The Knights of Aurora is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to places, or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2005 by John Ellison
This chapter contains scenes of homosexual activity between consenting adults, which may be offensive to some readers. If this is the case, please move on to another, less offensive site. If downloading, reading, or possessing writings of this genre is forbidden by local, state or provincial law in your area, please move on. Readers are also reminded that they must be of legal age (18/21) to read, possess or download this story.
As some of you are aware, the first volume of this series, "The Phantom of Aurora" is in print. I hope to publish the second volume, "Boys of Aurora" soon. In order to maintain continuity, and avoid the pitfalls of "publisher's artwork" I would like to invite my readers to submit photographs, colour or black and white, in jpeg format (size 6 x 9). I would navy oriented group photos if possible, or just something you might like to see as a book cover. I can only offer full attribution (or not, the photographer's choice) and a copy of the printed work(s). I look forward to hearing from many of you!
The Knights of Aurora
Chapter 6
The Phantom sat silently, staring at the dark smoky remnants of the small whisky Michael had poured for him. His eyes blazed with an anger he could not express. Slowly his hand closed around the glass until his knuckles whitened and then the glass shattered. The Phantom barely winced as first a shard of crystal slashed the heel of his hand and then the whisky scoured the wound with its harshness.
Michael reacted swiftly as blood seeped through The Phantom's tightly closed fist and dripped slowly onto the cream and blue and gold carpet under the young man's chairs. Quickly Michael found the fine cambric handkerchief in his pocket and pressed it onto The Phantom's hand. "You need a doctor!" he exclaimed. "I'll send for . . ."
"No!" The Phantom snapped, his eyes flaring. "Not him!" He pressed the handkerchief against the wound. "It's nothing," he said quietly. "A little direct pressure . . ."
"Will do nothing!" returned Michael. He ignored the truculent look on The Phantom's. "You are not yet the Prince of the Order, and I am still the Grand Master!" He walked quickly to the door and opened it. In the corridor Alex Grinchsten was standing guard.
Alex had seen The Phantom and Michael leave the terrace and quickly extricated himself from the soccer game - much to the loud protests of Randy and Joey - and hurried inside. His job was to protect his 'principal', not to play football. There was also the added incentive that inside, on guard, there would be no errant little hands slipping up the leg of his shorts when he wasn't looking!
Michael gestured to the young protection officer. "Find Doctor Bradley-Smith and have him come to the office. Have him bring his bag." Alex's face showed no emotion as he turned to carry out Michael's order. "Quietly, Sergeant," Michael ordered. "There has been an accident, and we do not need witnesses."
Alex nodded and hurried off.
When he returned to the office Michael took hold of The Phantom's hand. The Phantom raised his eyes and a small tear coursed his down his cheek. "I can scarcely believe it," he whispered. "That one of us would . . . that a knight . . ." he managed through his anger.
"It is all true, Phantom," said Michael. "Hold this tighter," he directed. "The Gunner has photographic evidence. There are lists of names." He shrugged. "In retrospect it should not be surprising that some of the knights lost their faith, forgot their vow."
"To the extent that they financed a nest of . . . slavers?" exclaimed The Phantom. "They must have known where the boys were coming from! They used their money, their power, to support . . . infamy!"
"Yes, they did," agreed Michael with a sadness he could not truly express.
"And the boys, sir! What of them?"
"Chef has told you a great deal. I have added to your anger, and your anguish," replied Michael. "I can tell you, dear son, that steps have been taken. The Gunner has made arrangements in Toronto, and Ottawa. Soon, very soon, the boys will be freed. A place has been made for them, a hospital . . ."
With the mention of a "hospital" The Phantom smiled, for the first time since he had entered the office. "I donated all the money I had on me to help found a hospital," he said quietly. "I think it was $5.64."
"Actually, it was $5.37," corrected Michael. "You gave it to Chef, who wanted to pawn his ring." He returned The Phantom's smiled. "I have exercised my authority as Grand Master and Chef will not be selling his ring. Your donation has been recorded and allocated to the hospital."
The Phantom nodded. "Good." His eyes darkened. "And the men involved?" he asked pointedly.
"A Bar of Justice has been called," answered Michael.
"Death by hanging!" responded The Phantom, his voice strong. He glanced at Michael. "And whether I am a Prince, or a Knight, or merely a frightened young man, I will be true to my vow."
Michael nodded slowly. "The fear will remain, and that is good. I know that you will be true, as will the others you brought to me. The Order is well served."
"Not by all," said The Phantom.
"It is best not to rush to judgement," replied Michael.
"But there will be a judgement?"
"There is always a judgement," said Michael. "The matter will be looked into."
Before The Phantom could comment there was a short rap on the door and Doctor Bradley-Smith bustled in clutching a black medical bag. "There has been an accident?" he asked, his eyes darting about the room. His hopes could not have worked out better!
"Phantom has cut his hand," said Michael coldly. "Please examine it."
Kneeling, Daniel took away the handkerchief and clucked loudly, "My, my, a nasty cut!"
The Phantom flinched at the doctor's touch but remained silent.
"Come to the desk," Daniel ordered brusquely. "I need a flat surface to work on."
The Phantom sat in Michael's chair while Daniel quickly set to work. He pulled out a small bottle of a dark, coppery liquid and searched for some cotton swabs.
"What's that?" asked The Phantom.
"Betadine," replied Daniel. "Scotch is a good sterilizer, but better to drink." After cleaning the wound Daniel brought out a syringe and a small vial. "Xylocaine. It will dull the wound area while I do some fine stitching." He grinned a horsy smile, all teeth and insincerity.
Michael, engrossed in what Bradley-Smith was doing, and at The Phantom's expression of distaste, did not hear Chef, Colin, Alex and Frank Stockman enter the office. Chef saw the dark look on Michael's face, and the thunderclouds in The Phantom's eyes, and thought, "Oho, sure and something is going on!" He said nothing, however, and sat in the chair recently vacated by The Phantom. Colin stood to one side of the desk while Alex stood close by, his blue/grey eyes, hard and piercing, never leaving Doctor Bradley-Smith, or what he was doing.
When the freezing took effect Daniel deftly closed the wound in The Phantom's hand with four stitches. He washed the wound with some saline and then reached out his hand. The Phantom cringed, thinking that the doctor was about to pat his knee. The Phantom's eyes blazed when Daniel's hand came to rest on his leg, bare inches from his crotch.
Chef, who saw the blackness in The Phantom's eyes, stood and quickly started chattering. "Sure, and a small wound. I've had worse, so I have."
Daniel's hand withdrew . . . quickly, and he began to pack away his needles and sutures, deliberately turning his back to Chef as he did so.
Chef ignored the insult. "Now then, Phantom as the surgeon has worked his wonders, you must come and sample some of the delightful viands and victuals that young Ginger has made for us. Did you know that he comes from a village not two miles hence from me own home place?"
Michael, Colin, and The Phantom turned to stare at Chef, Michael thinking that Chef had finally succumbed to alcoholic delirium. Alex's mouth fell open. Daniel pretended not to notice.
"Sure he knows the same people I do. We had a fine chat, so we did." Chef's eyes never left the doctor as he rambled on. "He even knew . . ." Anxious to distract The Phantom - who looked as if he were about to rip the doctor's head off, Chef thought quickly and spoke the first thing that came into his head. Unfortunately he had been reading a battered copy of a new novelist's work, The Onion Field, by Joseph Wambaugh. "Ah . . . aye, he knew the Anteaters!" he blurted.
Michael, Colin and The Phantom stared open-mouthed at Chef's inanity, not believing a word they were hearing. Frank's eyes grew large behind the thick lenses of his glasses, magnifying them to huge orbs of amusement. Alex's jaw snapped shut and thin smile formed on his lips. His eyes brightened and danced with laughter.
"A fine family, so they were, eleven boys and six girls! The boys were the talk of the town when they all went down the public health for their school physicals! Sure it's said the doctor - a fine man . . ." Here Chef glared at Daniel's back, leaving no one in the room ignorant of the old man's opinion of Doctor Bradley-Smith. " . . . Fair fainted when they lowered their all-in-ones! Like my old Da's Friesian bull they were! And popular with the lassies, although young Liam, the middle lad, he had an eye more for the lads than the lassies . . ."
Daniel turned abruptly and snapped sharply, "Will that be all?" he asked, suppressing a sneer at Chef.
Michael, all but mesmerized by Chef's antics, nodded and waved toward the door. As the doctor, his lips set primly, left the office.
The door had barely clicked shut when The Phantom, followed by Colin and Michael, burst out laughing. Alex, trying to maintain a professional mien, almost choked trying to stifle his laughter. Chef beamed!
"Anteaters!" exclaimed The Phantom. "Wherever did you come up with that?" he asked, standing and moving toward Chef, wanting to give him a hug. "Chef, I can't believe you and how you . . ." The Phantom stopped and looked intently at Alex. "My God! You can laugh!"
A deep blush coloured Alex's face. "Well, yes, I can!" he returned. "I do have a sense of humour, you know!" His words were soft, however, and his eyes glowed. "I just don't show it all the time."
"So it would seem," observed The Phantom dryly. He winced, in spite of the anaesthetic, as he moved his fingers.
"Are you in pain, then?" asked Chef solicitously.
"I'll live," responded The Phantom.
"That quack should have prescribed morphia!" said Chef, rising. "For the pain, which I am sure is more than you can bear." He moved toward the drinks table, eyeing the crystal decanters.
The Phantom, seeing where Chef was heading, repeated, "I'll live."
"Now, now, Phantom darlin', your health must be taken care of." Chef adroitly poured a round of scotch - there was no rum - and began to hand the filled glasses to the others. "Now, in normal times I would prescribe a wee drop or ten of Pusser Penicillin. However, when all else fails a little Scottish wine will do in a pinch."
At first, Alex declined the proffered glass. "I'm on duty," he said with a shake of his head.
The Phantom glanced at Michael, who nodded slightly, took the glass from Chef, and handed it to Alex. "I would be honoured if you would drink with us," he said quietly.
Alex took the drink. "Thank you," he murmured.
"Not at all," responded The Phantom with some emotion. "You are, after all, one of us."
Starting, Alex looked into The Phantom's emerald green eyes. He could not speak, and he could not explain the warm tremor that rippled through his body.
"Come, and sit," ordered Chef equably. "There are things that must be discussed." He paused and looked purposefully at Michael. "Doctor Bradley-Smith, for one!" he finished with a growl.
"He's a scheming prick," observed Colin. "He's up to something."
"So I understand," said Michael staring into his drink. He looked at Chef. "Perhaps it is time?" he asked, knowing the answer.
Chef nodded and Michael indicated seats. "Please sit." He noticed Frank and Alex about to withdraw. "Please stay, Commander Stockman, and you Sergeant Grinchsten."
Frank settled back in his chair. Alex, surprised at Michael's request, found a seat. This was the first time that any of the security staff - so far as Alex knew - had been made privy to anything other than the normal day-to-day security operations. He was also very curious about something he had heard whispers about, something called . . . The Order. Settling behind his desk, Michael spoke softly, calmly and very coolly. "Commander, I have asked you to remain because, quite frankly, if our plans come a cropper, you will be the front man so far as the authorities are concerned. Our new knights, after all, are your cadets."
Frank could have argued that point, but did not. As the Commanding Officer of HMCS Aurora anything involving the cadets would end up on his plate. The new knights, however, were The Phantom's, plain and simple. He was merely the official custodian. Frank smiled. "Once more into the breach, dear friends," he thought as he said to Michael, "Goes with the territory, Michael."
Satisfied, Michael regarded Colin and Alex. "The matter of the doctor will be . . . looked into," he said enigmatically. Then he said, "It is time, however that you, my dear Lieutenant Arnott, and you, Sergeant Grinchsten, be brought into the picture. There are certain events about to unfold that you will become involved with." Michael looked evenly at The Phantom. "You have no choice, really."
Both Colin and Alex saw Michael's look. Colin had sworn to protect his lover and friend, and Alex was a professional soldier. Where The Phantom went, they would go.
Michael held nothing back. As he spoke he observed Colin and Alex's reactions. Alex's face remained impassive. His eyes, however, betrayed him, turning as grey as the dark waves of the North Atlantic. Colin sat, slightly stunned as Michael said, "The men involved will be punished. A Bar of Justice has been called. There is no appeal, no mercy."
As a naval officer, Colin had always known that one day he would be called upon to issue the order: "Shoot!" An order that would send a high explosive projectile, or a surface-to-air missile hurtling into air, an order that would result in death.
Colin was, after all, a Gunnery Officer, and trained to do his duty. He had, as the saying went, 'Taken the Queen's Shilling'. He questioned whether if what he was required to do, as an officer, were the same as what he would be requested to do. Could he, in good conscience, be true to his vow?
Michael sensed Colin's hesitation but said nothing. Each man must come to his own way, in his own time. Michael knew that he was asking a great deal of this young man. He did not doubt that Colin would come to a decision; he doubted that Colin would make the right decision.
Chef had no misgivings. He was a student of mankind in general, sailors in particular. He had judged men before, and while he admitted to a failure or seven, his instincts told him that Colin Arnott had a hidden rod of steel deep within him. He folded his hands over his ample paunch, waiting patiently.
The Phantom remained quiet and determined not to allow his feelings, his fervent love, for Colin to influence him. He could understand Colin having doubts, having reservations, about implementing the Bar of Justice. He believed that Chef had chosen well, that Colin was the right man to be the Custos Principum, the "Guardian of Princes". Colin had demonstrated his courage, had shown himself to be cool and collected in adverse situations, remaining at his post when every instinct screamed for him to run to tear apart the burning pile of deadwood that threatened to consume not only The Phantom, but Matt and Joey and Randy. Colin had remained steadfast in his duty. Colin was a good officer. The Phantom was convinced that Colin was a better man.
Alex for some reason felt that he was included in what he thought to be an inquisition. He stood and stared at Michael. "May I speak?" he asked tightly.
Chef shrugged at Michael's querulous look. The Phantom snorted and stood. He walked purposely to stand in front of Alex. "You don't know it, and I don't know why, but you are one of us. You will hear . . . talk . . . about a dream, about a Tapestry. I will make known to you, when I feel you are ready to hear it, everything you need to know."
Confused, but determined to speak his mind, Alex nodded. "You say that I am one of you, and to me that means I can say what I wish to say?" he asked.
"There are no restrictions," replied The Phantom. He turned to glance at Michael over his shoulder. Michael nodded and The Phantom gently kissed Alex on each side of his face. "Say what is in your heart Alex, speak to us as you would a brother."
Looking deeply into The Phantom's emerald eyes, Alex saw something he had seen only once before: a deep, abiding love of a man for another. More and more Alex was beginning to understand why the boys that were screaming imprecations at each other in the back garden, why the men who were in this room, why the men who laughed at the antics of their charges, why they all trusted this slim, handsome young man. He would speak, as a brother.
"I have known war," Alex began slowly. "I know what it is like to kill a man in the heat of battle, and I know what it is like to kill a man with cold dispassionate purpose. I was not drafted, I volunteered straight out of high school. I was going to save the world." He laughed caustically. "I heard the band playing, I saw the flags flying, and I answered my country's call." His eyes scanned the room. "And I was betrayed, betrayed by my leaders, and by my officers. I was starry-eyed and filled with American righteousness, and I was betrayed. I went to Vietnam determined to do my duty, as a soldier, and as a man, and I was betrayed. I can home disillusioned and vowing never to trust those who think that they lead us." He stared intensely at The Phantom. "You will never betray me, sir."
The Phantom could not reply. He lowered his eyes, and waited.
"I was a grunt, then a tunnel rat, and then a grunt again," said Alex. "I will not speak of what I saw, or what I did. I will instead say this, doing what is right, doing your duty, is the only choice a man has. Anything less is to betray your friends . . ." His eyes brightened as he looked at The Phantom. "Your brothers."
Sighing heavily, Colin nodded. Alex was right.
Saying noting, Colin rose from his seat and walked to the drinks table where he poured a large measure of scotch. He studied the dark, smoky mixture and then turned to confront his inquisitors.
Not yet being privy to the internal workings of the Order, or of Michael Chan's organization, Colin had assumed, quite rightly, that Michael gave nothing gratuitously. Michael could raise a man to great heights; give him honour and mighty power, but only if he were worthy. Colin did not know it but even Stephen Winslow, known to all as 'The Gunner', the man Michael was certain Fate had chosen to be Chancellor of the order, had undergone a searching scrutiny before his name was put forward to the Knights Electors.
Colin studied the silent faces of Michael and Chef, as they studied him, waiting for his words, his thoughts. The Phantom, darting glances at Colin, fidgeted, while Frank Stockman studied the exquisite jade and gold figurines in the cabinet beside which he sat. Alex had returned to his professional stance.
Clearing his throat, Colin gathered his thoughts. "A few days ago, although at times it seems like a lifetime, I was walking along the uppers, minding my own business and, truthfully, trying to understand why I was feeling . . ." He stopped speaking and looked directly at The Phantom. Then he darted a look to Alex, whose eyes seemed hooded, his face impassive.
Continuing, Colin said, "Anyway, I had these strange feelings, and I admit I acted on them with no reluctance at all." He smiled fondly toward The Phantom. "I fell in love, with a man, and just so we're all clear on that point, I am still in love, and I have no regrets."
The Phantom squirmed in embarrassment. Until now Colin had confined his terms of endearment to their private moments together. While Colin's public declaration of his love was a wonderful statement, The Phantom's innate conservatism, and natural caution, gave him pause.
Ignoring his lover's discomfiture, Colin smiled. "After expressing my love, in a way that only another man can understand, I was accosted, loudly, profanely, and rudely, by a large, cherub-like man with the mien and soul of the Devil's familiar!" He grinned wickedly at Chef who, having been called worse, grinned just as evilly back at Colin.
"I was then thrust into a derelict space where the . . . apparition of outrage . . . not only accused me of trifling with the affections of someone near and dear to him - a most unjust and untrue accusation - and threatened a meeting on a dark night!"
Chef barely contained a snicker. Not only did Colin have a lip on him of a Belfast tinker, he had the retentive memory of a Dublin lawyer!
Giving Chef a black look, Colin went on. "Not only was I asked some very personal questions, questions which not even my father would ask, I was again threatened, and called 'some horny little man'! My reply apparently was satisfactory as then the chubby cherub . . ." Once again Colin grinned wickedly. " . . . Changed his tune! He told me that some men cannot follow their heart because God and man have destined them to be something that does not allow them to follow anything but the path set before them." Impulsively he reached out for The Phantom's uninjured hand.
Feeling the warmth of The Phantom's hand in his, Colin stated firmly, and without reservation, "I will follow the path that as been set for me."
The Phantom's eyes gleamed with love. He looked deeply into Colin's wonderful blue eyes and Colin knew that their path, no matter who had destined them to follow, would be long.
Returning to look at Michael, Colin took a deep breath. "When I knelt before you told me that the great gift . . ." He glanced obliquely at The Phantom, " . . . That I had been given was not some passing fancy of a cantankerous old man. I had been given the gift but because there dwelt in me a gentleness of nature, and a firmness of will." Colin gave Chef a "So there!" look. "I was also told that I have a wisdom that belies my years, that I am not afraid to speak my mind, and not afraid to stand up for my beliefs."
Michael now squirmed uncomfortably, wondering if he should choose his words more carefully, or at least with more circumspection when next addressing a candidate knight.
Once again Colin turned, this time addressing The Phantom directly. "I had accepted a gift, a gift that needed a firm hand, for the gift was wilful and, at times, was more 'a pestiferous brat' than a Prince of the Order!'"
The Phantom glared at Colin but there was really nothing he could say. He could, when he put his mind to it, be a "Pestiferous Brat!"
"Phantom, I reaffirm my acceptance of the keepership of a treasure so great that if I hurt you, or offend you, I will risk the wrath of gods." Colin looked first at Michael, and then at Chef. "To that risk I stand and say, bring it on!"
A wave of almost indescribable love swept through The Phantom. He began to rise from his chair to clasp Colin to him when the young officer held up his hand. "I am not finished," Colin said softly.
As The Phantom sank back in his chair, Colin looked purposefully at Alex. "You have said that Phantom will never betray you. That is true." Gesturing around the office, Colin said with conviction, "None in this room will ever betray you, or Phantom or me. They, we, are true knights, loyal to each other, loyal to the Order." A strange, sad look came into Colin's eyes.
"I am the new boy here. I don't know everything, and chances are that I never will. But I do know this: outside, kicking the shit out of each other in what is supposed to be a friendly game of football, is a group of young men who know what love, and trust and loyalty are. They will, without question, risk the wrath of God, man, and lesser beings, being they believe in what they are, in what they do now, and what they will do in the future. "They are the future of the Order, and because they are the future of the Order they will restore the loss of honour, of trust, all lost, not only because of the rage of men, but because of the frailty, the venality, the greed of men!"
Much to everyone's surprise, Colin turned and held out his hand to Michael, who took it, wondering what was coming next.
"There is a poem, little known outside of the Navy," said Colin. "It was written at the turn of the century by a man, named Ronald A. Hopgood. It is called 'The Laws of the Navy'. One of the verses goes like this:
'On the strength of one link in the cable
Dependeth the might of the chain,
Who knows when thou may be tested?
So live that thou bearest the strain!'"
Colin then asked Michael directly, "Have I borne the strain?"
Michael nodded slowly. "You are indeed the Custos Principum. You are a man of strength and honour, Colin Arnott, and you were chosen well." He looked first at Chef, who nodded, and then at Major Meinertzhagen. "And tomorrow you shall be named 'Defensor Princeps'."
"I accept with humility and honour," responded Colin, not quite sure what his new title meant, but he would face whatever came.
Smiling, Michael then said, "The Order will have many princes, I am thinking, and they will need, not only each other, but men of leadership. You are one of them." He glanced at Alex, but did not address him. Instead he said, "And just so you know that I am not the ignorant land lubber you might think me to be, I am familiar with the Hopgood poem." Michael gave Chef a searching look and then said, "You have been told that you have the lip on you of a Belfast tinker. Good! We need men who are not afraid to speak their minds." Then Michael laughed quietly, "However, I am reminded of more words of wisdom from the admiral:
'Take heed what ye say of thy rulers,
Be thy words spoken softly or plain,
Lest a bird of the air tell the matter
And so ye shall hear them again!'"
Colin laughed heartily. He had a very good idea which 'bird of the air' had been chirping and twittering in Michael's ear.
Michael then walked purposefully to where Alex Grinchsten was standing. He placed his hands squarely on Alex's shoulders. "You have endured the unendurable. You have suffered wounds that you think will never heal. You have been lied to and betrayed by your country. What I offer you will, I hope, help to heal your wounds. I cannot change the past, Alex, I can only offer you the future." Michael looked into Alex's eyes. "If you will accept it."
Alex displayed no emotion. His eyes darted about the room. He had never known such a feeling as he felt now. Yet, somehow, he knew that he could not refuse what was about to be offered to him. "I . . ." he began.
"There is no need," cautioned Michael. "Do not make a decision until you have heard what must be told to you." He turned to Chef. "It is time."
Gesturing, Michael led The Phantom, Colin, Frank and the Major from the office. As he closed the office door behind him he could hear Chef's booming greeting to Alex: "Now then, lad, while ye have the look of the delicacy of the Waif of the Vale of Drumcondra, this old 'bird of the air' sees in ye the heart of the Black Canon of Trim! Sit ye down, and we will speak of many things!"
"I cannot believe he said that!" exclaimed Colin as he sat at the table beside Phantom. "Really, 'The Waif of the Vale of Drumcondra!'"
The Phantom giggled. "There are some who say Chef's waifs and canons and knights can only be found at the bottom of the bottle of whatever he happens to be drinking at the time." He looked over the lawns. The soccer game had come to an end and now the players were debating, vociferously, with the officials - Fred, Nathan and Ned - who had won, or lost. The Major, who had returned directly from Michael's office to the game in play, was not helping matters. Michael had gone in search of Pete Sheppard and was nowhere in evidence.
Colin watched the chaos for a moment and then asked, "Alex is going to be offered a knighthood, isn't he?"
"Yep." The Phantom looked at Colin. "He'll make a good one, I think."
A waspish look came over Colin's face. "He will. Any man who has faced down the Viet Cong can face down that fat old fraud!"
"Colin!" exclaimed The Phantom. "Be nice! Chef means well, and he's only doing his job."
"His job?"
The Phantom head bobbed. "He's the Proctor, only I didn't tell you."
"The Proctor? The man who is supposed to gently lead a candidate to knighthood?"
"The one and only."
Colin looked perplexed. "But Phantom, he's . . . he's rude, and grumpy, insults everything in sight and . . ."
"True," replied The Phantom. "It's all an act!"
"You're kidding," said Colin disbelievingly.
"Still true," responded The Phantom stubbornly. "You see, Colin, you have to understand Chef. He's really quite soft-hearted."
"A real teddy bear," replied Colin sourly. "I don't think he likes me."
Laughing, The Phantom took Colin's hand. "You can't be more wrong. He likes you very much."
"He does? Well he sure has a strange way of showing it!"
"As I said, you have to understand Chef," said The Phantom. "If he likes you he rails at you, insults you, calls you all sorts of names - he adores Ray and you should hear what he calls him! Or he'll threaten you with a cleaver, or this huge spoon he has back in the galley in Aurora!" The Phantom grew silent, his eyes suddenly looking onto the vast, green expanse of the lawn.
"What?" Colin asked.
"If Chef didn't like you, he wouldn't say a word. It would be like you weren't there." He nodded with his chin at the fast dispersing scrum of players. "You saw how Chef acted when he was in the office."
Colin's eyes followed The Phantom's. Doctor Bradley-Smith was fluttering about, ostentatiously congratulating the "winners" of the soccer game. Rebuffed by shirtless Harry and Mark, he seemed to be concentrating on a footman, also shirtless, who seemed embarrassed.
"He sure doesn't trouble to hide it," sniped Colin, frowning at the doctor's attentions toward the hapless footman.
Scowling, The Phantom observed as Bradley-Smith and the handsome footman strolled toward the terrace. He snorted disdainfully. "It would seem that the pathway to the doctor's affections is not very narrow, and is not difficult of access!"
"A polite way of calling him a slut!" observed Colin dryly. "And where did that come from?"
"I think I read it somewhere," responded The Phantom absently. His eyes narrowed. "The man is slime and he is up to something."
"Michael knows?" asked Colin.
"He knows, because I told him," replied The Phantom grimly. "The creature is slime, and he is up to something." He turned to look at Colin. "Michael Chan will find out exactly what Doctor Bradley-Smith is up to, and Michael will deal with him accordingly."
In the central control room Michael's face grew hard as he watch the CCTV monitor with Pete Sheppard. The picture was clear and crisp and Michael had no difficulty in seeing the doctor and the footmen cross the terrace and disappear into the house. "Who is the footman?" asked Michael quietly.
Pete Sheppard shrugged. "One of the Maestro's," he replied.
Michael shot a look at his Chief of Security. "He is to be questioned, when . . . when he is done with whatever he is about to do."
Shuddering at the thought of what the footman and the doctor were about to do, Pete nodded. "The doctor?" he asked.
Michael's eyes never left the monitor. He could see that the soccer had had ended and that the players and officials were gathering around the tables of food and drink. "The doctor is here for an ulterior purpose, to gather information, I suspect."
Pete scratched his chin reflectively. He had seen the same sort of thing before. "He's a scout, so to speak. He won't do anything overt to call attention to himself. He'll wait and report to whoever sent him."
"Do nothing until we know what he is up to," ordered Michael. "The man is not a professional. He has already made one error, which was noticed. He will make more."
"And when we are sure?" asked Pete.
Michael did not reply. His long, dark look spoke volumes.
In the smallish bedroom he'd been assigned, Daniel had barely turned the lock when he made his move. The footman, who was a tall, well-built young man with dark red hair, waited. He had long ago learned that his ruddy good looks, handsome features and intriguing smile made him attractive to many people, both male and female. He had been working for the Maestro for five years, had served, in one capacity or another, in houses large and small all over the Vancouver area, and had never failed to "score" in one way or another. He knew exactly what this strange man wanted and was prepared to give it to him . . . for a price.
"You're very handsome," Daniel purred coquettishly. He reached out to stroke the footman's broad chest under his sweat-soaked white shirt. "And very muscular."
"Thanks. Sorry about the sweat?" he apologized with a winning smile. "Those kids sure gave me a workout."
"But not the kind I'm going to give you," thought Daniel lasciviously. "You play very well. I was watching," he said, his voice low and gravely. His hand drifted down to the footman's waist. "What's your name?"
"Quinn Bogart," replied the footman while thinking, "Oh Gawd, one of them! He sounds like Joan Crawford on a bad day!" He feigned an embarrassed smile. "My folks were wrapped up in the Beatnik scene, real 'Bohemians', and infatuated with the movies." He felt the doctor's hand squeeze his package gently and added, "I can't stay long." He had seen the lust in Daniel's eyes and was making his first move.
"Oh," responded Daniel, pouting. He saw the tray of bottles and glasses on the bedside table. "You can at least stay for a drink?" He never removed his hand, his fingers lingering and slowly caressing what gave promise of being a treasure indeed.
Quinn could hear the doctor's breathing and hear his anxious panting. The man's face was flushed and his sloping forehead was beaded with sweat. "I shouldn't," said Quinn, his voice low and inviting. "The Maestro might not like smelling booze on my breath." He deliberately reached up and tweaked Daniel's left nipple. Quinn knew how to reel in this kind of a Nelly.
Groaning, Daniel offered his thin lips for kissing. Quinn responded and when they drew apart Daniel asked, "You will stay, then?" He was all but overcome by Quinn's masculinity, and needed to feel a man in him! "Please?" he whined.
"I can't," Quinn whispered as he again tweaked Daniel's nipple. His hand slid down the doctor's thin chest and came to rest on his trousers hidden lump. "The Maestro will dock my pay if he finds out I'm up here." He pretended reluctance and great desire. "I'd like to, I really would, but I have to help clean the silver for tomorrow's dinner." He felt Daniel's fingers fiddling with his zipper. "I really can't stay."
"Not even for say . . . an hour?" Daniel asked, his hand groping inside of Quinn's trousers for the prize he knew was there.
Quinn grinned. "Oh, I'm good for more than an hour," he said with a low, dirty laugh. Then he sobered. "But I can't afford to lose any money."
The double entendre was not lost on Daniel. Nor was the blatant hint. He withdrew his hand and his eyes came to rest on the night table. "Perhaps if I left a small . . . gratuity . . . say fifty . . . on the night table, do you think you could stay?"
"Oh, in that case, I think I could," replied Quinn, grinning inwardly. Hook, line and sinker!
The words were barely out of Quinn's mouth when Daniel sank to his knees. With shaking hands he all but ripped open Quinn's trousers, pulled down his white boxer underpants and revealed Quinn's delight. It was over eight inches long, decorated with ropey veins, and the head peeked out of a thin covering of foreskin. Daniel groaned with unrepressed desire. He did so love a natural man! Daniel then frowned slightly as he fondled Quinn's balls. They were the hairiest Daniel had ever fondled. "Oh well," he thought as he reached out to slowly push back Quinn's foreskin, "Win some, lose some."
Quinn's hips jerked as Daniel's mouth took every inch of him in. He could feel the man's harsh breathing riffling the bright red hair that surrounded his turgid organ. Quinn knew that while he had remarkable staying power, he did enjoy a good blowjob and would last maybe ten minutes - tops. Gritting his teeth, Quinn tried to stave off the inevitable. His hips began to hump instinctively when suddenly Daniel withdrew and stood up.
"What? Is something wrong?" Quinn asked.
"No, not at all," replied Daniel, batting his eyelashes. "I want something else."
"Oh!"
Moving swiftly, Daniel stripped and moved to the bed. He lay down, his head on the pillow, his hindquarter in the air. He spread his legs. "Do me," he growled.
Shrugging mentally, Quinn took off his shirt and stepped out of his trousers and undershorts, which were gathered untidily around his ankles. He looked around the bedroom. "Do you have any lube, some Vaseline?" he asked as he stroked himself to even further hardness.
"I don't need it," responded Daniel, all but drooling with anticipation of what was to come.
Quinn positioned himself behind Daniel on the bed. As he guided the head of his cock toward the brown target, the wrinkled hole open to receive him, he asked, "You like it doggy style?"
"Oh yeah," breathed Daniel. "And I like it hard!" He looked back at Quinn, his eyes blazing. "Fuck me, hard!"
Leaning down, Quinn reached under Daniel's body and his free hand gripped the doctor's shoulder. He thrust his hips viciously forward and heard Daniel grunt as eight inches of steel-hard man entered him. "Whatever you want, faggot!" thought Quinn as began his instinctive rhythmic thrusting. "Whatever you want!"
Almost two hours later, Quinn Bogart, dressed and fifty dollars richer, quietly opened the bedroom door and stepped into the corridor. Behind him, on the bed, Daniel lay naked, sated, and purring contentedly.
"Always leave them happy," laughed Quinn to himself as he stepped into the corridor. He all but fainted when a broad hand dropped onto his shoulder.
"Come with me," came a gruff voice. Ned Hadfield tightened his grip on Quinn's. "Now!"
The room in the under croft was plainly furnished: a desk, some chairs, and the required filing cabinet. Quinn was told to sit, offered a drink, and then . . . nothing.
In one corner Pete Sheppard sat, waiting and watching. Ned Hadfield lounged against the doorframe, ostensibly cleaning his fingernails with a small file. His eyes never strayed from Quinn.
Behind the desk, Michael Chan sat with his fingers steepled, his dark eyes narrow. He said nothing, and his features displayed no emotion. Michael had used this ploy often. The victim, for lack of a better word, expected yelling, threats, violence. Michael offered silence, calm logic, and a drink.
Beads of sweat broke out on Quinn's forehead. The cold, the icy cold in the eyes of the man behind the desk, was terrifying, so terrifying that Quinn swore that he could feel his testicles shrinking into the sanctuary of his scrotal cavity, and his penis shrivelling into a small tassel of skin. He gulped down the drink quickly, coughed, and waited.
Michael was in no hurry. Haste made for errors, in judgement, in decisions. Doctor Bradley-Smith was in his room, sleeping, according to Ned. Michael was content to let the doctor sleep. The man was someone's agent, of that Michael was sure. Just whom Bradley-Smith was working for would be revealed, in time.
As Quinn squirmed uneasily, Michael asked himself just whom Bradley-Smith could be working for. Logic told Michael that the doctor was hardly spying for his own benefit. He had no connection with any of the traitorous knights, Logan, Hunter, Willoughby, or the late, and apparently unlamented Simpson. His name had never appeared in any of the reports of their doing. The doctor was much too young to have been involved in the orgies in Coquitlam - except perhaps as one of the elderly knight's catamite. Michael dismissed this thought. The Gunner had read the list of names found in Noel's possession. Bradley-Smith's name was absent.
Michael considered the Tongs. Or the Triads. Again, he dismissed this thought. Though the Tongs and Triads were not above suborning ferengis - white foreigners - once again there was nothing to indicate his involvement with them. Michael had considered that the doctor might be a "confidential informant" for one of the government investigative agencies. A quick telephone call to Ottawa, to Rick Maslen, the man who commanded Naval Intelligence Special Branch, had put Michael's mind at ease. Rick had never heard of Doctor Daniel Bradley-Smith. Rick had offered to make discreet inquiries with the RCMP, CSIS, and call in a marker or two with the Vancouver PD, but Michael had declined the offer. Bradley-Smith was what he seemed to be on the surface: a Naval Surgeon. His dossier, meticulously kept by Major Meinertzhagen had noted no affiliations with any organization or person of interest to the Order. Bradley-Smith was a nondescript, ineffectual knight, a cipher, really, kept on the rolls in the event that he might be needed sometime or other in the future.
A quick perusal of Bradley-Smith's dossier told Michael that of the doctor's three sponsors - one a former dean of the Anglican cathedral in Kingston, Ontario - two were dead and one nearly so. Once again there was nothing to indicate that the three men had been involved in anything approaching being nefarious.
There were others, of course, the Italians, came to mind. Michael doubted that Bradley-Smith would be working for the Italians. He was determinedly British, and the Italians rarely worked with anyone outside of their own culture. In addition, the "Family" in western Canada was small, and very tight-knit. In the main, Michael left them strictly alone. Their business interests did not conflict with his, and he was on good terms with the local Don. Michael had, in fact, done a 'service' for the Don, nothing spectacular, and all very gentlemanly. The Major had entertained a certain official of the BC Ministry of Transportation to luncheon at his club and suggested that the Italian construction company bidding on the reconstruction of the ferry terminal was the low bid. If that were the case, as the Major had no doubt it was, why the official's indebtedness to a certain casino would be forgiven and become a surplus, and that a certain young woman, who was known to the official, would be persuaded to return to the reservation and not make known to anyone, the official's wife in particular, the true nature of their relationship.
That left the Vietnamese. Michael loathed them for many reasons, not the least of which was the traditional enmity that had existed between the two peoples for hundreds of years. Michael considered the Viets less than human, vicious, venal, untrustworthy and willing to betray anyone, stooped to the lowest levels of debauchery and depravity, and would sink to any depth to amass power and gold.
Everything Michael loathed in the Vietnamese was epitomized by General Cao Din Minh, who had cheated the Americans, been bribed by the Viet Cong, sold the rations of his own soldiers and, in the dying days of the late war, had shipped to Canada - under diplomatic seal - the coffins of his ancestors, containing not bodies, but kilo bags of heroin.
Minh had arrived in Vancouver well in advance of the horde of refugees fleeing the Communists, bringing with him his wife, his children, his concubines and his fortune. He had very quickly learned the lay of the land and had approached Michael Chan, the "Emperor" of Chinatown, with a scheme to smuggle large amounts of heroin from the so-called "Golden Triangle" into Canada via the Vancouver docks. Minh would handle all the processing, packaging, distribution and payments to the drug lords back home. All Michael had to do use his influence with the Customs officials. Michael would not.
Uncle Henry had warned his nephew that under no circumstances was he to become involved with narcotics. The authorities might turn a blind eye to prostitution, to gambling, to bootlegging, to loan sharking, to the normal vices that all men were subject to. They would not be so accommodating when narcotics were involved. Michael had remembered his uncle's words and warning, and had always refused the generous offers and rewards the trade would bring him.
Michael was aware that his refusal to do business with Minh had gained him a powerful enemy and he also knew that Minh was not a man to forgive a slight.
Yet Michael could not for the life of him see how Bradley-Smith might be involved with Minh. The doctor had spent all of his time in British Columbia in Victoria, where there were no Vietnamese. Granted, a tidal wave of refugees was lapping against the city of Vancouver's shores, and Little Saigon was growing daily. But Bradley-Smith was not involved in any of the growing refugee aid committees or services.
The more Michael thought of the doctor, the more questions seemed to come to mind. In the end Michael decided that there was no point - yet. The Major was busy working the telephones and flailing Joel verbally, urging haste in his quest for anything his computer snooping might reveal about the enigmatic Doctor Bradley-Smith.
Noticing that Quinn's glass was empty, Michael gestured for Ned to refill it. As the tall West Virginian tipped the lip of the decanter into Quinn's out-held glass, the harsh jangle of the telephone broke the silence. Quinn jumped and there was soft clink of crystal against glass.
Michael reached for the telephone and placed the handset against his ear.
"Michael?" It was Joel.
"Yes." Michael's voice was flat and emotionless.
Knowing Michael, Joel immediately began to relate the fruits of his snooping. "Bradley-Smith has two bank accounts," he said. "The first is with the CAF Credit Union." Joel could not help sniffing. "They've only just started upgrading their systems - I think they used an abacus before they discovered computers - and have just started in-putting their payroll data."
Michael said nothing. The silence told Joel that his cousin was not about to say anything that would be heard by Quinn. "Anyway," Joel continued, "There is nothing unusual in the Credit Union account. His pay - all $940.00, less the usual deductions for income tax, pension, and so on, is deposited monthly. There are no questionable withdrawals, just the usual, cash for walking around money, a payment for his car, and so on."
"Go on," murmured Michael.
"The second account, now that is interesting," said Joel. "He has a savings account with the British Columbia Building Society - they have a branch on base - which has a cash balance of $14,652.37. That includes interest."
Michael's right eyebrow rose slightly. "Interesting," was all he said.
"What is more interesting is that the doctor - or someone - has been depositing cash to the account. A grand a month for the past year."
This last was interesting. Michael knew from the doctor's file, meticulously kept by the Major, that Bradley-Smith came from solid middle class stock. There was no wealth in the family, and no trusts or sources of income that would generate anywhere near a thousand a month.
"This account shows nothing more. Just the deposits," Joel finished.
"Keep looking," Michael ordered. He was about to hang up the telephone when Joel spoke again.
"Now, as to Quinn Bogart . . ." Joel was saying. Michael nodded unconsciously and listened. "Tall, an inch or so over six feet, red hair. Not bad looking," said Joel.
"Yes."
"Well, I know him."
Suppressing his surprise, Michael asked, "You do?"
"Michael, he's quite popular in certain circles."
Michael has a very good idea just what circles Quinn was popular in. "Go on," he said dryly.
Knowing what a prude Michael could be at times, Joel decided not to go into too many details. "I called some of my people," Joel explained. "Quinn is self-employed, so to speak."
Michael had a very good idea just how Quinn supported himself, but did not reply.
"He's very discreet, but my people tell me that he is ambidextrous."
Michael, who was still trying to absorb that Joel might have "people", started. He had no idea of what his cousin was chattering about. "I beg your pardon?" he asked impatiently.
"He swings both ways," responded Joel. He'd tried to be discreet, but Michael was obviously miles behind when it came to understanding the lingua franca of gay life. "He sleeps with both men and women, men more than women. He works for the Maestro, as you know, and is very popular. He commands primo fees for what he calls 'a visit'."
"Anything else?"
"Well . . ." Here Joel paused and smiled wickedly. He rarely had a chance to shock his cousin, whom Joel thought was much too straight-laced for his own good. "He's hung, and is a top, although he's been known to bottom if the price is right. He is very good, or so I've been told, and gives value for money . . ."
Michael coughed loudly into the telephone. He was being given much more information than he needed - or wanted!
Ignoring Michael, Joel went on gleefully. "Quinn likes the good life but he's the type who spends every dime he makes. He lives alone."
"Anything else?" growled Michael, closing his eyes and wishing his cousin a most distasteful demise.
"Only if you need to know that if he is being considered a candidate knight, Quinn will need the services of a mohel - or a surgeon."
"I do not need to know!" replied Michael tightly. He hung up the telephone abruptly and regarded Quinn a moment. Then he asked ominously, "You know who I am?"
Perspiration began to cascade down Quinn's face. He knew who Michael was.
The Maestro, as a businessman, was very careful in all his dealings. No waiter - or junior footman, many of them recruited from the gay community - went anywhere near a client's table until they had completed an intensive three-week training course in the Maestro's own academy. Before every function he held a meeting with those chosen to serve, and imparted what he thought was pertinent information about the likes and dislikes the particular client might have. The Maestro's knowledge about his clients was encyclopaedic. He had for years used the services of a clipping agency, read anything and everything he could on the so-called "Society" of lower British Columbia. That Michael Chan was not, and had never been, a part of that society, was unimportant. He was a man of interest and everything the Maestro heard, or read about the "Emperor of Chinatown" went into a neatly kept file.
The Maestro also listened to gossip. Servants were the best source of information and he was not above paying a maid or a butler or a chauffer a small "pour boire" for a particularly juicy piece of information. His own people saw things when serving, of course, and heard things. That Quinn was using his employment as a source of clientele was unimportant to the Maestro. A boy had to make a living, after all. What was important was that Quinn, and more than a few of the other waiters, had access to "pillow talk". Pillow talk often brought some very interesting titbits about very well known people and the Maestro gladly supplemented his employees' pay packets with a small, but significant, bonus, for any titbit of interest.
At the staff meeting, held after the contract with Michael Chan had been signed, the Maestro had chosen his staff, which would be all male. His most experienced waiters would be used. The Maestro had thought to use the brigade of handsome young men he had on call, but rejected the thought. Nothing he had heard, or read, gave any indication that Michael Chan would respond to a ready smile and a large basket! He had included Quinn, and a few others, in the staff roster, more out of keeping his reputation as a caterer who supplied the best than speculation.
The Maestro had made it very clear to everyone that they were not, under any circumstances, to do anything that would offend the most powerful man in the province. What he did in his business was Michael Chan's affair, and not theirs. The Maestro had expressed the hope that he would live a few more years in comfort and expressed the hope that his employees would enjoy the same hope. He told his staff that there were rumours - just rumours - but reminded them all that all too often rumour had a way of becoming fact. Quinn Bogart had listened to the Maestro's cautions, and taken heed.
"I . . . know . . ." Quinn said with real fear.
"Then there is no need to fear me," responded Michael. He looked at Quinn. "What you have been told is not true. I am a businessman."
Quinn nodded, although he did not believe a word Michael said.
Michael saw that Quinn was too frightened to believe him. He decided to take a direct, almost truthful path. "If you know who I am, then I want you to understand that you will not be harmed in any way . . ." Michael paused and his dark eyes bore into the quaking footman. " . . . If you tell the truth."
Swallowing in terror at Michael's calm demeanour, Quinn answered. "We . . . I . . . don't know anything."
"Perhaps, perhaps not," responded Michael with a chilling smile. "You spent some time with one of my guests."
Knowing that Michael was not asking a question, Quinn nodded. "Yes."
"You had . . . sex with him?" Michael's distaste was evident. He saw Quinn's terror increasing. The man was no doubt thinking that he disapproved. Michael did, but his disapproval was not what he wanted to impart. "I am uninterested in the sordid details," Michael said quietly. "I wish merely to know what happened."
"We, uh, we had sex, twice," replied Quinn.
"I know that," retorted Michael. "What . . . did you have a conversation with him?"
"Well, he did ask me some questions that I couldn't answer," replied Quinn, wondering just what he had managed to get himself into.
"Explain," said Michael flatly.
"He, um, after the first time, he asked me if I worked for you. When I told him I didn't, that I was just with the caterer he seemed, I don't know, disappointed. Then he asked me if I thought that there was a lot of security around the place. I told him that yes, there seemed to be, but I didn't know anything about it!" He then almost wept as he said, "How could I? I've only been in the kitchens, and on the terrace! I haven't seen anything, so help me! After I got here I was put to work setting up, and then serving lunch!"
Michel glanced at Pete, who had had a very quiet talk with the Maestro, and Ginger. Quinn had been much too busy to notice too much. Pete nodded.
Rising from behind the desk, Michael walked to where Quinn was sitting. The footman cringed when Michael placed his hand on Quinn's shoulder. "I believe you," was all Michael said.
Visibly relieved, Quinn let out a long breath. "He came on to me, sir, honest."
"I know." Michael gently patted Quinn's shoulder. "You are free to go. The Maestro has decided that there is another function where your services are needed." Then, without preamble, Michael gripped Quinn's shoulder. "You were never in this room, you never had a conversation with me." He glanced at Ned.
Ned put away his nail file and opened the door. "The car's waiting," he said to Quinn.
With shaking legs, Quinn rose from his chair and followed Ned from the office.
"The poor guy probably thinks that he's being taken for the proverbial last ride," commented Pete when the door clicked firmly closed.
Michael returned Pete's smile thinly. He had no doubt that Quinn was telling the truth. Bradley-Smith was an inept amateur, who had been sent on a fishing expedition. The doctor had already made two mistakes. He would make more.
"Speak to Joel," instructed Michael. "He has contacts in the gay community. Bogart is to be watched, and if he talks about what happened here, which I doubt he will, I wish to know about it." He regarded Pete a moment. "Your thoughts?" he asked.
Shrugging, Pete answered. "Quinn Bogart is a dead end. He slept with the doctor for whatever fee he was paid." He left his chair and poured a small drink. "He told the doctor nothing because he knew nothing."
"I agree."
"Bradley-Smith is working for someone, just who, I can't say," said Pete. "His questions about the security force are disturbing." He chuckled. "I think someone doesn't like you, sir."
Michael snorted. "The line is long."
"I can imagine," thought Pete. He regarded Michael a moment. "I am not worried about the patrols, or their timing. That can, and will be changed. I have some new men coming up from the States tonight."
Nodding Michael considered Pete's words. "There must be no overt increase in security. If the doctor has been sent to study our security arrangements, and count heads, let him think that we are somewhat understaffed."
Pete nodded. "They can bunk down in the stables. I'll arrange for the other men to stay well away from the house when they're off duty." He thought a moment. "It's only a matter of time before he notices the absence of the Chinese."
"Of course," agreed Michael. "Whoever sent him has a slight knowledge of my security arrangements - they have hardly been hidden - and anyone who has worked here, or visited here, knows that I have Chinese guards. When Bradley-Smith makes his move, and he will, he will report the absence of the Chinese."
"Leaving the impression that we are under strength, and vulnerable." Pete completed Michael's thoughts.
"Yes, which is why the new men must keep a very low profile." Michael scratched the side of his nose reflectively. "It might be wise to have some roving patrols in the woods. The Vietnamese are not stupid and will come at me from different directions."
"You think its Minh?"
"There can be no one else," replied Michael flatly. "Minh craves the power. He would build an empire but for me. He lost face when I refused to participate in his drug smuggling, and forbade its importation through Vancouver. He has many reasons to want to see me eliminated."
"The authorities?" suggested Pete.
Michael chuckled. "Pete, in time you will learn that the authorities are not quite the fools we think them to be. The RCMP knows what I do, yet they leave me alone because they also know I will never, under any circumstances traffic in narcotics. True, I have interests in gambling, and the unions, and yes, I have 'friends' in the Legislature and the judiciary but, and here is the real reason I am left alone: union corruption, Chinese gambling joints and a bribed Member of Parliament do not garner headlines!
"I maintain a low profile; I do not give the authorities cause to have more than a passing interest in my activities. They watch me, as is to be expected. They see very little. They hear very little, because there is nothing to see or hear. They do not know the true scope of my interests, and they do not know about my involvement in the Order. Discretion, my dear Pete, in all things keeps the authorities wondering, and sooner or later they just go through the motions."
Pouring a small dram of scotch, Michael continued. "It cannot be the Italians. We are on good terms with them, and they have no interest in what I do, as I have no interest in what they do. The Tongs, while not entirely 'loyal' in the conventional sense, are too weak, and too interested in their public image as Samaritans and philanthropists to involve themselves in anything sordid. They are, after all, composed of proper Chinese gentlemen." He laughed dryly. "The Triads are too closely watched in Hong Kong. Their reputation precedes them and the authorities here work closely with the Hong Kong Police. While the Triads would dearly love to establish a foothold here in the West, it simply cannot work. The police keep too sharp an eye."
"So it is Minh."
"Yes. And do not under any circumstances underestimate his cruelty or his ruthlessness. To get to me Minh would cheerfully slaughter everyone who happens to get in his way." Glancing at his watch, Michael said quietly, "Doctor Bradley-Smith is a spy. He was sent here to ascertain if an attack here, at the house, would be feasible. We must deflect any thoughts along that line. When the time comes, the doctor will be fed information, which will ensure that any attack against me will take place elsewhere."
"You're that sure?" asked Pete.
"Yes. Minh wants me dead, so I will present him with a golden opportunity to attain his goal." He smiled coldly. "He will fail, of course."
"And the doctor?"
Michael's eyes became dark, obsidian spheres. His face grew hard, but he did not answer Pete's question. He walked to the door and opened it. "If you will excuse me, I have neglected my young guests for far too long."
For a long time Pete stared at the closed door. Pete felt a cold chill run down his spine. He downed his drink in one gulp and placed the glass carefully on the desk. Doctor Bradley-Smith would very soon learn that Michael Chan never forgot a slight, and never forgave an injury.