Date: Tue, 20 Jan 2004 04:12:22 -0500
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 3f

AURORA TAPESTRY is the third book in a series. It chronicles the lives and
times of a group of men and teenage boys living in an age and an
environment where being gay was to be despised, maligned and scorned. It is
a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or
places, is purely coincidental.

My writing reflects the customs, mores, traditions, prejudices and
attitudes of the times. The year is 1976 and it was a different world. Some
of the attitudes will no doubt offend those who are so determinedly
politically correct that they are unable to conceive that others might have
a different opinion or outlook. Others are so Liberal in their thinking
that they make Hillary Clinton look like Attila the Hen! And then there are
those that are into "causes". Please, do not write me hooting and hollering
about your cause, prejudices, preferences or whatever. I am not into
causes. I AM a grumpy old sailor and I do not suffer fools gladly. Be
warned.

IN 1976 the AIDS pandemic was only just infecting North America. Condoms
were used primarily to prevent pregnancy and gay men never gave a thought
to having sex with a condom. Do not, I beg you, let what was common in 1976
influence your conduct today. Always practice safe sex.

As my writings detail scenarios of gay sex - tastefully, I hope - in
sometimes graphic detail, I must warn that in some states, provinces,
cities and towns reading, possessing, downloading, etc., is illegal, or if
you are not of legal age to read, possess, download, etc., works of
erotica, please move on.

I wish to thank those of you who wrote me and offered their suggestions to
improve my style and writing, especially David and Lee. Your comments are
appreciated and I enjoy hearing from my readers. Please contact me at my
home e-mail address: paradegi@rogers.com

My profound thanks, as always, to Peter, who edits my manuscripts and makes
them better.

******** WARNING ********* WARNING ********* WARNING ******* WARNING

WHILE WHAT FOLLOWS DOES NOT CONTAIN EROTICA OF ANY DESCRIPTION, I HAVE
WRITTEN OF EVENTS THAT DEMONSTRATE ALL TOO CLEARLY MAN'S INHUMANITY TO
MAN. WHEN WRITING THE FICTION THAT FOLLOWS, AND BEFORE THAT, RESEARCHING
THE ESSENTIALLY SIMILAR CIRCUMSTANCES IN THE TRUE HISTORY OF THE SUBJECT
MATTER, I FOUND MYSELF BEING DEEPLY AFFECTED. AT TIMES I HAD TO LEAVE MY
COMPUTER AND TRY TO COMPOSE MY THOUGHTS. I ALWAYS RETURNED, OF COURSE,
BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT A WRITER DOES. HE CONTINUES ON WITH HIS TALE, NO
MATTER HOW DISTASTEFUL OR DISTURBING THE TALE. THESE ELEMENTS ARE ESSENTIAL
TO THE MOTIVATIONS OF MY CHARACTERS.

WHAT DISTURBED ME MORE, HOWEVER, WAS THE THOUGHT THAT WHILE WHAT I WROTE
ABOUT HAPPENED THIRTY AND SIXTY YEARS AGO, IT STILL GOES ON.

PRAY FOR THE BOYS.


Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 3f


Joel stared at the blank screen of the newly installed Cray computer and
rubbed his chin. Behind him Michael, the Major, Gabe and Joe stood waiting
impatiently. Michael had paid a hefty premium and used more than a little
influence with some acquaintances with the Teamsters to have the damned
thing brought from Wisconsin in record time. Joel had then spent two days
typing what was, to Michael and the others, an incomprehensible series of
numbers and letters into the machine. He was, Joel had announced,
reprogramming and he would appreciate it if no questions were asked. After
reprogramming the computer Joel had disappeared for eight hours, returning
red-eyed and grumpy, and carrying an anonymous black box, which he attached
to the computer.

After much typing, grumbling and mumbling in a mixture of English,
Cantonese, Mandarin, Hakka and Curse, Joel sat back and put his hands
behind his head. He did this quite deliberately instead of what he really
wanted to do, which was to reach down and make a few adjustments. He had
left the house wearing a very brief set of underpants and the things were
riding up on him! There were times when a chap really needed boxers! He was
not about to do anything about it, however. Michael would not appreciate
his cousin fumbling around in his trousers in front of an audience. "Okay,
I'm ready," he announced. "What do you need?"

"The money trail," Joe said quietly. "From Willoughby to Hunter to Simpson
to whomever. And what is that mysterious black box?" he asked, pointing to
the box attached to the telephone modem.

Joel grinned conspiratorially. "This is something a friend of mine has been
working on. It's still in the developmental stages but it does work." He
patted the black box affectionately. "Networked computers use the telephone
system. They all have designated telephone lines so if you want your
computer to interface with another, you need to know the telephone number
of the computer you wish to talk to. This baby finds that number for us."

"I hope it's legal," muttered Gabe.

Laughing, Joel said, "It's not even patented. The guy who was working on it
was a little reluctant to give it to me, but I managed to talk him into
it." Which is why it took eight hours instead of six. But then, it had been
a very enjoyable two hours!

Michael did not want to know how Joel managed his little coup, but had a
good idea. "Can we get on with it?" he asked impatiently.

Shrugging, Joel reached for one of the three file folders he had
requested. Nodding, he looked at Michael. "From the information Gabe and
Joe gave me, Willoughby wrote cheques, drawn on the Order's accounts, to
purchase the bogus stock."

"Yes," replied Gabe. "The payments are recorded in the financial records
Willoughby submitted. The cheques were all payable to Hunter, Harjes & Cie,
in Montreal."

Joel nodded and typed in the area code for Montreal. The lights on the
little black box began bleeping and on the screen popped up the telephone
number for Hunter, Harjes & Cie. Joel pressed "Enter" and the telephone
modem began squeaking and burping. Within seconds the blinking cursor on
the computer screen became a line of type: "Enter Password".

Clapping and rubbing his hands, Joel grinned. "We're connected." He opened
the file folder and then looked at the assembled faces staring at
him. "With luck, we can do this the easy way." He pointed at the
screen. "The program is encrypted, as I expected. Since Hunter is part of a
fiddle, he's not going to allow one of his underlings to know about it, and
if I'm right he'd handle everything himself. It follows that he would have
set up a file that only he could access." He tapped the first page of the
small pile of papers in the folder. "The information in this file is
correct?"

Michael nodded. "That is the Order's confidential file on Mr. Hunter. It
contains information collected over the years." He shrugged almost
apologetically. "Some of the information is very old."

"It doesn't matter, really," replied Joel. "I think I have all I need." His
eyes quickly scanned the paper. "I see Hunter is married?"

"It was a marriage of convenience," said Michael. "Banks and bankers do not
care for so-called 'confirmed bachelors'. He and his wife were divorced
years ago. He gave her an uncontested divorce and a huge settlement. As you
can see, the divorce is recorded. The grounds are not."

"She probably caught him in bed with one of his boys," muttered Gabe.

"Is there something you wish to add?" Michael asked Gabe.

Gabe shook his head. "All in good time, Grand Master. When we're sure."

Because Michael trusted Louis Arundel, he trusted Gabe and let the younger
man's remarks pass. He returned to Joel. "What significance does Hunter's
being divorced have?"

"Could be none, could be a lot," replied Joel easily. He looked at the file
folder again. "What you have to understand that is nobody using a computer
really knows how to use it. A lot of people are afraid of them. But, since
computers are the wave of the future, they have to use them and they want
to make life as easy as possible."

Joe thought a moment. "Including accessing their systems," he said. "As the
system is encrypted, they would want to use a password that they can
remember, that is easy to remember."

"Precisely." Joel gave Joe a mighty smile. "Not bad, not bad at all," he
thought. "Wouldn't mind him parking his Florsheims under my bed."  He
cleared his throat loudly, mentally promising to be good. Back to
business. "Most people will use their date of birth, or their wife's, a
child's sometimes, as their password." He frowned. "I see there was a
child, a son?"

"Yes," confirmed Michael. "Adopted. He left home at 18 and joined the US
Army. He was killed in Vietnam."

"The bastard was probably having at him," thought Gabe. He said nothing,
though.

"That might prove useful," mumbled Joel. He quickly typed in Hunter's birth
date. Much to his surprise a series of files popped onto the screen. This
was too easy! "What a jerk," he complained. "He used his date of birth as
his password. So much for security." He began scrolling through the list of
files. "Aha, he's set up a file for Willoughby." He highlighted the file
and another request for a password appeared.

"Not too much of a jerk," said Joe dryly.

"Maybe he's not as dumb as he looks," returned Joel. "Okay, now I start to
work." He turned to Michael. "I'll let you know what I find, when I find
it."

Michael knew a gentle dismissal when he heard it. He motioned for Gabe and
Joe to leave. As he was about to leave the room Michael turned. "I trust
you, Joel. I always have."

"I know that, Michael," replied Joel tenderly. "I won't disappoint you."

******

Three days later Joel, dishevelled, needing a shave and cranky from lack of
sleep, dropped a huge pile of printouts on Michael's desk. Michael regarded
the printouts and asked, "You have them, then?"

Nodding, Joel collapsed into a chair. "All three. They've been screwing the
Order since at least 1973." He shrugged. "Maybe before, but their older
records have not yet been computerized." Then he added in an offhand way,
"I had a look at the financial statements. There are a couple of dodgy
entries you might want someone to look into. I noticed some items that go
back a long way, all allegedly stock purchases in strange companies I never
heard of. None of them seemed to produce any dividends that I could see."

"There is no way to confirm their existence?" asked Michael.

Shaking his head Joel said, "No. As I said, the bank's computer records
only go back as far as 1973. The entries were for relatively small amounts,
which is why I think no one bothered about them. Most were written off as
bad investments."

Michael frowned and then tapped the pile of printouts. "We will look into
them. Our primary concern at the moment is Sporinfabrik, and please,
explain briefly, and in language I can understand."

"Willoughby was playing fast and loose with the stock market and the Spot
Oil Market. He would buy oil at the market price, and I mean oil - tankers
full of it."

"Of course. He wouldn't be interested in job lots!" replied Michael, his
tone indicating that he had a passing knowledge of the oil industry.

"Well, he was making money. Don't forget the US was buying roughly 58% of
its POL needs form the Gulf States, Saudi, Iran and Iraq. He would buy at
the wellhead, say at 1.59 US a barrel. Then he'd sell it on the Spot
Market. On the surface it looks like a small amount but when you're dealing
in tons of oil, it adds up." Joel leaned over and flipped through the pages
of the printout. He stopped and showed Michael dates, names, figures. "Up
until October of 1973 Willoughby traded for his own account. He was not
using Order funds. He didn't need to but then he was making a piss pot full
of money."

"He could hardly do otherwise. All of Europe, the United States, Canada,
need Arab oil," Michael pointed out.

Nodding, Joel continued on. "Willoughby hedged his bets. He used some of
his profits to buy into the Venezuelan oil fields. He also invested in
fields in Alberta and Manitoba, and Texas. I'm sure that he was thinking
that he had it made during the Yom Kippur War and the Arab oil embargo. In
October of 1973 the price of a barrel of oil was $2.90 US. By the following
March it was $11.65. Willoughby had read his history, and saw the writing
on the wall. The Arabs were determined to destroy Israel. They'd been
threatening an embargo for months before they did it. Willoughby, using
Hunter as his broker, and Simpson as his banker, bought oil futures. He
also increased his investments in Venezuela. A sound business move at the
time."

"What happened?"

"The Yom Kippur war, a change in oil production policy here in Canada but
more importantly, in the United States and the nationalization of the
Venezuelan oil fields last year. When the Saudis opened the taps the spot
price of oil plummeted. The Venezuelans are negotiating compensation for
the shareholders in their fields, but so far Willoughby hasn't seen a
bolivar, and I doubt he will."

Michael sighed. "And to think that I always considered the man a good,
conservative banker."

"Not enough to put your money in his bank," returned Joel snidely. "But,
that is neither here nor there. What is important is that Willoughby then
started playing the stock market. Hunter set up a brokerage account for
him. A lot of money passed through that account. For a while Willoughby had
a positive balance. Then the market soured and he began trying to recoup
what he lost in Venezuela and in his other investments. He started selling
short, which means . . ."

"I know what it means!" interrupted Michael with an impatient wave of his
hand. "He sold blocks of stocks that he did not have, gambling that the
share price would fall, and when they did he could pick up the stock
cheaper and pocket the difference."

"Sometimes," replied Joel, a smug look on his face. "Willoughby seemed to
have a knack for picking the wrong horse. He seemed to have the touch of
death. He'd sell short a thousand shares of something at say, $3.00 and it
would rise to $3.15." He laughed gleefully. "His account at Hunter's was a
sea of red until he started 'buying' Sporinfabrik shares."

"So then, Hunter has our money." Michael swivelled his chair and stared out
the window at the rose bushes of his garden. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Because Hunter does not have the money," replied Joel casually.

"What?" Michael's chair spun around. "What do you mean, 'Hunter does not
have the money?' Somebody has to have it."

"Actually, Percy Simpson has it." Joel once again referred to the
printouts. "Percy covered Willoughby's debts with a series of loans. He
paid off Willoughby's brokerage account and with Hunter's connivance, used
'Sporinfabrik' as the vehicle. Of course Percy charged interest, and Hunter
had his brokerage fees. Everybody was happy, except Willoughby." There was
more flipping of pages and Joel pointed. "Willoughby gambled. I found
payments to casinos in Las Vegas, where he was a big roller, payments to
casinos in London, Monte Carlo, and all along the Riviera. Willoughby once
lost 150,000 pounds at Ladbrook's. The debt was discharged by Percy."

"And the Order bought more bogus stock!" Michael glared at the
printouts. "And it is all here?"

Joel nodded. Then a strange look came over his face. "There is something
else, and I don't understand it at all."

"What is that?"

Joel passed a tired hand over his face. "I did a search on all three bank
accounts. I found some very strange transfers to a Swiss bank in Berne. All
were made to a numbered account with the suffix 'PRH-SF'. I don't
understand it because while I can see it if 'SF' is an acronym for
Sporinfabrik, what is 'PRH'? And why such relatively small amounts?
Willoughby was used to dealing in hundreds of millions. These transfers
were all in odd amounts, and all under ten thousand US dollars."

Michael knew the banking system as well as any layman. "Any transfer of
funds over ten thousand has to have IRS approval. The banks are required to
report such transfers. They are not required to report transactions under
ten thousand dollars."

Joel's eyes brightened. "So that's it! I wondered why Willoughby and Hunter
and Simpson were all sending odd amounts to the same account. Then I
totalled them up. On average these three men have been sending at least
five hundred thousand a year to this account. Why?"

Michael thought a moment. "Given that the Swiss are obsessed with banking
security, did you manage to find out anything, anything at all?"

"I did manage a quick peak before the computer shut down on me," he shook
his head in admiration. "Whoever programmed the Swiss Bank's system is a
genius." Then he grinned at Michael. "Not as good as I am," he said with a
grin. "Almost, but . . ."

"Good enough to lock you out!" returned Michael caustically.

Joel looked crestfallen. "Yes, well that did happen." Then he scratched and
yawned. "But not good enough to stop me from finding transfers and
withdrawals through a bank in Bonn. The account is in the name of Peter
Granninger."

Michael's concern for Joel was genuine. "You have done well," he said. "I
shall speak with the Major, and we will decide what is to be done next." He
stood up, walked around the corner of the desk and placed his hand on
Joel's shoulder. "Go on home. Get some rest."

Warmth spread through Joel's body. He reached up and placed his hand over
Michael's. "I wish things could have been different between us, Michael. I
truly wish that," he said, his voice filled with the regret he felt over
their failed relationship.

"I know," replied Michael, a far-away look in his eyes. "But you were you,
and I was destined to be what I became." He squeezed Joel's shoulder
gently. "Go home. Your young friend will be wondering what happened to
you."

A look of surprise came across Joel's face. "Tell me Michael, do you know
everything I do?"

"Of course," replied Michael easily. "You are still my cousin and I still
wish to know you are safe. You do, at times, travel in strange circles."

"Yes, I do," agreed Joel. He stood up and embraced his cousin. "I'll come
back later. I still have to teach Gabe and Joe how to work the computer."
As he was about to leave Joel turned. "Michael, I know that I can never be
a part of your life again, or a part of the thing that is dearest to your
heart. But your goals, the Order's goals, are my goals. We just go about
reaching those goals a different way and I want you to know that I will
help in any way I can."

Joel's offer surprised Michael. He knew that Joel was involved in the
burgeoning, increasingly vocal "Gay Rights" Movement. "The Order is not
confrontational, Joel," he said quietly.

"I know that," returned Joel with s small smile. "But I also know that you
want what I want, what all gay men want. We're not asking for superiority,
because we've always had that. All we are asking for is equality,
Michael. Equality!"

******

Louis Arundel had decided to consult with his brother and discuss not only
Joel's discoveries, but also Gabe's. Albert Arundel studied the printouts
and sheaves of notes presented to him. When he was finished he set aside
his reading glasses. He looked first at Louis, then at Gabe, then at
Joe. Then he shook his head. "If I took this to court it would all be
tossed out." He held up his hand to stifle any argument from the three
other men. "I applaud the zeal with which Joel applied himself, and you and
Joe, Gabe. However, I must point out to you that every scrap of evidence
was obtained illegally!"

"But surely," temporized Gabe, "something can be done. We know what
happened, we know who did it! We just can't sit back and say, 'Oh, well, we
got this stuff without a search warrant, and yes, we did sort of do a
fiddle with a massive computer, so we'll just file all this and hope for
the best'!" He leaned forward and glared at Bertie. "There is also the
little matter of . . ." He stopped abruptly. He was not quite ready to
present his suspicions to anyone except Joe just yet.

Bertie Arundel had been around courtrooms for years. He had also been
around policemen and knew that like a policeman, Gabe was onto
something. He had learned years ago never to question, or press, when a cop
was on the hunt. "Gabe, I want you to understand something," he said,
deciding not to pursue Gabe's real intent. "What you have here proves that
there has been a massive embezzlement of Order funds. But, all of your
evidence, which is damning, is tainted."

"But Uncle Bertie!"

"Gabe, listen to me, please!" He leaned forward and looked earnestly at
Gabe. "There is enough suspicion in the financial statements to bring them
to the attention of the Fraud Squad. I could, as Michael's attorney, call
on one of many friends in the Squad to have a look see. They would, no
doubt, eventually discover much of what you discovered. But it would take
time, search warrants, and a lot of work."

"It would take months, if not years, you mean," returned Gabe
bitterly. "Joe was right, then."

"I told him that what we had was supposition, hearsay evidence,"
interjected Joe hurriedly. "That does not mean to say that I want all his,
and my, hard work shit-canned!"

"There is also the matter of the Order," spoke up Louis. "If Bertie were to
take what he could to the police it would expose the Order to outside
scrutiny. Michael will never allow that!"

Gabe was about to protest when Joe placed a strong hand on his
shoulder. "Your Uncle Bertie is right. Whether we like it or not,
Willoughby can only be brought down legally if we give the police
information on the Order. The same holds true for Hunter and Simpson."

"Then why did we bust our asses?" demanded Gabe harshly. "What good has it
done us? These men must be punished for what they did, for what I know
they're doing!"

"You have no proof of that, Gabe," Louis said kindly. Gabe had not gone
into detail, but he had told his honourary uncle what he was thinking. "And
they will be punished."

"The way Joey Tsang was punished?" yelled Gabe. "Just disappear? Is that
what you want because if it is, I want no part of it."

Louis exchanged a look with Bertie. Bertie regarded Gabe and said, "Would
the manner of their punishment be repugnant to you?"

"Michael would have them gutted like a fish and if stealing money from the
Order was all that was involved I'd give him the gaff! But it isn't and for
that I want them destroyed. I want to see them brought to the bar of
justice, their crimes exposed to the world. If I'm right, and I know I am,
I want them spat on in the streets. I want to see them shunned and
excoriated. I don't want them killed. I want them to live, and every day
they live I want to see them live in fear, to know that just the mention of
their names will send decent men reeling into the toilet to vomit!"

"Jesus, Gabe," gasped Joe.

Gabe wheeled on Joe. "You don't know! You will never know, what I went
through, so don't you ever again 'Jesus, Gabe' me!" He rounded on Uncle
Louis. "You can help me, or not. It's your call. But I am going to Germany
and if the Order doesn't have the money, I do. If Joe wants to help,
fine. If not, that's fine too."

"Are you finished?" asked Louis as calmly as he could. At Gabe's nod he
continued. "Michael has already authorized the funding. Bertie has
contacted Coutts and you have an unlimited Letter of Credit at your
disposal. You can pick it up in London."

"London?" asked Gabe, confused. "I'm not going to London."

"Ah, but you are," replied Bertie. "But only after you visit Alexandria,
Virginia, and before you go to Bonn."

"Am I missing something?" asked Joe, even more confused than Gabe.

Bertie chuckled. "Louis has told me what you suspect. You must go to where
the paper evidence is. The Library of Congress has a huge warehouse filled
with Nazi documents. You might turn up something there. Then there is the
Imperial War Museum in London. They have an excellent collection and, as
all seems to hinge on Germany, you will need to go there and meet with a
chap I know in the Bonn Kriminelle Polizei. He may be able to help."

******

>From Washington, where a search of the archives turned up little, Gabe and
Joe flew to London. They were armed with traveller's cheques, a Letter of
Credit, and letters of introduction to several individuals. Uncle Louis had
written to several ex-RN friends who had sufficient influence to allow them
entry to the Imperial War Museum. The curators were helpful and the
archives cross-referenced but, as one of the curators put it, what they
were looking for could be anywhere, and if they were looking for SS
documents, well, Germany was the place to go. Who knew, they might even
divine the meaning of PRH.

"You have no idea what it could be?" Gabe asked.

"Not a clue," replied the curator. He carefully polished his National
Health spectacles and shrugged. "Since the SS is involved and as the only
SS officers who meant a damn were Himmler and Heydrich, one could propose
PRH could mean Papiere von Reinhard Heydrich. Alternatively the initials
could stand for Projekt Reinhard Heydrich, although the Germans rarely used
the term. Fell, or to use the English translation, Case, was the preferred
German method of identifying a program or project." Another shrug and the
man added, "Whatever it means, you won't find out here."

"I know," sighed Joe. "Germany!"

******

Herr Direktor Lutjens listened to Gabe, again consulted the letter of
introduction from Bertie Arundel, and nodded ponderously. Lutjens was a
huge man, well over 6 feet 4 inches tall, and weighed close to 300
pounds. He was also Director of Eastern Affairs for the Bonn government's
Criminal Investigation Department. His English was accented, but not
unpleasantly so. For several minutes he looked at Gabe and Joe, and then
made up his mind. "We are not unaware of what you are suggesting, Herr
Izard. For years there have been rumours." He held up his hand. "Rumours!
Nothing concrete, and nothing in Western Germany. Oh, we have had our share
of boys and young men going missing, but not on a scale you suggest."

"We have a name," offered Joe. "Peter Granninger."

Lutjens sniffed. "He is dead, and has been since 1934. He was executed by
an SS firing squad in the courtyard of the Lichterfelde Kadett Schule."

"He also has a current bank account with the Bonn Bank of Commerce and
Credit," said Joe.

Herr Lutjens started and his eyebrows rose. "Ya?" He laughed
heartily. "Perhaps it is best that I do not ask how you came by that
information." He sobered and looked evenly at Gabe and Joe. "You have
friends in high places. This I know. It is not often that I receive a
telephone call from the Police Minister of Bavaria asking that I afford you
any and all consideration."

Both Joe and Gabe knew who had influence the Police Minister, but said
nothing.

Lutjens went on slowly. "There are certain things I cannot explain because
of security considerations. I can tell you that Granninger does not
exist. A law enforcement agency in . . . another country . . . asked that
we investigate this person. Apparently they are working a case where
letters were received from Herr Granninger. These letters contained nothing
but bank drafts - in small amounts, never more than one thousand US dollars
at a time. We were able to access the bank's records and determine that the
balance in the account is small."

"Whoever it is, has drained the account. Another dead end," offered Joe.

"Not quite," replied Lutjens. "The account holder gave a fictitious address
when opening the account. That is illegal. We therefore had grounds to
sequester the bank's records. There were large sums transferred from the
West, the United States, Canada, and Mexico, over a period of years. Then
they stopped."

"They've changed banks," declared Joe. He regarded Lutjens a moment. "The
transfers. What happened to the money?"

Lutjens shrugged. "Much of it was transferred to an account in a West
Berlin bank. It was immediately withdrawn."

"Smart," offered Gabe. "Money in, money out. Whoever had the account was
the paymaster. He draws out the money and makes the payoffs."

"In Berlin?" asked Joe, incredulous.

"Of course," replied Gabe. "Despite the wall, and the East German border
police, there are ways to get into, and out of, East Germany." He looked
piercingly at Herr Lutjens. "That is where the boys are coming from, isn't
it?" he asked with deliberate emphasis.

Herr Lutjens puffed out his cheeks and then expelled a long breath of
air. "Ya . . . yes. Also from Poland." He straightened and turned in his
chair. Bending down he extracted a bulky file from the credenza behind his
desk. "You have never seen this file," he said as he paced the file on his
desk. His voice was full of warning, of dangers better left unsaid. "We
have been investigating certain activities that have been brought to our
attention over the years, sightings of groups of boys crossing the border
at isolated places, a string of bodies - all young, all male - found here
in Germany, in France, in the Low Countries and Italy. Post mortem
examinations, where they were possible, indicate that the boys suffered
physical and sexual abuse over a lengthy period of time."

"Whoever is doing this is getting rid of the evidence, or unwanted boys,"
replied Gabe with a shake of his head. "Damaged goods, or too old to sell
and too dangerous to set loose." A sob rose in his throat. "Poor little
guys."

Herr Lutjens sympathised. "Not so little. The bodies were those of
teenagers, seventeen, eighteen. There were 3 bodies that were younger. Much
too decomposed for our forensics people to gain much evidence, but they
were able to tell us their approximate ages. One was 9 years old, the other
two approximately 11 years old."

Joe could scarcely believe what he was hearing. What had started out as
pie-in-the-sky, wishful thinking, was more and more becoming a horrible
nightmare. "And you have no idea who these boys are, or where they came
from?"

"No." Lutjens flipped open the file. "None of the bodies matched boys
missing here in West Germany. We contacted Interpol and they had
nothing. The Sûreté were helpful but the same results: nothing. We had the
same results with the Italians, the Dutch, the Danes, and the Belgians. In
desperation we reached out to the other side."

"And found?" asked Joe.

"The Ostlanders were less than forthcoming, but then they always are. They
are the most totalitarian of Russia's satellites. They cling to power with
a tenacity that you, men who have never known oppression, can never
understand. They will use any method, tell any lie, perpetrate any horror
on any man, woman or child, to maintain their control."

"But you did find something," replied Gabe. He tapped the file
folder. "Somebody talked, I'm thinking."

Lutjens nodded in confirmation. "There is a black market operating
throughout the Eastern Block. We know it, and the Russians know it." He
stood up and walked to the window. "Out there you see a vibrant
economy. West Germany is booming. Our currency is stable and traded on the
world markets. On the other side of the wall it is different. What is
colourful here is drab, deathly pale there. Their currency is worthless
outside of the Block, artificially pegged to the US Dollar. They do not
live, they exist. Their economy is a shambles, a sham, really, each
Communist-dominated state feeding on the others to a certain degree. The
leaders there know it, and because they are desperate for hard currency to
pay for their leaders' luxury existence, and to ensure that there is bread
for the proletariat, they turn a blind eye to certain activities."

"Including the export of children to the West?" asked Gabe, although he
thought he already knew the answer. "So long as they get their cut of the
action they remain blind."

"Yes." Lutjens returned to his desk and sat down. "We reached out to our
contacts in the East and managed to find out a few things. Unfortunately,
nothing we could act on."

"You had informants on the other side who repeated the street gossip,
people who may or may not have been reliable, but were credible enough for
you, or your investigators, to continue looking." Joe shook his head. "And
nothing came of it!"

"In many ways, yes." Lutjens was an honest cop. He would not lie to these
two young men who were well vouched for and seemed sincere in what they
were doing. "What we are up against is that no one has any concrete
evidence. Nothing can be verified. A friend tells a friend that 'Otto' is
involved in something big, and making great sums of money. The friend asks
how and the other friend whispers, 'Boys, but it is too dangerous to talk
about'." He opened his arms wide. "We cannot investigate whispers."

Gabe decided to put his cards on the table. "Herr Lutjens, I, we, believe
that there is an organization supplying young boys to men in the West. We
know of at least one man who has young German boys in his household. At the
moment he has three. We suspect, from banking records, that two other men
have used this organization. How widespread this horror is, I cannot say
because our focus is on three men only. I suspect that it is larger than
you, or I, or Joe, can conceive of. I also believe that friends in high
places protect this 'ring'. We know that at least one government
investigation was shut down because it was getting too close to the truth."

"This ring is well organized, well-protected, and covers its tracks well,"
continued Joe. Much to Lutjens' surprise Joe stood up and began to
pace. "Here is what I think, and please, stop me if you think I'm wrong."
Joe's mind was ticking over at a rapid pace, mentally weighing each small
piece of evidence, trying to fit the disparate pieces into one full,
complete puzzle. "Before the War the Nazis set up an organization under a
man named von Niemen. Using his contacts he recruited young boys from the
Hitler Youth and made them available to foreign investors who had a taste
for boys." He looked at Lutjens and cocked an eyebrow. "Am I correct."

Lutjens nodded, but said nothing.

Joe continued on. "Von Niemen worked for, and with, Reinhard Heydrich. He
arranged for parties, orgies, or whatever. Whatever happened at these
parties was documented and a file kept. The foreigners were men of
substance, of power and influence. I believe that von Niemen extended his
service to diplomats, visiting foreigners of all shades and everything was
reported to Heydrich, with a view of exploiting these men in the future, if
necessary."

Once again Lutjens nodded, but said, "The war intervened. The foreigners
stopped coming."

"To Germany," replied Gabe forcefully. "But not to Switzerland. We know
that at least one of the men we are investigating visited Switzerland
during the war."

"The Swiss were neutral and enjoyed good relations with Germany," reminded
Joe. "They laundered German gold and administered German accounts. The
Swiss never closed their borders to German nationals - except Jews - and a
German with the right papers, with the right patron - Heydrich for example
- could and did cross the border at will."

"The war ended. Heydrich was dead, von Niemen executed by the Russians,"
Lutjens pointed out. "And the supply of boys was no longer available."

"True," agreed Joe. "But, and I think I'm right in this respect, the demand
was still there. There were still men willing to pay large sums of money
for boys, pre-pubescent and teenaged. I think they contacted whoever was
still alive from von Niemen's organization, and there were because he did
not act alone, and made arrangements. I recall reading that some nine
million boys served in the Jugend. They did not all die in some
Gotterdamerung of a last stand."

Gabe picked up on Joe's line of thought. "And of those who survived, how
many had already been recruited, had already participated in von Niemen's
parties and had sex with men? I don't know what percentage of those boys
who served in the Jugend was homosexual, but some of them had to be. They
participated because they wanted to, or just to satisfy their own needs. As
for the others they participated, whether out of love for the Fuehrer, or
to live the good life. Sex, money, good food, all are a hell of a motivator
when you're fifteen or sixteen and living on potato soup."

"The reason why the boys did what they did is not what you're getting at,
though, is it?" asked Joe.

"During the war the boys were recruited and because they'd been brainwashed
into believing that Hitler was their god, they went along with what was
asked of them." Gabe pointed out the window. "After the war, Germany was in
ruins. There was no work, no food. People lived in bombed-out shells. I
think that whoever was left from Niemen's organization saw the desperation
and saw an opportunity. I think that he, or they, found the boys from the
old days, and put them to work. Only this time they did it for money. A
great deal of money!"

"It is a logical assumption." Lutjens had been thinking the same
thing. "The whole of Germany was an economic and social ruin in 1945. Men
and women would do anything for food, for shelter. They were selling their
bodies for a packet of American cigarettes so yes, I can see that if a boy,
or a young man was offered a substantial sum to 'party' again with a
foreigner, or even a wealthy German, he would do it. The promise of a full
belly, a warm bed in a warm room, and a few marks, works wonders."

"Then, as the years passed, and the German economy strengthened and grew,
and the German police apparatus became more and more efficient, the supply
of boys began to dry up." Joe sat down again and looked at Herr
Lutjens. "While the ring could, and still did, recruit Western Germans, the
demand was such that they needed a new supply of fresh boys."

"So they went recruiting," added Gabe. "They went to countries where the
economy was stagnating, where a piece of bread is just short of a luxury. I
think that the network, or at least a part of it, was already in place. Not
all the Nazis ended up at the end of a rope or in front of a firing
squad. I think that some of them ended up working for the Communists. Old
contacts were reminded of their past, money exchanged hands, and boys were
found and smuggled across the border."

"It would take a great deal of money," argued Lutjens. "Remember, there was
great risk for anyone found dealing with the West. Death would have been
the least of it!"

"True," agreed Joe. "Not to mention the money needed to establish safe
houses where the boys could be groomed."

"Groomed" asked Gabe and Lutjens at the same time.

"Groomed," repeated Joe. "We have only to look at the boys that we know
were supplied to . . ." He hesitated to name names just yet. " . . . The
man we are investigating. His boys travel with him to posh resorts and to
places where a peasant would stand out like a sore thumb. I think these
boys were recruited, taught how to dress, to eat, to talk and then were
sold to the highest bidder. We are talking top of the line, quality
merchandise. If you were paying thousands of dollars, or marks, or pounds,
you'd want value for money. These boys are being used for a long period of
time. They have to fit in with the lifestyle of the man who buys them. In
Canada we have street boys, we call them 'Rough Trade'. In England they're
called 'Rent Boys'. They can be had for a few dollars or pounds and found
on just about any street corner. A man will invest a few dollars for their
services in a grotty hotel. He will not bring them to his home! The boys we
are talking about live with the man who bought them."

"And the bodies?" asked Lutjens.

"Mistakes, the cost of doing business," replied Joe grimly. "Boys who
either could not, or would not co-operate once they found out what was
required of them. Perhaps boys who heard too much, knew too much about the
men who abused them, or boys who had outlived their usefulness. They were
liabilities and in the business we are talking about there can be few
liabilities, and fewer loose ends. There is too much money involved, and
too many important people involved, to have any loose ends."

Lutjens agreed. "So, then, we know what is going on. We just cannot prove
it. My investigation has come to a dead end."

"Not necessarily," replied Gabe. "You spoke with people in East Germany?"

"Yes."

"They supplied information, but no proof?"

"That is correct, Herr Izard," replied Lutjens. "Any proof would be in the
hands of the STASI, or the KGB. They have spies everywhere and while they
might know a great deal, they do not act on their information unless it is
to their advantage."

"Nor would they act on it if they were a part of the thing, or if some of
them were utilizing the service." Gabe reached into the inner pocket of his
suit jacket and withdrew he envelope containing the Letter of
Credit. "Money talks. Let it talk to some of your contacts in East Berlin."

"It will take a great deal," replied Lutjens slowly. "And in American
dollars."

Gabe returned the envelope to his suit pocket. "We will want evidence, not
supposition or conjecture. Files, transcripts, whatever, evidence that we
can use in court. Whatever you obtain you share with us. What you do with
the information is up to you. What we do with it is our business."

Lutjens recognized an opportunity when he saw it. He stood up and held out
his hand. "Go to Berlin and wait. You will be contacted when the
information is to hand."

******

Berlin was a city of contrasts. West of the Brandenburger Tor was the
Kurfurstendamm, vibrant, full of life, lined with smart shops and popular
outdoor cafés. The western side of the city seemed filled with light at
night, neon signs flooding every boulevard with colour. The great
Wilhelmine buildings were, for the most part, gone, bombed into nothing
during the war. The skyline seemed to be a sea of cranes as Western money
poured into the three Allied sectors, rebuilding, restoring, more and more
towers rising into the sky. The parks of Berlin, the Tiergarten, the
Charlottenburg Gardens, once again rang with the laughter of children, the
muted sounds of couples in love, full-bellied laughs of Berliners enjoying
life.

To the east of the Brandenburg Gate was . . . nothing. Street after street
of drab, grey buildings led to other streets of drab grey buildings. To the
west was life and colour. To the east death and drabness. To the west the
streets roared with life, filled with smart motorcars and beautiful people
in designer clothes. To the east, ubiquitous Wartburgs sputtered and
coughed spasmodically, driven by ashen-faced men who had waited years for
their names to come up on a list. To the west the shops were filled with
luxury goods, the beer gardens overflowing with strong, German beer. To the
east there were no shops filled with anything but bread, suspect meat and
wilting vegetables.

There was rationing of everything from toothpaste to toilet paper and long
lines formed for seemingly no purpose informed any passer-by that
something, anything, had suddenly become available and no one ventured from
their ill-heated flats without a string bag in the event that the shops
might suddenly have something worthwhile in them. To the west the people
laughed and ate and danced and sang in their expensive, designer
clothes. To the east the people despaired, ate mouldy bread, drank watery
beer and prayed for their eventual deliverance from their Russian masters,
and that the ill-fitting, baggy suits and dresses would last another year.

Gabe and Joe checked into the Kempinski Hotel Bristol on the Ku-Damm and
waited. To pass the time Gabe and Joe went sightseeing. They walked in the
Tiergarten, and along the banks of the River Spree. They visited the wall
that had divided the city since 1961 (and where John F. Kennedy had
announced to the world that he was a Berliner, much to the amusement of the
cynical Berliners. Neither the president nor his aides had realized that
Kennedy had called himself a doughnut). They ate well in the hotel dining
room, drank coffee on the wide avenues, and waited. Lutjens had warned them
that it would take time to obtain the information they felt they needed, if
it could be obtained at all.

Gabe was a bundle of nerves after the third day of their stay. He had, at
first, refused to leave the hotel room. Joe managed to talk him into going
for short walks and while Gabe acquiesced, he still headed for the front
desk the moment he walked into the hotel lobby. At night Gabe paced their
spacious room or tossed and turned in his bed.

Joe tried to remain calm. Somebody had to be calm. He tried to reason with
Gabe. He tried everything he could think of to take Gabe's mind off of
their wait. Nothing seemed to work and by the sixth day he was all but
about to put a sedative into Gabe's coffee when Lutjens appeared lugging a
suitcase. With as much drama as a German ever demonstrated, Lutjens opened
the case to reveal a mass of papers.

Gabe's elation quickly turned to despair. Lutjens had provided copies of
documents, not originals.

"Copies?" Gabe raged at Lutjens. "Ten thousand fucking dollars for
photocopies?"

"Now Gabe," intervened Joe with some trepidation. "At least we have a
beginning."

"No!" shouted Gabe. "Over and over Uncle Louis and Uncle Bertie have
stressed that we must have incontrovertible proof, rock solid evidence that
would stand up in court!" He waved his hand at the open suitcase. "Any
competent ambulance chaser would have these thrown out of court! There is
nothing to guarantee that they are authentic copies of authentic
documents." He glared at Lutjens. "Unless you have someone prepared to
swear that they are?"

Lutjens shook his head. "You know that is impossible, Herr Izard. The man
who obtained these documents risked torture and a firing squad, not only
for himself but also for his family. The STASI do not take kindly to their
archivists copying secret files." He nodded at Joe. "And as Herr Hobbes has
said, it is a beginning. Here you have names, dates, exact information. It
is something to build on."

Gabe reached into the case and brought out a document. "I could," he
growled, "if I read German!"

Lutjens reached out for the document. He found his spectacles and scanned
the stiff paper. "This is dated 24 May 1943. It is a report from an
SS-Untersturmfuhrer, Weidemann, to von Niemen, reporting that the 3 Jugend
met with the Kanadian's, Herr Simpson's, approval."

"Did you say 'Simpson'?" asked Joe, all but bounding from his chair.

"Ya. Simpson." Lutjens pointed to the name. "He was staying at the Hotel du
Lac in Basel. Weidemann delivered 3 boys to this Simpson at the hotel." He
put the paper aside. "There is a follow-up report which is quite
graphic. The boys were required to write down everything that was done to
them, everything that was said."

"How much of this . . ." Joe indicated the papers. "How much have you
read?"

"I have read little. I only received the case at 0300 hours this
morning. What I did read was revolting. Hundreds of young men and boys were
provided to satisfy the perversions of visiting foreigners. There are
detailed reports of orgies at von Niemen's estate in East Prussia, orgies
in hotels in Berlin and other places before the war. Boys, boys, hundreds
of boys!" Quite uncharacteristically Lutjens burst into tears. "I am
ashamed to be a German! To think that Germans, men of culture, of
intellect, could do such things!"

Gabe, startled at Lutjens' outburst, went to the drinks cabinet and poured
a round for each of them. When Lutjens had calmed down, he asked
quietly. "You know who the men were who recruited the boys. You know whom
the boys were recruited for. We are interested in three men only. Help us
find the documents we need."

Lutjens took a large swallow of his drink and laughed harshly. "That is the
easiest part of it! But, my young friend, you will not believe the men
involved! There were Americans, Canadians, British, French, businessmen,
attachés, and diplomats. Men of substance, important men then, and
important men now!"

"Many of whom would still be alive," exclaimed Joe. "Simpson is what, 90?
He still has his boys and there is nothing to make me think that when the
war ended so did the interest of these men in boys. They still want boys,
they are still being supplied with boys and if I miss my guess, many of
them are still in positions of power."

"They are," replied Lutjens. From the side pocket of his jacket he withdrew
a small notebook. He opened it and handed the notebook to Joe. "Names. Men
who are, as you say, still in positions of power in their home countries."

Joe read some of the names and whistled. "Jesus! Even I recognize some of
these people."

Gabe looked over Joe's shoulder and his eyes scanned the list. He stopped
at one and snorted. "The sixth man down is the Minister of War for . . ."

"And the 10th is an Assistant Deputy Minister in the Finance Department in
Ottawa," interrupted Joe. "I've met him. He's a prick."

"He is a prick that likes boys," snapped Gabe. He looked at Lutjens. "We
will need help in translating these papers. Our focus is on a man named
Simpson. Percy Simpson." He idly rifled through the papers. "I assume you
have copies?"

"Yes. We will need them for our investigations," replied Lutjens. He looked
uncomfortable. "There is something else."

"And that is?" asked Gabe.

"There is another file, which my agent could not access. It is a file on an
operation, a joint STASI/KGB operation."

"The Russians are supplying boys?" gasped Joe, not wanting to believe that
the Russians, no matter how reprehensible they had been in the past, would
do such a thing.

"They are. Or at least they are allowing the STASI to recruit boys. Sex is
an excellent espionage tool. The Russians have a school for spies where
they train their agents, women and men, in the art of seduction. As far as
they are concerned they have a perfect vehicle for recruiting agents in the
west. The STASI recruit the boys and send them out through their agents in
Germany. The boys are supplied to men of consequence. It costs the Russians
nothing because these men are paying large sums of hard currency, which the
Russians share. They can now suborn these men, blackmail them into
providing intelligence."

"A very convenient arrangement for all," said Joe sarcastically.

"Except the boys," said Gabe. "Except the boys . . . "

****** Hermann Lutjens had not always been a bureaucrat, sitting behind a
Swedish modern desk growing fat and bald. He was the son and grandson of
policemen, and it was natural that when he graduated from the Gymnasium he
would join the police force. As a probationary officer, and later as a
detective, with the Hamburg Police, he had seen the seamy, fetid, underside
of life. He had dealt with whores, pimps, thieves, embezzlers, and
criminals of every description. He had, in the course of his career, seen
death. Death was an ever-present part of a policeman's life. People killed
themselves, sometime neatly, sometimes messily. The automobile had added
its share to the statistics, and the carnage of the Autobahns was at times
unbelievable. People also killed other people although, thanks to the
stringent and rigidly enforced gun laws, the weapon of choice was usually a
knife, an axe, a hatchet, sometimes a sword and, sometimes, blunt
instruments. Very rarely were handguns used and the murder rate in Germany
was low. Lutjens knew that there were cities in the United States whose
murder rates for a week exceeded all of Western Germany's for a year!

Of all the criminal cases Lutjens had investigated the ones that had
bothered him the most were those involving children. As a trained
investigator he was not supposed to show emotion. He was to investigate
slowly, carefully, and methodically, documenting each and every piece of
evidence uncovered. In his time Lutjens had investigated several cases
involving children, cases where parents murdered their children because
they had become a burden, or in a fit of rage had flung their squalling
child at a wall. Physical abuse was the most common crime, although
children were abused sexually almost every day. Selling a child was not
unknown, pimping a child was all too common, but these cases usually
involved prepubescent boys and girls. Many times children were sold, or
pimped, because the parent, or guardian, abused drugs or alcohol and needed
the deutchmarks to feed their own perverse habits. That teenaged boys and
girls sold their bodies on the streets and in brothels was hardly a
rarity. Flung from their homes for a variety of reasons, they had to
survive and to survive they sold their bodies.

All these things Lutjens understood, just as he understood that individuals
committed crimes, that very often their crime was committed out of one
necessity or another, or in the heat of passion. There was no
co-ordination, no concerted effort, really, no pattern of criminality and
abuse. Until now.

Lutjens tried to remain calm, and to remain professional. He was a
policeman, and a policeman did not lose his composure. He would record
methodically, professionally, the evidence. He would remain focused. He
told himself that he was a professional, a man who had seen it all, who
should never be surprised at the horrors one human was capable of
perpetrating on another human. Still he ran to the toilet to weep, or to
vomit at what he read.

PRH was a code for an operation that had begun in 1934 by Reinhard Heydrich
and the Graf von Niemen. Hitler was determined to bring Germany back to its
place of dominance in Europe and, if he had anything to say about it, the
world! The factories and workshops would hum again. The shipyards of
Hamburg and Bremen would once again send freighters and liners sliding down
the ways. The railway would be modernized, the road network expanded. The
Army would be re-armed and enlarged. New warships, the likes of which the
world had never seen, would be built. An air force, the Luftwaffe, would be
created. The slums would be cleared, new cities built, the workers would be
given jobs and bread and for a thousand years the world would tremble at
the very mention of the Third Reich.

This had been Hitler's dream. Germans of every political persuasion -
except for the Communists - joined him in this dream, supporting him,
providing him with money and rhetoric. The industrialists of the Ruhr lined
up with chequebooks in hand. Siemens, Krupp, Farben, they were all there
and they all bemoaned the fact the while they supported the Reich
Chancellor, and dreamed of the day when Germany would once again be strong,
they were constrained to advise that rebuilding a country from the ruins of
political collapse, war and inflation, would need outside
investments. Hitler was a madman, but he was no fool. He knew enough of
world economics to know that Germany, which had few natural resources,
would need to attract massive amounts of foreign money for his plans to
succeed, loans, from governments, from companies in the New World, flush
with profits from the war, would provide the cash, as would the Jews, who
were closer to home and could be plundered with impunity.

Hitler realized that it would be in the best interests of Germany and the
Nazi Party if foreign investors were pampered, wined, dined, and cosseted
in every way. Men were men and it did not matter if they came from America,
or Canada, or England, or wherever. They would respond to the proper
stimuli, not the least of which was women. Sex was a great motivator and
the Nazis had long ago learned to use it well.

As he always did, Hitler turned to his most trusted henchmen, Himmler, and
Himmler's creature, Heydrich, to carry out his orders. Between them they
arranged everything. They quickly determined that sex came in an infinite
variety of appetites. Most of the foreign visitors and diplomats preferred
women and for those who liked women discreet, well-appointed and
well-stocked brothels and clubs were set up, where every taste was catered
to.

Himmler and Heydrich also realized that there were men who would not be
interested in women. Homosexuality was hardly an unknown and neither
Himmler nor Heydrich were ones to cringe at using homosexuals if they
served a purpose. Had not they used Roehm and his SA boyfriends?  Just as
the SS had used homosexuals to infiltrate the inner circles of the SA, the
SS would use homosexuals to gain insight and information on the thinking
and habits of their foreign visitors.  At first, the scheme went well. As
time went by, however, Heydrich learned that a great number of foreign
visitors preferred boys, pubescent boys for the most part. Many of them
also demanded a different boy, or boys, every night. The men were also
extremely wary of the Nazis. These were men of substance and position, men
who had gained prominence and power through shrewd manipulation of
power. They were not fools, and they did not trust the young men sent to
them. After all, their very existence depended upon living two lives. Their
public personas were ones of probity, of service, of propriety. Their
private activities were ones of debauchery and perversion and they could
not risk discovery. In their home countries, just as in Germany, discovery
would mean ruin and prison. If they could not trust their own governments
back home, why should they trust the Nazis?

Somewhat frustrated, Heydrich was tempted to shut down this part of his
espionage operation. Graf von Niemen, however, who had been tasked with
providing the party venues as well as recruiting the young men and boys,
advised otherwise. So what if the foreign guests were not talkative, or
given to leaving incriminating or important documents lying about? This
should have been anticipated. That it had not been was of little
consequence. The foreign visitors still had authority to grant massive
loans. They still had influence with their home governments. Let them keep
their dirty little secrets, which could be used against them if and when
the time came. Heydrich recognized the validity of von Niemen's argument
and told the man to take charge.

What followed was revealed in the papers that Gabe had paid ten thousand
dollars for. Von Niemen, with Heydrich's backing, set up agents in every
major city. They observed, and procured boys from the most readily
available source: the Jugend and, later, the Wehrmacht Cadet schools. That
a certain percentage of the boys would participate because they were
homosexual was expected. Other methods, bribery, promotions, extra rations
for the boy's families, were used. Von Niemen also used the fanaticism for
Hitler engendered in the boys by their leaders and teachers and
parents. Each boy believed in the Fuehrer with his heart and soul. Each
boy's catchphrase was, "My life for the Fuehrer!" Von Niemen used their own
ideology and it was an easy thing to persuade boys to promise their lives,
and to give their bodies for the Fuehrer.

By 1937 von Niemen's organization could provide boys of every age and
temperament at any time, in any place in Germany. A telephone call would
bring boys to the luxury hotels the foreign investors favoured, or to
luxury villas sequestered in every large city. A Jugend "holiday" camp was
set up on a parcel of land donated by von Niemen, which just happened to be
an easy walk from his schloss in East Prussia, and for a time von Niemen's
operation provided a wealth of information and documentation that would
come in useful in the future.

At first the outbreak of war threatened to close down von Niemen's entire
operation. The primary sources of investment income had dried up and
Heydrich, for all is ruthlessness, had felt uncomfortable pimping boys for
foreign perverts. Von Niemen pointed out that while the British, and Empire
guests were gone, there were still Americans, not to mention Italians,
Rumanians, Hungarians and assorted Turks and Muslims who still needed
watching. Much scaled back, the organization continued to supply boys to
those willing to trade favours or, more and more, cold hard foreign
currency.

While hardly flourishing, von Niemen's organization continued. After 1941
von Niemen concentrated much of his efforts on supplying boys to visitors
in Portugal, Spain, and Switzerland. Exit visas were not a problem, even
after Heydrich's assassination in 1942 by Czech partisans (in honour of his
patron von Niemen renamed his organization "Projekt Reinhard
Heydrich"). Entry visas were equally easy to obtain. A reminder of past
invitations to parties at the Adlon or the Bristol, in the right ears in
the right embassies worked wonders. And the money continued to roll in.

Von Niemen was a forward looking man and made plans for the future. The war
began to go wrong and it was evident to any fool who bothered to look that
Germany was doomed. Von Niemen used blackmail, whatever means he could, to
safeguard his organization and to ensure that even when the war was lost,
the Projekt would continue. After all, men would still pay well for boys
and sooner or later they would come looking for what they needed. Von
Niemen planned to be there when they came calling.

Von Niemen had planned for many contingencies except the Russians, who
found him cowering in a cellar when they stormed Berlin. As a high-ranking
SS officer he was subject to summary execution. That he was not shot on the
spot was surprising to him, but not to the NKGB, who had their own reasons
for keeping him alive. The Germans were not the only people skilled in
espionage and the Russians had agents in place throughout the war. They
knew what von Niemen had been up to. The Russians wanted his records. They
too knew the value of blackmail and they knew that sooner or later there
would be a confrontation with their erstwhile Allies in the West. Von
Niemen's reports would be a goldmine of espionage opportunities.

After a brief session of "Special Interrogation" von Niemen gave the
Russians what they wanted.

******

"It to hard to believe that the boys went willingly," observed Gabe on the
fourth day. "They allowed themselves to be recruited!"

Lutjens nodded sadly. "In order to judge, you must have lived through the
times. Remember that these impressionable young children were assaulted on
all sides by propaganda. They had it in their schools, in their homes, in
their churches. They were taught to believe in racial superiority, in the
superiority of being German." A pained look crossed Lutjens' face. "I was
very young, but I heard the propaganda. If the bombers had not come, I
think I would have been a believer!"

Joe looked pensively at Lutjens. "You were what, ten, twelve at the time?
How could you know of the horrors?" he asked kindly.

"We knew," spat Lutjens. "We had eyes, and ears. We knew about the
deportations, about the Jews being sent to the East! We knew that they were
not coming back. We knew about the camps. But we believed and we let it
happen. We were good Germans, after all.  But we knew!"

"Those who were responsible were punished," offered Joe.

"Nein! Not all of them," hissed Lutjens. "Von Niemen is dead, yes. But his
organization lives on."

"Then we must do what we can to see that it is destroyed," replied Gabe,
his face a mask of fury. "You have the means." He waved a file of papers at
Lutjens. "You have names, times, dates, places. Not all of the boys are
dead. The Russians didn't kill them all!"

Lutjens eyes watered. "No, but we Germans may have!"

Joe stared at Gabe who stared back. "What? What do you mean?" demanded
Gabe.

Lutjens shuddered as he picked up a small pile of papers that he had put to
one side. "Many of the boys went willingly, and for a variety of
reasons. This we know. And then there were these boys."

"I still don't understand." Gabe took the papers and leafed through them
quickly. "They look like the usual reports."

"No." Lutjens retrieved the papers and pointed to the top page. "From time
to time one of the boys would object to what he was being asked to do by
his 'friend'. This boy, Horst Kai Menkes was sent to entertain this man
. . ." He pointed at the name written in the report.

Gabe read the name and paled. "Jesus! I know who he is. He was just
appointed to the NATO Secretariat!"

"And now you know why the Russians were so anxious to obtain von Niemen's
records," murmured Lutjens. "But that is not what I am talking about." He
pushed back his chair and walked to the wide windows overlooking boulevard
below. "The man in question had, and one assumes still has, a scatological
fetish. Horst had no illusions of what was required of him and made no
objections when he was fellated, or anally penetrated. He did not object to
sodomizing the man. This was expected and he did these things because he
was being well rewarded - his older brother was fighting on the Eastern
Front and would be transferred home if Horst co-operated."

"A high price to pay," said Joe. "Horst must have been very dedicated."

Lutjens ignored Joe's flippancy. "Horst was an old hand at pleasing his
men. He was also an exceptionally youthful boy - perhaps the word 'pretty'
best describes him. According to this report he was given many presents and
his clients were very happy with him."

"Until this . . . creature came along," snarled Gabe.

"Ja. This . . . I cannot call him a man so 'creature' is the best way to
describe him . . . demanded that Horst . . . defecate on him, urinate on
him, urinate in his mouth so that he could drink . . ."

Joe's stomach flipped and he barely made it to the toilet. When he returned
his face was ashen and his forehead sweaty. "I think I get the idea," he
managed as he sank to the bed. "Dear God!"

Lutjens' nodded. "Such practices were unknown to young Horst. He considered
himself a properly brought up young German. Proper people, Christian
people, did not do such things. It was appalling and he refused to
continue. The creature complained."

"And then?" asked Gabe, afraid of the answer.

Lutjens pointed to two written notations on the typescript document. "I
would have thought that one of you would have noticed these," he said
quietly.

"To me they were just two more acronyms, two more meaningless
abbreviations," admitted Gabe.

Sighing, Lutjens put the papers aside. "This report is noted at the top
'T4' with a question mark. At the bottom is the word 'Stiftung!' with von
Niemen's initials. Together these notations constitute Horst Menkes' death
warrant."

"They killed him?" Gabe sank to the bed to sit beside Joe. "They killed
him?"

"But not, perhaps in the way that you might think," returned Lutjens. His
face darkened with rage. "He was declared to be 'feeble-minded' and
euthanised, as if he were some sick dog!"

"Euthanised?" whispered Gabe. "Feeble-minded?"

Lutjens began shuffling his papers, not at all happy with what he was about
to relate. "The Nazis had this obsession about the perfect man. Their
obsession with eugenics, with producing this mythical perfect man led them
to decide to eliminate certain members of society, or to sterilize others."

Joe thought a moment. "Are you talking about those who were . . . we call
them retarded back home. They aren't dangerous, and get along fine with
home care."

Gabe cringed, but said nothing. Darren was no business of Joe's, or of Herr
Lutjens'.

"Just so," agreed Lutjens briskly. "They were regarded as 'useless mouths',
unable to contribute to society. Some, those who could function at a
minimal level, contributed more useless mouths, in the form of children. In
the end 275,000 people - men, women, children - were eliminated. Another
400,000 or so, including mixed-race children, were sterilised. There could
be no evolutionary mistakes in the new Germany."

"And this boy, Horst was one of them?" asked Gabe. "But he was not
feeble-minded!"

"No, but he needed to be eliminated so he was declared to be so." He
squirmed uncomfortably. "Horst had a family. His brother was serving on the
Eastern Front. To send him to one of the camps would have been,
embarrassing. Questions would be asked and who knew who would ask the
questions? Remember, Projekt Reinhard Heydrich was Heimlich, secret. The
Nazis could not risk their little exercise in sexual perversions becoming
public knowledge. The whole point was to obtain intelligence, information
that they could use against their so-called friends, if needed. There were
also high-ranking Nazis who did not approve of what was going on and they
would have raised hell with Hitler if a good German, who had given much to
the Fatherland, were suddenly shipped off to a camp because he would not
participate in the perversions."

"So, Horst refuses, and von Niemen orders his elimination?" asked Joe.

"Yes. The reporting officer wrote 'T4' with a question mark. This was the
code for a person to be sent to one of six 'Zwischenanstalten', or mental
homes. Each had attached to it a clinic where designated patients were put
to death, usually by carbon monoxide poisoning. The family would be
informed that the patient died of an illness - heart failure was the usual
cause of death - and the body cremated."

Once again, Gabe's thoughts turned to Darren, his sweet, loveable friend
who had the mind of a ten-year-old. He would have been . . . "That is
abominable!" he declared. He hands gripped the counterpane of the bed he
was sitting on. "How could they do such a thing?"

"How could they murder six million Jews?" countered Lutjens. "The Nazis had
the power and they used it with impunity because nobody dared speak out in
opposition, not the German people, not the families of the poor
unfortunates who were killed!"

Although he was just as upset as Gabe was at Lutjens' revelations, Joe was
equally determined to remain focused, and he could not allow either his, or
Gabe's, emotions to get the better of them. "Herr Lutjens, how many other
boys were sent to these mental homes? How many ended up in an urn?" Joe
asked, although he feared he already knew the answer. If there was one
"Horst" it was logical to assume that there had been others.

"Perhaps a hundred," answered Lutjens. His face grew stony. "What is also
abominable is that this euthanasia program continued right up until the
end! Simple people, who had done nothing, committed no crime, were being
put to death as late as December 1944!"

"When did it start? To kill 250,000 people takes time," said Joe.

"The scheme was hatched by Hitler's doctor, Karl Brandt. He was influenced
by Rosenberg and Frick and with the help of the Chief of Chancellery,
Philipp Bouhler, he set up an office in a villa in Berlin, located at
Tiergartenstrasse 4, hence the acronym "T4'." Lutjens looked at the date on
the execution order for Horst Menkes. "Horst had been entertaining a
Spaniard in May, 1943. He was condemned in July of the same year. He lived
in Magdeberg so would have been taken to the clinic at Bernburg, He became
'Stiftung', a donation for the betterment of the Third Reich."

Lutjens saw the quizzical looks on Joe and Gabe's faces and continued
on. "Where do you think the Nazis learned how to kill people in large
numbers? The mental clinics! By trial and error they learned how to kill
millions. They learned that individual injections were impractical, as were
chambers fitted with carbon monoxide exhausts. In a way Horst, and all the
others before and after him contributed to the Final Solution."

******

That night Gabe had a nightmare. He was in a long, narrow corridor at the
end of which was steel door. In the face of the door, high up, was a small,
thick, glass window. In his dream Gabe saw himself walking sluggishly
toward the door. The nearer he came to the door the louder the cries and
screams, the sounds of weeping, became. He imagined the smells, the rank
odours of urine and feces as the condemned emptied their bladders and
bowels in terror. In his dream he saw himself look through the small
window. Through the window he saw . . . people, some old, some young, some
dressed in loose fitting hospital gowns, some naked. They were clawing at
the door, at the walls, trying to escape some horror.

Suddenly, as Gabe watched, the crowd parted and he saw . . . Darren. Darren
was naked except for a pair of tighty-whiteys. He was crying, begging,
calling for . . . Gabe! Great tears rolled down Darren's cheeks. He was
afraid, so afraid and he could not find Mommy. He stretched out, his hands
reaching for his saviour, for his Gabe. His mouth opened and closed but the
screams of terror drowned out his words. "Save me," Darren mouthed. "Help
me, Gabe! Help me!"

******

Gabe awoke with a silent scream. His chest felt as if it were in a
vice. His clothes were drenched with sweat, his bedclothes a sodden
wreckage. He looked wildly around the room and through the dim light from
the waning moon saw that Joe was still asleep. Shaking, Gabe left his bed,
thankful that he had not, in his nightmare, awakened Joe. Darren was Gabe's
secret. He was not prepared to explain to Joe, or to anyone else about
Darren.

He padded into the bathroom and stripped off his pyjamas, his T-shirt, and
his white briefs. He knew that he smelled. Terror had oozed from his pores,
just as it had ravaged his mind. Filling the sink Gabe began to wash away
the fear that had consumed him. As he rubbed with the washcloth he decided
that it was time to go home. They were finished here. Darren needed him,
and he would go home.

To Be Continued In Chapter 4