently a moment. "All right. I will not live forever, nor will I continue in this business forever. It is a good business, carefully managed, and well funded. I have no heir. If something happens to me, the business fails. That cannot be allowed to happen. Too many other people, people outside of the business, who know nothing of the true nature of the business, depend on the money I give them."

"Such as the Aryan Brotherhood?" suggested Paul with a slight cocking of his head.

"Ya. The Neo-Nazi movements in the United States, in Germany, the so-called right wing parties in England and France, all depend on money that I donate. There are others, of course, who also supply their needs."

"Uniforms, arms, ammunition," said Paul. "And instructors at the special camp in Quebec, and the one in Germany. Plus, of course, your little propaganda ploy down in the States."

"You know about that?"

"Edmund, I was sitting in the next room when you were having breakfast with the General." He snickered. "Of course, he was paying more attention to that unfortunate little boy that he was diddling than he was to you."

Stennes waved away Paul's giggling insult. "The man is important. He controls a large segment of the Liberal Party in Quebec. He can keep the police away from us."

"He's also playing both ends, Edmund," returned Paul. "He's pouring money into Levesque's campaign."

"And how do you know that?" demanded Stennes angrily. "The General is loyal. He wants a free and independent Quebec, yes, but even he realizes that the Partie Quebecois will never garner the support it needs!"

"Don't bank on it," returned Paul. "I slept with his nephew, remember?"

"So? The boy knew nothing!"

"Bah!" Paul made a deprecating gesture. "Sylvain slept with whomever his uncle wanted him to sleep with. Do you think the General was so generous that he gave his nephew that car out of love? Why did the General pay all of Sylvain's tuition at that snooty school he went to?"

Stennes looked thunderous and then nodded. "I misjudged the old fool!"

"You did that," agreed Paul. "Look, I don't give a rat's ass about Quebec. They're all a bunch of arrogant, lazy, useless Frogs who will go on sucking on the public tit for as long as the pigs in Ottawa let them! What I care about are my own people. Let the Frogs keep Quebec."

"So long as you can have a Fourth Reich, ja?"

"Yes." Paul stood up and began to pace. "I am convinced that the only way is to rid this continent of the undesirables, the niggers, the Jews, the Chinks."

"Surely not all." Stennes looked around the richly, if garishly appointed lounge. "Some of them do have their uses, you know."

Paul snorted. "Edmund, how many Chinaboys have you managed to unload?" he asked.

Stennes frowned. "None. Boys are very highly prized in China. Girls, if I were interested in such creatures, I could sell."

"Nhan is a refugee from Vietnam. He is also an orphan. How many orphans do you think came out of Vietnam?"

"I do not know," admitted Stennes. "And why would they interest you?"

"Edmund, when I showed you what I had done, your eyes lit up like a Christmas tree! You like rough trade, yes, but when you saw me you all but drooled all over this fake Oriental carpet."

Stennes was feeling most uncomfortable. This boy was smarter than he looked and even more vile than he had first appeared. "What are you getting at?"

Paul did not immediately reply. He walked to the sideboard and held up a bottle. "Remy Martin Champagne Cognac", he read aloud. He glanced over his shoulder at Stennes. "Is it any good?"

"Cognac, like scotch, is an acquired taste," replied Stennes. He held up the snifter of cognac that he was holding. "Will you join me?"

Pouring a hefty slug of the fine cognac, Paul looked at the amber liquid. "I'll try it." He took a tentative sip, and then nodded. "Not bad."

Stennes smiled at Paul's expensive taste. He wondered what would happen if the junge got drunk.

Paul seemed to know exactly what Stennes was thinking. "You don't have to get me drunk, Edmund. I'll sleep with you, if that's what you want."

"Even though I am not attractive to you?" Stennes asked stiffly.

"Edmund, sex is sex. Business is business and if having you plug my ass makes you happy, and makes you listen to me, plug away."

"It is so nice to have such a genteel invitation," hissed Stennes sarcastically.

Much to Stennes amusement, Paul imitated what he thought was the confident demeanour of the suave and erudite, "sophisticated" characters he had watched in the movies. He resumed his seat and swirled the brandy in his snifter, warming the amber liquid with his hands. "Can the bull shit, Edmund," returned Paul, reverting to type. He settled himself comfortably in the chair. "Let's be blunt. You want me to learn your business, to take over the reins whenever you decide to retire." He cocked his head. "Yes?"

Stennes looked uneasy. This boy, this mere boy, was obviously much smarter than he looked, or anyone gave him credit for. "Yes."

"Good. Now, before I tell you what I think, I want you to know something." Paul sipped his brandy and continued. "I didn't just read those ridiculous pamphlets my father and his gang of nitwits handed out. I read Time, and Newsweek, and the newspapers. I read books, Edmund." He shrugged impassively. "I learned that the other boys, when I was in Aurora, wanted nothing to do with me, and left me alone."

"You were ostracized?"

Paul frowned. "I overplayed my hand there," he admitted. "I was too eager, too damned eager. I won't make that mistake again. From now on I'll play my cards close."

"A wise decision. And just so you know, I did tell your father that sending you to recruit was a bad idea."

"My father is a fanatic," responded Paul with a grimace. "True believers are such pains in the ass at times."

"And you are not?" asked Stennes.

"I believe," replied Paul, "but I know enough, now, not to broadcast my beliefs. It is one thing to speak to the choir, quite another to try to preach to the ignorant and the unwashed."

"My, you have been reading, haven't you," said Stennes, not quite jovially.

"I have. You should try it some time," returned Paul coldly.

"Beware, junge, for you tread on thin ice," warned Stennes. He was not prepared to suffer Paul's insolence too long.

Paul remained impassive, unmoved by Stennes' growing anger. "If you will listen, I will explain my remark."

"Very well," snapped Stennes. "Explain."

Paul waved his arm around the lounge. "How many boys are there here in this brothel?"

Stennes, while he did not care for his business establishment being referred to as a brothel, answered curtly, "Nineteen."

"All Chinese?"

"Yes?"

"Why"

"Because the clients are Chinese. They like to stick to their own kind!"

Paul smiled. "And do you have any other places?"

"Just in Montreal. Black and Chinese boys for the most part. The French are partial to ethnics."

"Coons and Chinks," sniffed Paul.

Once again Paul's coldness caused Stennes to squirm. "I imagine it has something to do with their imagined Colonial Empire, when France was actually a nation that anyone paid attention to."

Nodding, Paul said, "Once again, you give your clients what they want." Paul deliberately sprawled in his chair, the front of his robe open. "Now, your biggest problems are supply and protection." Once again, only languidly, Paul indicated the room. "This place can hardly be a secret to many. You can coast under the radar with the private clients, but my guess is that you are paying off someone."

"The Circle K Boys," said Stennes without hesitation. "They demand a fee every month, for 'protection'. I assume they pay off whomever they need to. We have never been bothered."

"And you also pay something to those thugs in Eastern Europe, and Russia. That's your main source for young boys, isn't it?"

"I must go where the supply is. STASI and the KGB control everything, including the orphanages."

"Which they will allow you to rummage through if the price is right," Paul pointed out needlessly.

"Yes. And always they demand more."

"Of course. They know that if you're apprehended the full weight of the law, it doesn't matter which country, whether here in North America, or in Europe, will put you away for a very long time." He shrugged. "Not to mention a hell of a diplomatic mess if you talk." He made a dismissive motion. "They're covering their asses, Edmund, and they'll leave you hanging out to dry."

"And you," snapped Stennes. "If you become involved."

Paul laughed harshly. "Really, Edmund! I'm not 18. So far as the law is concerned I am a sweet, innocent, little boy, and not responsible for my actions. I was molested and forced into a life of sordid sex."

"You will one day be 18, junge!" growled Stennes.

"By that time we will be long gone from here," returned Paul with an icy smile. "If you listen to what I am going to propose."

"And that is?"

Paul looked thoughtful and then asked, "Tell me, Edmund, how old were you at the end of the War?"

"I was . . . 11, no, 12 years of age. Why do you ask?"

"Then you know that after any upheaval, a war, a social disruption, a natural disaster, there are people who cannot cope, or cannot survive without handouts. There were millions of displaced people crowding the Allied zones of occupation, yes?"

"Of course. Germany had been bombed almost back to the Stone Age. The Russians expelled millions from East Prussia, the Czechs and Poles did the same. To be German meant hatred and expulsion."

"Yet these people survived, living on hand outs from the Americans, the British, the Canadians." He looked sharply at Stennes. "And by other means."

"What . . . what do you mean?" demanded Stennes, who knew deep down that Paul knew exactly how he had earned a living.

"Edmund, as hung as you are, please don't expect me to believe that no one offered you an extra parcel of food out of the goodness of his heart!"

"The people sold what they had. It was a very bad time for everyone," replied Stennes. He would admit nothing.

"No matter," said Paul airily. "You peddled your ass, learned some hard lessons, and also learned what a money-maker you had. But what I am thinking is this: why go to all the trouble of recruiting boys at all? Why not go to a new source, a source where a little money buys a lot of protection and nobody really gives a shit what you do, so long as the American bucks keep rolling in."

"Whatever are you talking about?" asked Stennes, confused.

"East Asia," said Paul simply. "Nhan told me that when he was in New York men were clawing at the door, paying big bucks for fresh, young, boys, in his case, Vietnamese boys. They're young; they're smooth, and willing to please! Nhan's owner made a small fortune, and then sold him to Hung."

"So? It happens all the time," said Stennes.

"Of course it does. Right now you have two new boys upstairs, brutes if what Nhan tells me is true. Just the type you enjoy."

"Yes," Stennes replied, thinking that Nhan talked too much.

"Now, they're illegals, smuggled in by Snakeheads. The boys, and this includes Nhan, owe for their passage here. Now, either you or Hung paid off the smugglers, which means the boys owe you. In time they will have paid their debt, and want to move on. They also grow older, or contract some disease and have to be 'retired'," finished Paul with a disinterested shrug.

"Yes, there is that," admitted Stennes. "It is most annoying."

"Of course. The overhead will kill you," relied Paul with a grin.

"I do not find anything you have said amusing, junge!" snarled Stennes.

"I apologize. A weak joke," returned Paul. "What you have to consider is that anywhere along the way the cops will twig on what is happening. Smuggling aliens into the country is frowned on, which means that the RCMP here, and probably the FBI, in the United States, will sooner or later sniff out the Snakeheads. True?"

"Yes, sadly," admitted Stennes.

"So, once again we look for new fields of endeavour. Why bother with the hassle? You pay off a gang here, a gang in Montreal, a gang in this city and that city, and your profit margin drops into the basement. You're making money, but you could make a lot more."

"And how would I do that, my little Jewish financier," asked Stennes, deliberately being insulting.

"I am not a Jew," snarled Paul. "And I don't fuck little boys!"

"I could kill you for that!" growled Stennes, rising slowly. "I could kill you slowly, and listen with delight at every scream!"

"But you won't," said Paul, unmoved, and unmoving. His slate-coloured eyes, cold, uncaring, never wavered. "In me you've found a kindred spirit. I don't give a fuck about anyone. My only interest in your little boys is that they make money. I am totally selfish, venal, and greedy. The only differences between us are that you like your boys young, I like mine my own age. You do what you do because you like the good life, and love money, large amounts of money. You are a child of National Socialism, a good little Nazi boy, and a good Nazi man."

"I believe in the wisdom of Adolph Hitler!" declared Stennes roundly. "He was a great man and every word he spoke was true. My father gave his life on the Eastern Front for Der Fuehrer! I would do the same!"

Paul broke into unrestrained laughter. Stennes, his face a mask of rage, rose threateningly. "How dare you!" he shouted. He advanced toward Paul, his fists clenched. As Stennes raised his fist Paul's face turned to stone and he calmly reached into the pocket of his robe.

Stennes stared at the barrel of the ancient Luger and then lowered his hand. "You would not dare!" he breathed.

The look in Paul's eyes gave the lie to Stennes' remark. Paul smiled thinly. "Sit down, Edmund," he said emotionlessly. "You are making a fool of yourself."

When Stennes had sunk shakily into his chair, Paul calmly returned the pistol to the pocket of his robe. "Let us be perfectly clear, Edmund. If, for any reason you try to betray me, I will kill you, just as you will kill me if for a moment you think that I would be a danger to you. I am like you! I trust no one, and I take precautions."

"Which means?" asked Stennes, snarling through clenched teeth.

"You made a mistake, Edmund. You dismissed me because of my youth. You forgot that I might be, in your eyes, a boy, but in truth, I have a brain, and I am much smarter than you think."

"I have already drawn that conclusion," said Stennes, breathing heavily. "And where did you find that . . . cannon?"

Paul chuckled. "In the wardrobe, hidden in a bundle of old clothing. Nhan is no fool, Edmund, and he also takes precautions."

His face reddened with anger, Stennes snarled, "I will . . ."

"Do nothing!" Paul pointed a steady finger at the barely controlled German. "Nhan is not to be harmed. He pleases me."

"I have warned you," Stennes returned.

Paul raised the snifter of cognac to his lips, drained it, and then stood. He reached into the pocket of his robe, withdrew the Luger and offered it, butt first, to Stennes. "Now's your chance," he said, his voice clear and calm, and without fear.

Stennes reached out to take the pistol, and then withdrew his hand. He looked at Paul and then shook his head. "I chose well," he admitted. "Perhaps too well."

Laughing, Paul returned to his seat. "Edmund, I told you, we are so very much alike."

"Too much," complained Edmund. "Now that you have made your point, what exactly is it you want?"

"Edmund, the world is changing, and if you had bothered to read about it you would know that the economies of Western Europe are booming. You have more 'clients' than you can supply boys for. The Russians, the East Germans, the Poles, the Czechs, while they willingly supply boys, through their Secret Police, they make you pay through the nose."

"True. They are very greedy."

"The Arabs are willing to pay large sums, so long as you supply the type of boy that does not pander to their fears of the Jews."

"Yes. As I told the General, the camel jockeys look for Jews under every bed, in every corner, even in little boys!"

"You cannot recruit in North America, for two reasons. A missing boy, or girl for that matter, brings the full power and wrath of the law enforcement agencies. They would leave no stone unturned, no lead uninvestigated if you snatched a child. The sanctity of childhood is so ingrained in the North American mind that should you be caught, and you would be, and sent to prison, the convicts would exact their own form of justice. Child molesters, and pimps, don't last very long in prison."

"Agreed. I have thought about taking North American boys but you are quite correct. The risk is too great."

"Then, while you could, if you dared, spirit the odd North American boy into Arabia, you couldn't sell him, simply because you cannot overcome a cultural fact: just about every boy is circumcised."

"I am working on that," sniffed Stennes.

Paul chuckled. "That will take years."

"But it is working," countered Stennes.

"Of course it is! You have targeted the very group that espoused the practice in the first place, for medical reasons. Your arguments are reasoned, and I suppose based on some crackpot scientific theory. You have also targeted the professional anti-everything who goes through life yelling and protesting for the sake of protesting. You are publishing the big lie in your pamphlets and letters and it's working. You are also appealing to their inherent anti-Semitism." Paul snickered. "But really, Edmund, 'mutilation', 'deprivation of a fundamental civil right'?" Paul laughed even louder as he asked, "And wherever did you come up with 'amputation'?"

Stennes ignored his protégé's sarcasm. "It works. All it took was a reasonably well-known group of nurses and doctors and a great deal of money."

Paul nodded. "It will work because if you play the same song over and over again people remember it." He looked at Stennes. "But then, the Fuehrer himself said it, didn't he?" Stennes regarded his protégé, now even more impressed with Paul. "The great masses of people . . . will more easily fall victims to a great lie than to a small one," Edmund quoted smugly. "I've read the book," responded Paul. "I also know that propaganda is only useful when you get your message to a great many people. It's a pity that you don't have another way of getting your message out. I am sure that planting those articles in the newspapers, and the medical magazines must cost a fortune."

"They do," agreed Stennes.

"And in order to keep up the campaign, you need money." Paul looked reflective. "You support the neo-Nazis, in Germany, in France, in England, and in the United States and Canada, because they are useful to your business. The police are so busy watching the nut bars and heel-clickers that they have no idea that you, or your organization, exist. You pay off the people who supply you with boys, and you pay off whatever local gang controls the area you work in. You pay off the General and those of his ilk."

"Are you suggesting that I terminate my activities?" asked Stennes, astonished. "The money . . ."

"Edmund, you can make as much money, and a lot more, if you would just listen."

Defeated, Edmund threw up his hands. "Tell me, then."

"Edmund, there is so much money floating around Europe! Your clients include people from most, if not all of the Western European states. These people know how to live, most of them, and they love to travel to exotic places."

"So?"

"So we find an exotic place where life is cheap, the government, or more probably, the police, is corrupt and where nobody gives a shit what happens so long as the price is right. We find a place where you would not have to go through the bother of finding someone to supply you with boys. A place where, once the word goes out, the boys would be beating down your door!"

"Such a place exists?" asked Stennes sceptically.

"It does. South-east Asia."

Now it was Stennes' turn to laugh. "Are you suggesting . . ." He regained control and said, "I would suggest that the regimes in many of those countries would hardly be receptive to such a business proposition."

Paul scowled. "I am not talking about Vietnam, or Cambodia. What I am talking about is Thailand, Indonesia, Ceylon, places where poverty is a way of life, places where the people understand the foibles of foreign tourists, places where there is no law, really, about having sex with a young boy. Hell, right now the clients you have in the so-called industrialized nations of the West are constantly looking over their shoulders for the police. Give your clients what they want: an exotic locale, sun, swimming pools, a decent restaurant, and all the boys they can handle."

"You sound like a travelogue," sniped Stennes.

"But it would work," returned Paul firmly. "You wouldn't have to worry about supply, you would have plenty of customers, and just about everything you bring in is yours."

Stennes looked serious for a long time, and then nodded. "It would work, yes. These people we deal with, they correspond, they talk, and they trade boys back and forth. This I know." He sighed. "It would take a great deal of money."

"Which you have, or can get," said Paul. "You have connections with the Chinese gangs, use them. Pay the Russians, or the East Germans, or whatever gang of goofy Commie fucks you're dealing with, what they want and complete your arrangements with the Arabs. Milk them for whatever the market will bear."

"You make it sound so easy," replied Stennes. What Paul was suggesting had merit.

"It isn't. But when everything is in place, you can walk away with more money than you can spend. You can support your projects, and have the life you want." A low snicker formed in Paul's chest. "You can sit back and blackmail with impunity because no one will be able to touch you."

"Blackmail? What blackmail?" asked Stennes, pretending to be surprised.

"Edmund, do you really expect me to believe that I am the only one you filmed? My guess is that the little studio you have set up behind that two-way mirror has seen a lot of action."

"There is a small . . . um . . . library of interesting films," admitted Stennes.

"Showing interesting people doing interesting things," rejoined Paul. "Not that I care."

"What do you care about?" asked Stennes. "What do you want? What are your goals?"

Paul looked impassively at his mentor. "I want my share, and that goes without saying. I also want access to the special camp in Germany." He saw the quizzical look on Stennes' face. "The camp where you train your true believers, not the Skinhead thugs, but the true Aryan boys, those who will be the new SS! I'll be in Germany soon enough, and I might as well use my time there well."

"I could speak to your father?" suggested Stennes.

Paul shook his head, no. "I want to know what assets are available to me, whom I can depend on." His eyes bore into Stennes. "I want a place where white men are supreme, where there are no Untermensch soiling the sacred ground. You rely on the home grown useful idiots, most of whom will fold if the government cracks down. I want a corps of good, faithful, German men."

"And what else?"

Paul's hands curled into tight fists. "I need to be in Germany because there I will find the men I need to help me take care of my brother!"

"Your brother?" exclaimed Stennes. "Whatever has he to do with anything?"

Paul remembered the hazy, dim figure standing over his bed, witness to the night when the Beast had raged through him. "He set me up!" Paul snarled, rage filling his soul. "My brother! My dear sweet brother stood and watched me being raped! He stood there and . . ."

Unclenching his fists, Paul resumed calmly. "My brother betrayed me. He betrayed his family, his culture, and his God. He must pay for what he did."

"Then why, if the matter distresses you so much, wait?" asked Stennes equably. "Such matters are easily taken care of."

For the first time Paul showed real emotion. "He has friends - twins named Arundel - and a special protector, a Chief cadet the others call The Phantom. They know about me, and they know about my father."

"Mere schoolboys," scoffed Stennes. "And of no consequence."

"The Arundel Twins' father is a Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Canada," Paul pointed out. Then he added, "Which could be a problem for us if he didn't have two fag sons."

"I hardly think that Justice Arundel would enjoy having his sons' names bandied about in the gutter press," replied Stennes, his face hard. "Which would happen."

Paul was forced to agree with Stennes' logic. "Perhaps," he conceded. "There is still their protector, a boy everyone called The Phantom."

"A schoolboy, a nonentity," sniffed Stennes.

"A nonentity who has a friend, a sailor named Winslow. He has friends in high places," Paul replied. "But then again . . ."

"Second thoughts, dear boy?"

Paul smiled grimly, his eyes dark and deadly. "The Twins threatened me with disclosure. 'A word here, a word there,' is what they said. Winslow might have friends in high places but I wonder how friendly they would be if they were told that he was in a 'special' arrangement with an underage civilian boy."

"If past experience is anything to go by, not very friendly at all" Stennes smiled, pleased with the devious workings of Paul's mind. "The media delight in printing anything derogatory about the military." He regarded Paul. "Perhaps a series of muckraking articles written by a reporter of my acquaintance?"

Paul considered Stennes' suggestion and then shook his head firmly. "No, Edmund. There is too much risk of opening an even bigger can of worms." He saw the querulous look on Edmund's face. "If one reporter prints anything, the others will jump of the band wagon. There is nothing like a salacious scandal to sell newspapers. If that happens who knows where their 'investigative' reporting will take them? Frankly I wouldn't take the risk, not when you consider that all we are dealing with is a bunch of impotent little dickheads."

"Perhaps you're right." Stennes then asked. "You are determined to punish your brother?"

"Yes! He betrayed me! He must be punished," snarled Paul.

"I could speak to your father," suggested Stennes. "He has men in his organization who will . . ."

"No! My father is of no value!" said Paul icily. "His little group is good only for nuisance value."

Stennes cocked an eyebrow. "Really," he drawled.

"Really," replied Paul, deliberately imitating the German's drawl. "My father is a bully, and a martinet. He thinks he knows what he is doing, but he doesn't, and sooner or later he will make a mistake and the Military Police will notice, if they haven't already noticed."

Paul shrugged expressively, remembering the veiled threats the Twins had made when they presented him with the evidence of his first, huge, mistake. "My father's activities will eventually be discovered, and while he would not object Matt's being punished, he would not agree to the punishment I want!"

Stennes knew nothing of the threats made by the Twins and Paul had no intention of informing him. The Twins might well be little fags, and The Phantom a nonentity, but they did know people, and they did hate him, and they would do exactly what they said they would do. If anything happened to Matt in Canada, the Twins and The Phantom would come to know of it, and then the shit would hit the fan.

Paul was smart enough not to dismiss the Twins, or The Phantom as cavalierly as Stennes had, just as he was not about to place as much trust in his father as Stennes seemed inclined to do. He asked suddenly, "How much does my father know about your activities?"

"Nothing," assured Stennes. "He only knows that the money comes from me. As to how I earn the money, he knows nothing."

"Then keep it that way," replied Paul authoritatively. "Let him live in his little world."

"You really do not trust anyone, do you?"

"No. My father will roll to save his own neck. He cannot know anything, Edmund. He cannot ever even have a hint of what you're doing, or I am doing. I want my brother's head, yes, but I want it in Germany! My brother's friends have no power, no influence, outside of Canada. Once my brother is in Germany, away from them, they will forget about him and return to being the eunuchs they are. They won't be able to protect him in Germany, and I will wait until the right moment."

"And then?"

Paul rose and as he did so, his robe fell open, to reveal his . . . Paul's penis had risen thick and hard, the sloping glans had turned an angry red, and was slick with lubricant. Stennes eyes widened. The junge was sexually excited by the thought of murdering his brother!

Paul saw where Stennes' eyes were resting and walked slowly forward, shrugging the robe from his shoulders. "You like your boys young, Edmund," he whispered. He stopped before Stennes' chair and reached down to slowly open the man's robe. "I am young, Edmund."

Edmund Stennes groaned as the junge's penis bounced as he breathed. He leaned forward.

"Help me Edmund. Help me destroy my traitorous brother. Allow me to listen to his screams, let me hear him beg for mercy as I cut off his balls and throw them to the hogs!"