Sons

Copyright

Published by Dreamspinner Press 382 NE 191st Street #88329 Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Sons Copyright © 2012 by Michael Halfhill Cover Art by Anne Cain [email protected] Cover Design by Mara McKennen All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ ISBN: 978-1-61372-510-8 Printed in the United States of America Second Edition May 2012 First edition published in 2007 by Book Surge Publishing. eBook edition available eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-511-5

In memory of my father

I’d like to acknowledge Margaret Whitfield, Dan Hoxter, and Kathleen Conley-Aydin for their help, with special thanks to Peter Kim, Betty Conley, Ruth Sims, and Tobias Grace.

Prologue

Arles, France

PRINCE PAULO

DA

SARACENA, Count of Campobasso, rapped his

pen on the smooth surface of the round walnut table. “Gentlemen, ladies, please! We have been here for five days, and as lovely as our accommodations are, everyone is anxious to go home. We have one more item to discuss, and that is the emergence of another terrorist group. Please refer to item sixty-three in your agenda.” Four men and three women comprising the worldwide leadership of The Mundus Society opened their leather-bound folios once again. These seven represented each of the planet’s continents. Combined, they and their membership wielded more influence, wealth, and sheer power than Europe, Asia, and the Americas. Outside, a passing cloud momentarily blotted out the late afternoon sun’s brilliance, plunging the high-ceilinged room into gloomy gray. Jan glanced at Margarita Corona, Mundus Master of South America, and nodded to the darkened room. “I hope that’s not an omen!” Margarita smiled, arching her eyebrows. “Me too,” she whispered. The room, a long oak-paneled gallery flanked with heavy beveled glass windows, grew quiet. Against the wall, a narrow case clock ticked away the minutes.

Paulo cocked his head toward Sebastian Faust and said, “Our Master for Africa will report.” For the past two hours, Sebastian Faust had been looking over Paulo’s shoulder at a short sideboard, in the center of which squatted a decanter of vintage claret. Seven crystal glasses shared the small space. Sebastian stood to address his colleagues. Clearing his throat, he picked up a glass of water, frowned, and returned it to the table. He looked over his half-rimmed glasses at each one, and said, “I’ll try to be brief. As you all know, al-Qaida, while most notorious, is not alone in making terror in the world. Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have a new kid on the block. They call themselves al-Qâdi, which means judgment or justice. Make no mistake. They’re every bit as ruthless, resourceful, and dangerous as Bin Laden. We know that al-Qâdi has spread into Europe and parts of Asia—perhaps even the Americas. We know they have linked up with outlaw elements in the former Soviet Union. They gather much of their funds through murder, extortion, slavery, and child exploitation.” Sebastian paused, eyed once more the carafe and its liquid balm, and continued, “Although our agents are exploring all the places alQâdi is likely to use for its bases, we believe that an inner city, or a very remote locale—a rainforest for example—is most probable. Our intelligence also suggests that, due to their close-knit nature, small communities would pose a threat of discovery. Al-Qâdi avoids these.” Sebastian waited for everyone seated to absorb the information before continuing. “What we suspect, but have not yet confirmed, is alQâdi has done what Bin Laden has yet to achieve. We believe they have gotten hold of a small amount of weapons-grade plutonium.” Sebastian’s disclosure brought the members to their feet in a frenzy of questions. Dagmar Lintz, Iceland’s Mundus Master, representing the Artic Regions, stood next to Sebastian. Snatching the report from his hand, she ignored the noise around her and read for herself the information and its source. “My God! Sebastian, if this is true, we have no time to lose. We have to find them!”

Australia’s Margo Whitefield looked at Jan accusingly. “Did you know about this?” she asked. Jan plopped back into his chair and stared at his copy of the report. Jan had been North American Master for almost fifteen years and was regarded as the group’s nominal leader. “No. I didn’t.” “Please,” Paulo said, “take your seats. This report is preliminary. We will issue updates as we get them.” Arata Tsukamoto, Jan’s counterpart in Asia, looked over and mouthed, “This is bad—very bad.” Jan nodded back and sighed. Sebastian Faust looked around the room. “There is one more item about al-Qâdi. Bin Laden ordered al-Ansar, in Iraq, to stop the beheading of hostages. It seems al-Qaida feared a public backlash. AlQâdi, however, does not share that fear. They have picked up where alAnsar left off and now hold a Korean man hostage. We know where they are holding him and are attempting his rescue. I can share details of that operation with anyone interested, after the meeting.” Sebastian turned to da Saracena. “That is all I have.” “If there are no objections,” Paulo said, “I adjourn this meeting.” Sebastian headed for the wine. Jan stood, walked to the windows, and stared out at the boxwood maze below. He tried to blot out the jabber behind him as he hung his head and whispered a silent prayer for the Korean hostage.

One

“THIS is BBC World News, and I’m Felicity Fellstone, sitting in for Malcolm Talley.” Turning a page that lay before her on the shiny glass desk, the newscaster continued, “Al Jazeera television today aired a film of what it said was a Korean hostage taken by yet another terrorist group, calling itself al-Qâdi. The Korean man, twenty-year-old Soo Kwon, worked for Save the Children, an arm of the Christian Children’s Foundation, when armed men took him from the parking lot of his hotel in Mosul. The kidnappers threatened to behead Mr. Kwon unless the South Korean government announces an immediate withdrawal of its presence in the Middle East. We advise viewers, these scenes are graphic.” A moment later, a scene all too familiar appeared on the screen. A terrified young man, flanked by masked men armed with assault rifles, stood shaking and sobbing. Behind them, a black banner proclaiming Death to Infidels and Glory to Martyrs stretched across a bloodspattered wall. “Please! Please!” begged the Korean youth, Kwon, his hands tied behind his back. “I want to live! I know you want to live… but I want to live too! Please! Please! I want to live!” A sober Felicity returned to the screen and said, “The South Korean government rejected al-Qâdi’s demands, insisting it would not be held for ransom by terrorists. A spokesperson for the South Korean government went on to say that Mr. Kwon is not affiliated with Korea’s

military presence in the region, which consists of hospital support for the civilian population. As of this date, efforts to locate Mr. Kwon or contact his captors have failed. “Moving on to other news, Buckingham Palace announced today….”

Arles

JAN PHILLIPS and his estate manager, Kevin Andrews, sat wrapped in wool blankets on the terrace of the Chateau Coeur d’Alène. A pale morning sun struggled to burn away the night’s shade as they sipped their coffee. Beyond the marble balustrade, the broad expanse of dull green lawn, flanked by rows of naked beech trees, stretched far into the lingering morning mist. Kevin eyed his boss a long moment and then asked, “Did you see the video al Jazeera aired last night?” “Yeah.” Jan’s tone twirled with resignation and anger. “Did you try to save him?” “Mundus tried. We were too late. You saw the video on TV. They never intended to let him go. He was dead the minute they took him. These killings have become a blood sport.” “You’re awfully calm about it,” Kevin accused. “When you’re calm, you can focus your energy. When you’re not, you end up running in circles.” Jan looked over at Kevin. “We’ll get ’em in the end… we’ve got to.” Kevin shivered at the thought of the young Korean begging for his life minutes before his head was pulled back, exposing his throat to the knife. “Isn’t it kind of cold out here?” Kevin said, trying to mask the real reason for his discomfort.

“Think of it as self mortification. Besides, it’ll never hurt you,” Jan mumbled, his mind wandering far away, back to a sunny autumn day, the day Tim Morris first brought him to the chateau. Suddenly, the phone rang, jarring him from guilty memories of Tim. Jan had behaved badly on that first day. Tim tried hard to please him by showing his exclusive private world of wealth and privilege—wealth and privilege that one day would be his. All Jan did was to retreat into sullen anger. Overwhelmed, he was reluctant, unsure of his budding gay sexuality, and scared stiff by the real chance that Tim just might get him killed. When Jan didn’t move to answer the intruding bell, Kevin sighed. “I’ll get it,” he said. Heaving himself out of the chaise lounge, he jogged across the terrace and through the open double doors. Jan could hear Kevin as he spoke to the caller. “What! No, no—do nothing! Le seigneur will be there right away.” Kevin returned, slightly out of breath. “What’s going on?” Jan asked. “Big trouble. There’s a bulldozer about to raze the Chapel of the Transfiguration, and a crowd of protesters is blocking the way! The cardinal called the police. He wants the mob dispersed so the demolition can proceed. He’s on his way there now. That was Father Malreve from Saint Sebastian’s on the phone. He’s going down, and he wants you there too. I think the chaplain is making a speech. You know the French!” “Well, if we can get one more priest to show up we can baptize a jackass,” Jan said sarcastically. “I knew this was going to be a problem as soon as I heard the rumor.” “You know, sometimes you can be a real prick,” Kevin complained. “Flatterer. All right, go get the car. I’ll change into my shining armor just for you.” Situated smack in the middle of four hundred ninety-six acres of

prime bottomland, stretching in a narrow band along the banks of the slow moving Rhône River, the Chapel of the Transfiguration was considered the soul, if not the heart, of the village. Farmers had planted wheat, barley, and lavender on this ground for hundreds of years. To the north and west, the land was bounded by church property. The Monastery of Saint Sebastian and a sliver of Jan’s estate shared the southern line. The only paved road cut across Jan’s portion. Built not long after the Roman Empire imploded, the chapel was a provincial, some might say ugly, attempt at recalling the architecture of a defunct order. Unlike churches of later design, the interior of the church was unadorned, while multicolored mosaics depicting the life of Jesus and the promise of a glorious afterlife clad its four exterior walls. The front wall featured adoring apostles surrounding the resurrected Christ. After nearly two millennia, it retained much of its original brilliance. To the chagrin of the local cardinal, busloads of savvy tourists regularly siphoned themselves from the glitzy Arles Cathedral to see the village’s rare art treasure. When they arrived at the site, Jan and Kevin saw a demolition crew of twelve beefy men arguing with an equal number of hysterical townsfolk. The chaplain stood in the church’s doorway defying anyone to move him. The milling mob, added to the heavy morning dew, made the usually hard packed dirt soft and muddy. Jacques Malreve, the father abbot of Saint Sebastian’s, had pulled the village leader aside and was attempting to get her, and her followers, to leave before the police arrived and arrests were made. Jan and the abbot had been friends since Jan was eighteen. Père Malreve was still as chubby as the day Jan had met him. Patting his stomach, Jacques would say, “It’s my one weakness… well, perhaps not the only one.” “Jacques, you’re just making up for what His Arrogance doesn’t eat,” Jan would joke. “Jan! I wish you would stop calling the cardinal that! The man is anointed of the Lord, a priest, according to the Order of Melchizedek. Come Judgment Day, you will be sorry,” the monk warned with a wagging finger.

“Well if Cardinal Cock Robin allows Jesus to be my judge, I’ll have nothing to worry about,” was Jan’s standard reply. Jacques usually replied by putting his head in his hands and mumbling something about praying for Jan. In Jan’s estimation, a better person than Jacques had never lived. The cardinal, on the other hand, was a high-handed, mean man. When Tim’s body arrived in Arles to rest in the tomb of the Lords of Guyencourt, the cardinal made a loud and public objection. “Homosexuals have no place among the nobles of France,” he opined. The cardinal’s rant sparked a deep, abiding dislike of the prelate in Jan. Over the years, the two men quarreled openly. Jan hated these episodes because they produced nothing but more ill will—something very much out of his character. “Okay, okay, Jacques. I’ll be more respectful of the Lord’s anointed.” It was a promise Jan never kept. Jan shook off the remembered conversations. Handing his briefcase to Kevin, he said, “Hold on to this and wait here. I may need you.” Leaving Kevin in the car, Jan walked to where Jacques stood. The crowd got louder. Juliet Dufort, the village representative, moved off to confer with her fellow protesters. Jan caught the abbot’s eye as he approached. “Jacques, how nice of you to invite me to the party!” Jan looked around for his nemesis. “Where’s His Arrogance?” he asked acidly. “My Lord Cardinal!” Between clenched teeth, the abbot said, “Jan, you promised to stop calling him that.” Then, sotto voce, “He is right behind you, Jan. Please, help us!” Jan turned and beamed a smile any car salesman would envy, his hand extended in a friendship he didn’t feel. “Ah, Your Eminence!” A gaunt man clothed in red silk moiré from nose to hose stood glaring at Jan. His billowing red cape and matching skullcap proclaimed Alphonse Paré de Breton as a Prince of the Church. If not

for occasional movement and speech, he could have served as a cadaver for an anatomy class. Many said his emaciated look was due to his holy fasting. Jan’s take was that good food refused to digest in his sour stomach. Ignoring Jan’s outstretched hand, the cardinal said, “Monsieur Phillips, the salutation for a cardinal changed some time ago. Please address me as, ‘My Lord Cardinal’.” Jan made a deep bow. “And since I am the lord of the Chateau Coeur d’Alène, you, My Lord Cardinal, may address me as le seigneur. You may as well, everyone else does.” “I will do no such thing!” snapped the cardinal. “Have you come here to add your sarcasm to this chaos? I phoned the police and demanded they clear away this rabble. It would be wiser for you to leave now and avoid arrest.” Looking around with the hauteur only one confidant God is on his side can muster, the prelate pointed toward the chapel. “That,” he sneered, “and all the surrounding land is the Church’s property. It belongs to the Diocese of Arles, not to these villagers, and certainly not to you! Holy Mother Church has decided to put it to better use—for the benefit of all, I mean.” “I don’t suppose the cathedral’s loss in tourist Euros has anything to do with Holy Mother’s recent interest toward land reform,” Jan said. “I warn you, monsieur, you place your immortal soul in peril by impugning the purity of our intentions.” “Ha!” Jan scoffed. “I place my soul’s safety in God’s hands. Somehow, I feel it’s safer with Him. You understand. By the way, where is Monsieur le Maire and his cadre of gendarmes? I thought…. Oh! There they are.” Jan waved mockingly at an unmarked van parked under a naked chestnut tree. The mayor slid low in the front seat, obviously wanting no part of this mêlée. “They are keeping a safe distance at my request. Of course we hope force will not be needed,” the cardinal said.

“He’s more likely afraid of a bolt lightning,” Jan mumbled. “What did you say, monsieur?” “Nothing,” Jan lied. “Look, Eminence, why do you want…? Uh, no, let me rephrase, what plans has our Holy Mother for this property? It isn’t as if the cathedral hasn’t enough land already.” The cardinal ignored the repeated slight, yet his face flushed with rising anger. “I do not need to justify Holy Mother’s decisions to you! However, because of your generosity to the Church in the past, I will tell you that we have a gentleman’s agreement of sale, on condition that we remove the chapel. It is that simple. We need the money, and the community will benefit from the income derived from the sale, as will the Church.” Jan eyed the old man with a knowing look and shook his head at what he knew was a lie. “Lose again at chemin de fer in Monte Carlo? Hmm…?” Jan mocked. “Monsieur! If that was an attempt at humor, it failed.” Ignoring the cardinal’s fury, Jan said, “Well, if your prospective buyer is a devout Catholic, as so many of the French are, I can see why he would be reluctant to pull down God’s house by himself. It seems appropriate that he should turn to your Eminence to get the job done.” Jan thought the skinny old man was going to have a conniption. The cardinal’s face turned as scarlet as his hat. Before the cleric could regain his composure, Jan added, “I have a proposal that may suit us all.” He looked at the cardinal for a sign of compromise. “Shall I proceed, or do you prefer to prolong this charade?” By now, the mayor, a balding, rotund man of fifty or so years, had extracted himself from the police van and joined them. He nodded to Jan but did not offer his hand. He seemed unsure whether, under these circumstances, Jan was friend or foe. Jan motioned to Kevin to join them and whispered in his ear, “Bring me my briefcase, please. I’ll need you to stand by too.”

Taking the cardinal and the mayor by the elbow, Jan led them to a nest of unoccupied picnic tables and chairs. Safely out of the mob’s earshot, Jan asked, “Has the prospective buyer signed anything in the way of a contract for this land?” “How do you know about this?” the mayor snapped. “I told him,” said the cardinal. The mayor immediately backed down like a dog with the spirit whipped out of him. “As of now, there is no contract,” replied the cardinal. “The buyer refuses to sign anything as long as the chapel remains.” “I see,” Jan said. “Well, Eminence, how much is he willing to pay for the land once the church is gone?” “That is between the Church and the buyer! It is no concern of yours,” the cardinal said imperiously. A hint of color returned to his cheeks. Jan turned toward the mayor and narrowed his eyes. “How much?” Prelate and mayor shifted uncomfortably. The cardinal gave the mayor a warning look. “How much!” demanded Jan, raising his voice. The mayor owed his position as much to Jan as to the cardinal. Frightened, he looked to the clergyman and then to Jan, unsure which was master of the situation. Finally, he murmured, “A half million Euros.” Jan whistled his surprise. “A tidy sum, and how much do you, Monsieur le Mayor, get for supporting this bit of larceny?” Jan said. The mayor leapt from his chair in righteous indignation. “Larceny! That is a legal term! A criminal term!” Jan offered a sardonic smile. “Yes, Monsieur, I am, after all, a lawyer. I also know the duke ceded this ground to the town of Christ a Amélioré in 1750.”

“The City of Arles annexed this land forty years ago. The village has no claim to it!” shouted the mayor defensively. Ignoring the man’s outburst, Jan said in a calm even tone, “What I propose, gentlemen, if I may use the term, is this: I will buy the land and the chapel as it stands today, for the sum of seven hundred thousand Euros.” The cardinal and the mayor exchanged glances. Jan could almost hear the sound of cash registers ringing in their greedy heads. “Well?” Jan said. “Do you accept my offer?” The cardinal spun the amethyst ring he wore on his right hand. He looked out over the river and said, “I will consult with the parish council, but I’m sure there will be no obstacle.” The three men stood in a close knot. The cardinal nodded and offered his hand, as did the mayor, sealing the bargain. Jan wondered if there was enough holy water in the chapel font to wash his hands. It would take the sanctified liquid to remove the unclean feeling he now felt. Jan motioned for Kevin to bring the briefcase and join them. “Let’s just write a little contract now, and our attorneys can pretty it up later,” Jan said. Kevin handed Jan a blank sheet of paper, and he quickly jotted down the terms of their agreement. The cardinal signed below Jan’s name. Kevin and the mayor signed as the witnesses. The cardinal walked a short distance and lifted his arms, quieting the angry mob. “You may all return home now,” he told the villagers. “It is concluded. God’s light has shown us what to do here. There will be no destruction of the chapel.” A shout went up from the villagers as they congratulated themselves for preventing a disaster. “What about my crew?” the demolition foreman shouted. “Is the Church going to pay for our time?”

The cardinal looked at Jan. Jan nodded. The priest drew his scarlet cape around himself. Mustering feigned humility, he made a slight bow toward Jan and spoke to the workmen. “Le seigneur is responsible for your fee. Apply to him for payment.” The mayor, wishing to make a quick exit away from the situation, had already left the churchyard. The cardinal, his cape billowing like a red sail, was right on the mayor’s heels. Jacques Malreve hurried to Jan’s side. “Jan? What does this mean?” “It means, Jacques, my old friend, that the church will stand, and I’m even more land poor than I was this morning.” “You purchased the chapel?” “It would appear so.” Jan sighed. “I’ve no idea what I’m going to do with it!” “My son, God will reward you in more than this!” the old man said, wringing Jan’s hand. “Mon père, it is nothing. I must go now. We will meet again before I leave.” “Leave? You are going away so soon? You only just arrived!” “Yes, I’m going to Paris for a few days on business, then on to the states. Michael is in China. He’ll return home to Philadelphia soon, and I want to be there. We’ve been apart too long,” Jan said. “As always, Saint Sebastian’s will miss you. May I light a candle for you, my son?” “Make it two, okay? One for me, and one for Michael.” “You know, Jan, Saint Michael’s obedience to God made him the first saint in heaven. You love this man?” Jan smiled. “He’s my very heartbeat.” “Then I’ll light two candles,” Jacques said, smiling. “Oh, Jan,

umm, before you leave, please come to the monastery… at six o’clock tomorrow morning? I have something important to discuss with you.” Jan nodded. “Of course I’ll come. Wait! You don’t have another church you want me to buy, do you?” Jacques shook his head gravely, “No, it is nothing like that.”

THAT afternoon at the château, Jan sipped tea in the main salon and reflected on the years since Tim Morris’s death and on his chance meeting with Michael Lin one foggy night in Philadelphia’s Chinatown. Life was good, even peaceful, considering the tortured world Jan and his Mundus associates wrestled with on a daily basis. For all that, he remained passionately in love with Michael. He had health, and, what seemed to others, an unnaturally youthful appearance. Then there was the money, obscene piles of it. Some impertinent asshole once asked how much he really had. Jan answered that he had no idea since he never counted it! Kevin stepped quietly across an intricately woven Tabriz carpet and whispered into Jan’s ear, “Jan, they’re here.” “Who’s here?” Jan asked, puzzled. “The delegation from the village, of course. The chapel, remember?” The afternoon’s peace dissolved into memory. “Christ in heaven!” Jan spat. “What the hell do they want from me now? They got their church. Damn it! Am I expected to assist at Mass too?” Kevin looked down at the floor. A sincere churchgoer, he hated it when Jan swore. “I’m sorry. I’ll send them away.” “No, no… damn it! Show them in,” Jan said wearily. Four men and two women stood agape as they stared at the salon’s interior. To their right, a long wall of polished chestnut embraced a huge fireplace, carved from a single block of sapphire

colored marble. Ceilings high above were painted with allegories depicting the French New World in all its early wildness and now vanished savagery. Books aligned on floor to ceiling shelves occupied the two end walls. An entire wall of French doors faced the fireplace in a glittering jamboree of beveled glass. Braided cord held back heavy damask drapes, allowing sunlit prisms to reflect on the parquet floor. The smell of ripe fruit wafted from an immense crystal bowl. “Mes amis, welcome to my home,” Jan said. “What, may I ask, is the reason for your visit? I thought—” “Pardon, mon seigneur,” Juliet Dufort spoke, interrupting Jan. “If you please, it is the custom of our village to work the fields on the church property. We pay rent each year to the cardinal. We wish to know if you will continue this same amount or if you will increase our rent. We must make arrangements if there is an increase.” Even now, her tone was combative. Jan had rescued her church, her livelihood, and perhaps even kept her out of jail, but here she stood, hands on hips like a reincarnated Madame Defarge. This was one revolution he was determined to defuse. Jan rubbed his fingers over his brow and sighed. He thought of Kevin, standing at the far corner of the large room, mutilated at age nineteen by the slave traders. That event had caused Jan to launch Project Scimitar against the slave trade in Sudan. Scimitar, Jan’s first Mundus operation, was a spectacular success in its objective, and yet for Jan, it was a crashing failure, one he would always regret. Rent! Throughout the world, men, women, boys, and girls are enslaved every day. Children everywhere are kidnapped, raped, and murdered while many are hideously mutilated for God only knows what purpose, and these people standing here in health and wealth can think of nothing but their rent! Jan gazed at them with barely disguised displeasure. “How much did you pay His Arro… His Eminence?” The woman stepped forward and said, “There are sixty farmers who work the land. Each pays one thousand Euros per year. The rest we make up in what we grow. Last year we paid the Church one

hundred pounds each of wheat, barley, and lavender in addition to the money.” Jan looked into their expectant eyes. He thought a moment and then looked at Kevin’s hopeful smile. “Very well then, this will be your new rent. Every year I am to receive a single Euro from each man who tills the soil. Along with this, I require one sheaf of wheat, one of barley, and a sprig of lavender. Kevin will draw up the lease, and we will meet again later this evening to sign it. Thank you for coming. Now please excuse me.” Amid claps on the back and thanks mixed with “God bless le seigneur,” Jan left the salon and their happy jabber. He pulled his shirt collar tight around his neck against the cooling afternoon air. Snow swirled in haphazard squalls as if nature herself was unsure if she truly wanted winter to begin. Jan pushed his hands into his pants pockets and slipped out onto the terrace. He walked down the broad marble steps, along the white gravel path that led to the formal garden of ancient boxwoods. At the center, hidden in a maze of twists and turns and abrupt dead ends, all of which Jan knew by heart, stood the de Main family mausoleum. Generations of the Dukes of Guyencourt were here, along with one American interloper, Timothy Harold Morris of Little Fork, West Virginia. Tim. Jan’s Tim. The man who gave Jan a life beyond anyone’s imagination lay here too. Jan had not visited the tomb for over a year. To do so was to acknowledge for the umpteenth time that, despite his almost palpable presence, Tim was gone. Yet today, Jan felt differently. It was an anniversary of sorts. After years of postponed testimony at the World Court in The Hague, The Mundus Society’s Project Scimitar finally closed with a guilty verdict against the slave trader known as the Pasha. Kevin Andrew’s horrid mutilation at the hands of the slave trader stood avenged. Not everything had gone the way Jan would have liked, but to the outside world, a great thing had been done. The fall of the Soviet Empire, peace in Kosovo, all were Mundus initiatives, yet, in Jan’s eyes, the secret society had failed in so many ways. The resorting to violence and the loss of innocent lives tarnished whatever good he had accomplished. Any goal, no matter how nobly

conceived or dedicated, derived through violence, is an illusion, he reasoned. Still, Mundus’s North American Chapter, with all its power and responsibility, was his to command without question. Power and responsibility were the twin beams of a cross he carried with equal reluctance. Today, too, he managed to make a grudging peace with the cardinal, something he thought would never be possible. And then there was Michael. Jan’s heart swelled whenever he thought of Michael. A few more steps and there it was, an exact replica of the Arles Cathedral in miniature, a spire and gargoyle embossed box of weathered basalt. Jan pushed aside the heavy bronze door, stepped inside the cold vault, and switched on a tiny lamp, expelling shadows from their customary homes. Jan ignored the rows of ducal sarcophagi and walked straight to a brightly polished gold plaque imbedded in the granite floor. Jan paused as he approached the spot where Tim lay and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand. He cleared his throat. “Hey, Tim. It’s me, Jan. Got a minute? Sorry I haven’t been around much. Listen, guess what happened this morning. You know that chapel by the river….”

Two

JAN arrived at Saint Sebastian Monastery at six o’clock the following morning. He stopped, closed his eyes, and cocked his head as he listened to the monks chant Lauds, translating the Latin in his head: Deus, Deus meus, ad te de luce vigilo. “O God, thou art my God, early will I seek Thee.” The plain, haunting Gregorian melody pulled him back to his childhood at Philadelphia’s Saint Dominic’s Academy and mornings like this, the choir singing the first Mass of the day. What ever happened to those innocent days? He walked along the narrow gravel path that belted the ivy-clad stone walls. The ivy, brittle from the morning frost, made soft clicking sounds, much like a child just learning to snap its fingers. The heavy vines curled around iconic runes, hiding them from all but the most inquisitive and tutored eyes. Unknown to most, Saint Sebastian’s was once a Templar priory—the symbols were Templar. Jan wondered how many times he had walked this path. How many times had he smiled knowingly at the meaning of the coded messages—more than fifty, a hundred, two hundred? It seemed to him that he had always known this place, yet it was just after his eighteenth birthday that Tim first introduced him to Jacques Malreve. The idea was that Jacques would teach Jan French, and in return, Jan would answer the abbot in Latin. It was a language Jacques loved dearly yet feared was in peril of extinction. Tim also knew that Jan was a deeply religious boy and that he longed for the comfort and warmth of, what seemed to Tim, an often aloof and cold

religion. Needs denied often return in hideous forms, Tim reasoned, and so, on an early winter’s day, he brought Jan to Père Malreve. The monastery had eight gates, one for each of its eight walls. All were closed at this hour. Jan chose to enter by the “Lesser Gate” so called because in medieval times it was through this gate that serfs, in need of sanctuary, fled the uneven and oftentimes capricious hand of feudal laws. He pulled the bell cord, and a jangled noise rang in the cloistered courtyard beyond the big oak door. The Judas gate, set into the large ancient portal, opened on iron hinges made quiet with the application of large amounts of tallow. A novice of not more than seventeen greeted him with an unspoken gesture, beckoning him to follow. Jan had visited the monastery many times over the years. He knew the monks observed a rule of silence until eleven o’clock, when they broke from morning work to pray before the noon meal, after which their self-imposed rule would begin again until sunset. The novice led Jan to the abbot’s study where Dom Père Malreve, bishop and abbot of Saint Sebastian waited. Jan walked across the smooth stone floor laid down at the time when every European monarch owed his crown to the Pope. As he walked to where the abbot stood, Jan smiled when he noticed a statue of Saint Michael the Archangel. Two red votive candles twinkling at the statue’s base illuminated an inscription: “He Will Command His Angels Concerning You, To Guard You in All Your Ways. Call Upon Me Sayeth the Lord and I Will Answer.” “Jan,” he said softly. “Come in, please. Sit down.” “Aren’t you a bit chatty for this hour of the morning?” Jan chided. “I just gave myself a dispensation. As you American’s are fond of saying, I am the top dog around here. Umm, Jan, the reason I asked you to come here this morning, I—” “Jacques, before we get into what you want, I was thinking on the way over that, unless you have any objections, I want to deed the Transfiguration Chapel and its land to the monastery, with the stipulation that it cannot be resold or divided. I also have made a rental agreement with the villagers. I would expect that it be honored for at least ten years.” “Jan, that is very generous. I know Saint Sebastian’s looks

wealthy, but our monks come from all walks of life. They are stonemasons, plumbers, farmers, and carpenters. It is their talent and sweat that makes all this possible. There is no real wealth here. What I am saying is, I’m not sure we can afford your gift.” Jan gazed into the dead hearth for a moment and considered his options. “How about this. I’ll endow the chapel with a trust that insures its upkeep. The villagers can take care of the land and chapel with the monastery as guardian.” “Yes. Yes, that would work,” the old monk said, nodding his head as he sought out any flaw in Jan’s plan. “Good. Then it’s settled,” Jan said, relieved. “Jan, I know when Tim died he left you a wealthy man. I want you to know that you have been a good steward. This gift, and your rescuing the chapel from destruction, is the mark of a man who walks with God. As your confessor, I know too the burden you carry with Mundus. God regards the motives of your heart, rather than the deeds of your hand.” Jan frowned, remembering the many who’d died, if not by his own hand, then as the result of his orders. “Let’s hope God’s listening.” Jan looked up at the vaulted ceiling and studied the hard stone. “As you know, Jacques, when I was a boy, I was immensely poor. Now I’m immensely rich. I’m not sure which is worse.” “Jan, you have heard the saying that to those whom much has been given, much is expected. No one can fault you in this.” Nodding toward the dead hearth, Jan said, “Doesn’t the fireplace work anymore? It’s freezing in here!” The ageing abbot ignored the remark. He had avoided any hint of why he wanted this meeting. Now he was going to meddle in a realm of which he knew very little. A realm he would have shunned had it not been for the Vatican thrusting it upon him. “Jan, I asked you to come here because I want you to speak with someone on behalf of the Church. The Archbishop of Seoul contacted me via the Vatican.”

The monk gave Jan a sidelong glance, searching for a sign that Jan knew what was coming. Jan tensed but said nothing. “The Archbishop asked my help in contacting you. He wants me to ask you to meet with someone.” “Someone? Who?” Jan asked warily. “Actually, two people, Dr. Kwon Du-Ho and Mrs. Kwon Yon. Terrorists murdered their son in Iraq. They made a video of his beheading. You may have seen it on the news.” The old man shuddered. He had seen the results of many atrocities in his lifetime. The mania of Fascist Italy and Spain, as well as the meticulous documentation of Nazi Germany, lived on in his tortured memory. Monstrous as these murders were, they counted as but a few in the history of human crime. Yet, in all his long life, Jacques had never witnessed a brutal murder, only the aftermath, until now. The abbot had the esteemed Cardinal-Archbishop of Arles to thank for his recent nightmares. Jacques didn’t ask where or how the prelate came by the video. He merely assumed Vatican sources were sending it to the entire College of Cardinals. Rumor had it that after viewing the tape, the Pope spent eleven hours lying prostrate on the floor before a mural of the crucified Christ, praying and weeping. Jan too reflected on the young man’s murder. Of course, he had seen the video and others like it. This particular one was made by a gang of murderers, posing as valiant rebels defending their homeland against foreign occupiers. The tapes he saw were not the ones carefully sanitized so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of those men and women who pulled the levers of life and death in quiet, air-conditioned, government offices in Washington. These images were available to all six Mundus Masters and their associates through the seldom talked of back channels of the news world. Complete and unedited, they showed the last grisly and painful moments of each captive’s life. Jan pulled a frown and cut the old man off. “Jacques, I know who the Kwons are. They’ve tried to contact our Asian Mundus representatives several times. There’s nothing we can do. Their son is dead. They know that, you know that, I know that, hell, even the Pope knows!”

The abbot said nothing, leaving Jan to stand in the glare of his silent reproach. Jan reached out, taking the priest by the arm, feeling his bones beneath the rough wool robe. “Old friend, you must understand. There’s nothing we can do! Even with Mundus’s considerable resources we weren’t able to rescue the Kwon boy.” Jan looked deep into the old man’s eyes. “Believe me, we tried. As for the Kwons, we certainly can’t resurrect the dead—and the Middle East? Well, it is what it is.” “Won’t you at least talk to them?” “No!” Jan said, exasperated. “Jan, they are souls in distress!” “That’s your department!” Jan snapped. Jacques pulled the wool cowl of his robe over his head and gave Jan a fixed stare. “I remember an eighteen-year-old boy standing right where you are now. Mon père, help me! I am a soul in distress. Those were your very words, my son. Have you come so far that you can no longer see yourself?” Jan felt the stab of guilt only Catholics and Jewish mothers can inflict. In a flash of memory that seemed like hours, he gave way under the memory of his own past heartache, a heartache borne of sexual uncertainty and the loss of his childhood and family. “Jan?” prodded the priest. “All right! All right! You win. I’m leaving for Paris tomorrow morning. Ask them to meet me at my Paris apartment at ten tomorrow evening.” Jan pulled his card from a pocket and jotted his Paris address on the back. He shook his head as he handed it to the abbot. “Frankly, Jacques, I don’t know what I can possibly tell them that they don’t already know.” “You’ll know when the time comes. I’m sure of it.” “Hmm, I wish I had your confidence. Anyway, I’m leaving for Philadelphia in a few days. I want to be home before the New Year.”

Jan, defeated but equally sure of the outcome of any meeting with the dead boy’s parents, said, “Now if you’ll stoke up a fire, I’ll tell you about my conversation with a certain cardinal I met in Rome last month.”

JAN waited for the Kwons in his Paris penthouse apartment situated at the tip of the Ile Saint Louis, one of two islands in the River Seine. Beyond the window’s wavy glass the Cathedral of Notre Dame glowed burnished bronze as dozens of floodlights bathed its ancient walls. Their soft warmth belied the coldness of the city in winter. Jan thought back to the first time he saw the great cathedral. He was just eighteen. Paris was the first leg of a trip Tim made for the World Court at The Hague, and he had brought Jan along. It was autumn. The water, still warm from a late summer gasp, gave up a mist that swirled around the base of the great church, making it look as if it floated on air. Jan’s breath caught in his breast as he remembered running to the river, crying his excitement. Tim! It’s Notre Dame! Come on! Come on! Amal, Jan’s valet, broke the bittersweet dream. “Effendi, your guests have arrived. Marguerite asked them to wait for you in the study.” “Thank you, Amal. Please ask her to prepare tea for us. Amal?” “Yes, Effendi?” “These people are the parents of the Korean man who was beheaded in Iraq. They may appear unfriendly….” “I understand, Effendi.” Amal retreated from the room, his head hung for shame that a murder should be committed in the name of Allah. Jan turned back for one more look at Notre Dame. He took a deep breath before heading across the hall to his study. He had no idea what to say to comfort these people. He waited near the door and watched a tall man as he inspected a row of leather-bound books titled, Birds of America, published in 1777 by the Comte de Buffon. Dr. Kwon pulled out a slim volume and studied a page while Mrs. Kwon admired a gilded Louis XIII sideboard set against the simplicity of walls and woodwork painted in a soft ivory color.

“I’m afraid the illustrations in that book are a bit bogus, Dr. Kwon. The Comte de Buffon never visited America, and so his drawings are somewhat fanciful. Still, they are beautiful, are they not? I’m Jan Phillips.” Husband and wife exchanged startled glances. Jan noticed their expression. Mrs. Kwon apologized. “Excuse us, please, you look so much younger than we expected.” “I understand,” Jan soothed. “Many people have the same reaction.” The three shook hands. The couple sat side by side on a sofa covered in a tiger-striped silk. Jan took a low, black-lacquered, Empire side chair. “Before we begin,” Jan said, “please let me say how sorry I am for you, and for what happened to your son. Permit me to share in your grief.” “Thank you, Mr. Phillips. You are—” Mrs. Kwon struggled for the words. “—most kind.” Dr. Kwon spoke for the first time, in perfect English. “Mr. Phillips, we have come a long way to see you.” He paused a moment, trying to frame his words in such a way so as not to lose face and yet clearly indicate he was begging Jan for help. “We believe you are our last hope. You see, we want you to find the man who murdered our son, Soo. We want you to kill him and bring us his head in a box.” The man spoke this last part as if in a frozen trance, as if he had spoken these words so often that they no longer bore their true meaning. Jan was taken aback by the abruptness and iniquity of the request. Surely, he reasoned, the Vatican had no idea this was what the Kwons had in mind when arranging this meeting, and yet Jan knew the Vatican’s history. Its hands were not free of blood. Far from it. Peace and universal love for all men was a relatively new Church doctrine and, in certain oppressed parts of the Catholic world, not altogether welcome.

The couple was suddenly embarrassed at the thought that they had offended Jan, and fearful the man on whom they relied to assist them in avenging their son’s murder would reject them because of a blunder of words. This isn’t going well. Jan composed himself before he answered. He rose, walked to a window, and fingered an intricately braided tassel that held back a delicate drape of yellow crepe de chine. They’ve heard of Mundus, so there’s no point in ignoring its existence. Might as well confront it. Jan looked out the window and fixed his gaze on a line of cars darting across the Pont St. Louis. Rain droplets smeared the red and white lights into bright bursts of color. He exhaled a deep breath, fogging the cold glass. He turned and walked to where the couple sat uneasily. “Do you have any idea what Mundus is?” he asked quietly, almost hoping he would not be heard. Mrs. Kwon studied her knees. She answered, her words tinged with shame. “Yes. My uncle was a spy for North Korea. He worked for Kim Jong-il’s government… a scandal… I do not know how to say it. The Mundus people discovered his activities, and they reported him to the South Korean government. My husband and I know that Mundus has powerful people who can help us.” Jan shoved diplomacy aside and said, “Powerful or not, Mrs. Kwon, you and your husband come into my home and ask me to commit murder as if you are ordering a dinner in a fancy restaurant!” Chastened, husband and wife remained silent. Jan softened his tone a bit. “You must know what you ask is impossible. I—” The stricken man also threw courtesy aside. “Do you know how my son was killed? Do you?” he yelled at Jan. “They intended to kill him all along, and they offered no mercy! They stabbed him in the front of his throat and sawed slowly back and forth until they cut his jugular vein. He was alive—alive the whole time! He knew! He was conscious until they hacked around from right to left, and only after they severed that vein was his torture ended.”

As he spoke, Mrs. Kwon, a small woman with delicate features, rose from the sofa and moved to the window where Jan had been standing earlier. She gazed out at the sacred shrine built to honor the Virgin Mother of God but saw only shadows through her tears. She slumped and then sobbed, pounding her fists together as her husband detailed their son’s last moments. She whispered, as if to no one, “He learned Arabic so he could understand and love their people better. My Soo was a good boy. What happened to him cries to heaven for punishment!” Punishment. Jan thought of a point of law that says a man is guilty of “contributory negligence” if he acts in a way that contributes to his being harmed or killed. Could he argue the point, in the light of what was happening to foreigners in that region, that Soo’s decision to go into a danger zone showed negligence on his part, and thus he contributed to his own murder? Jan considered the Kwons, beaten down with sorrow and resentment. No, he knew that argument was a horse that wouldn’t run. This wasn’t a courtroom where he could argue cold facts. It wasn’t even an inquiry into the facts, but rather a conversation about murder for hire, illegal in most countries and immoral everywhere. Besides, they were under the misguided belief that Mundus’s nongovernmental activities were of the type that transgressed the moral laws and committed premeditated murder. No, that was not Jan’s way. Even if he could kill, he wouldn’t without absolute necessity. Finally, Dr. Kwon broke the tense silence, finishing his wife’s thought. “You see, Mr. Phillips, our son was a member of a movement within the Catholic Church. Although he was a social worker, his desire was to bring the message of Jesus to the people.” “It is an Evangelical movement,” Mrs. Kwon interjected. Her husband continued. “As frightened as he was to die, he loved them as he loved all people, but worst of all for my beautiful son, he understood every hate-filled word those murderers spoke, and he knew when the knife was coming. Can you imagine his terror? I am a surgeon. I know how fearful people are at the thought of being cut open. I beg you once again, in the name of God, help us!” Jan heard their words, but his mind reeled back to the Nubian

Desert where a dozen youngsters lay dead, their lifeblood drenching the hard packed sand… on his order. The smell, peculiar to death, assaulted his memory. Sweet, yet decidedly like old perfume gone rancid. Project Scimitar was his baby, his first trial as a Mundus Master, where every detail was considered. Nothing was left to chance, yet twelve innocents never saw the next day… on his misguided order. Twelve boys were never to know a first kiss, a first love… on his order. Twelve boys would never lift their children into the air and experience those gleeful squeals all children make, Do it again, daddy! All on his order. Jan rubbed two fingers up and down his forehead and shook off the waking nightmare that had plagued him for years. Mrs. Kwon returned from the window and sat beside her husband. They waited, breathless, for Jan’s response, unaware of the battle raging in his breast. Jan returned to his chair and sat. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and looked both in the eyes. He hoped his reasoning would help them understand. “Dr. Kwon, Mrs. Kwon, you believe I have the power to avenge your son’s murder. You are wrong. What I do have is the power to cut a bloody path through those who have done no harm to you, to your son, or to anyone. People who have committed no crime. And even if I were to agree, and succeed in this, the men who are responsible for your son’s murder were masked, like the cowards they are. You would never know for sure, I mean truly for sure, if the guilty were punished. You have to know that.” The man’s shoulders shook, but his eyes would not weep. He said, “What I know, Mr. Phillips, is the Bible says an ‘eye for an eye’.” “If everyone followed the Bible, the world would be blind,” Jan replied sourly. “You don’t understand. I loved my son more than you can know. I would have gladly offered myself in his place in order to save him!” Jan thought, If you loved your son so much, why did you let him go to such a place? Jan forced judgment from his mind and said, “Perhaps one day you may get the revenge you seek, but if you persist in letting your grief eat at you, then you may as well dig your own graves now and lie

down with your son. Sometimes, when we know the person committing a crime has been punished, the blessing of closure is granted to us. Many more times, we must wait for heaven’s judgment. Believe me, if I ruled the world, we would not be having this discussion. I’m sorry. I truly am. There is nothing I can do.” Dr. Kwon looked around the opulent room as if the book-filled walls could offer the wise words he needed to persuade this powerful man to change his mind and avenge his son. “Mr. Phillips, do you have a son?” “No, sir. I’m… no,” Jan said. “Soo was my only son. My wife and I are beyond the time for making more sons. You understand.” Jan nodded. “I tell you this because you don’t know what the loss of a son means until you experience it yourself. You are still a young man, with power and position. Believe me when I tell you that even with all your power, the loss of a son would kill you inside, as it has me.” Jan stood, bent over, and rested his hand on the broken man’s shoulder. “Vengeance belongs to God. Your faith tells you so, Dr. Kwon. Leave vengeance to God. Take your son home.” Mrs. Kwon took her husband’s hand and rested her head on his shoulder, but she stiffened as she observed a tall young Arab enter the study. Amal, dressed in a gold-threaded, flowing galabiya over a long white thawb, carefully placed a tray of sweet Moroccan mint tea on a low table of ebonized wood and looked at Jan. “Is it permitted for me to speak?” he asked. “Yes, of course,” Jan replied. Turning to the murdered boy’s grieving parents, he averted his eyes and said, “Sir, madame, I want you to know I am very sorry for you. I know that your son died for his Jesus. Blessings be upon Him. Your son was a martyr. A special place will be made for him in paradise. Enshallah, if Allah wills it—I am sorry.” Mrs. Kwon looked at Amal through tear-flooded eyes but said

nothing. Her husband, stifling a sob, looked away and nodded a silent acknowledgement. Amal bowed slightly and left quietly. “Please excuse me a moment,” Jan said. Jan followed Amal into the kitchen. “Effendi, did I do wrong?” “No, Amal, you did well. Thank you. My guests will be leaving soon. Ask René to bring the limousine around for them.”

SHORTLY after the Kwons left the apartment, Jan returned to his study and accessed the Mundus internal database on his computer. He checked the recognition code for the day before calling Sebastian Faust. The Mundus Master for the African continent was also responsible for the Middle East. Jan needed permission from Faust to phone a request to the Persia chapter. He was sure there would be no problem; however, Mundus’s protocol demanded this courtesy. After a brief conversation with Sebastian, Jan dialed a secure satellite connection, punching in the coded number for the Mundus operative in Persepolis. A young voice with a thick accent answered on the second ring. “The check is in the mail.” “Are you sure it has the correct postage?” Jan replied. There was a brief pause. Then the young voice asked, “How may I be of service?” “A Korean man, murdered, beheaded two weeks ago in Mosul,” Jan said. “His name was Soo Kwon. Where is his body now?” Another pause. “His body is in Jordan waiting to be claimed. I am sorry to report his head was not recovered.” Jan thought a moment, then said, “The man’s parents will claim his remains within two weeks. It is imperative that you find his head. I don’t care if you have to dig up every inch of the desert. Do you understand?”

After a short pause, the young voice replied, “Yes, I understand, but it will not be easy. Bribes must be paid. How much money may we spend?” “Do whatever it takes,” Jan answered. “I don’t want his mother to see him mutilated. I’ll be sending over a reconstructive cosmetologist. I want personal confirmation when it’s done. I don’t have to tell you to make sure they have the right head.” “Very well. It will be as you say.” A soft click signaled the end of the conversation. Jan stepped to the fog-rimmed window and looked out over the river toward the shimmering cathedral. He shoved his shoulder into the window jamb and reflected on the irony of the Korean boy’s name. Soo. Long life. Jan rested his forehead on the cool glass. Tim, you never told me it would be this hard. Amal stood at the open door to the study. He overheard Jan’s side of the phone conversation. He stepped back into the hallway and thought, How could I not serve him?

Three

Philadelphia New Year’s Eve

JAN sat staring into the hot fireplace. A full day of heavy falling snow masked the normally bright lights that outlined the Ben Franklin and Walt Whitman suspension bridges spanning the broad Delaware River. A faint glow defined them against the black sky. Inside, high above the swirling storm-tossed water of the river, all was peaceful and silent. Outside, howling wind flung sharp sheets of snow against the massive bulletproof glass windows that made up three of the four living room walls. The loft home Michael had decorated in Asian simplicity provided a muted refuge from nature’s fury. Harbor buoys strung along the ragged New Jersey shoreline were no match for the nor’easter pounding the river port. As a result, the Coast Guard, fearing errant buoys, would mislead the river pilots guiding ships into the Port of Philadelphia, ordered all shipping on the river stopped. The city of Philadelphia had placed powerful floodlights along the waterfront to aid the few tugboats that stood by in the event of a breakaway barge. The wind-driven snow shredded the strong light beams into pale, shifting phantoms. Jan stood, walked to the window, and watched motionless as ice floes formed, broke apart, and reformed in the pitching waves. He gazed at a huge barge loaded with cargo as it rode out the storm, its bulky, rust-streaked hull straining against its heavy anchor chain. Michael was returning from Hong Kong tonight. He had worked

hard putting the final changes on an eight-year contract that would ensure him a lasting presence in the Asia-Pacific import business. Jan was miserable when they were apart, and they were apart much of the time. It was four o’clock. Michael would be home soon, but not soon enough. Jan ached for Michael’s body. Returning to his leather club chair near the fire, Jan mulled over the phone call he had received earlier in the day from Sebastian Faust. Once again, what should have been a well-planned Mundus operation had gone awry. The search for Soo Kwon’s head not only succeeded, it also netted Hamid Al-Razi, an al Qâdi lieutenant. Revenge for the capture of Hamid Al-Razi, however, had been swift and horrifying in the execution style murder of the man with the thick accent Jan had spoken to from Paris. The young man, Jan learned, was just eighteen and engaged to be married in the spring. A note pinned to the man’s naked breast read, “We know who you are. Your house will be pulled down, and you will weep for your lost sons.” “Jan,” Sebastian said in the recent phone conversation, “I wouldn’t put too much stock in that note. These desert terrorists are excitable types, don’t you know. They’re easy on threats but low on resources.” Jan was not reassured by what he considered Faust’s cavalier attitude for his safety. After all, an assassin had tried to kill him once before. Still, ice-bound Philadelphia was worlds away from the sands of Arabia. Amal, unaware of his master’s uneasy mind, busied himself cleaning the kitchen. He had been with Jan for many years, attaching himself like a protective barnacle. Shortly after project Scimitar nabbed the slave trader known as the Pasha, Jan hired Amal to drive him deep into the Israeli desert of Zin. There, Jan ascended four hundred feet to the Monastery of the Holy Angels while, unknown to him, Amal had remained below all through the blue, cold night, waiting for his return. For reasons he could not or would not admit, Amal felt bound to the strange, troubled man from America. Amal’s loyalty and commitment impressed Jan. When he returned to find Amal waiting in the parched wastes of Zin, he asked casually, “Amal, how would you like to come to America?”

Over time, Amal learned about Jan’s life as the sole owner of the prestigious Philadelphia law firm, the Templars of Law. He learned too, about Jan’s secret life as North American Master of the Mundus Society. Jan’s behind-closed-doors relationship with his lover, Michael Lin, also troubled Amal, yet he loved his master too well not to serve him. Although he had a room of his own in the sprawling loft, Amal chose instead to sleep on a cot just outside Jan’s bedroom door. He never complained. Amal rarely spoke, and even now he remained silent as he placed a glass of Campari liqueur at Jan’s elbow, then stepped back into the shadows and watched as Jan lifted the glass to his lips, yet did not drink. Something was troubling his master. Jan put the untouched drink on a rosewood side table and in a worried voice said, “Amal, I’m expecting a visitor before Michael arrives home, around five thirty or so. A woman. When she arrives, please make her comfortable.” “I will make her Turkish coffee, Effendi. A warm drink would be most welcome in this weather.” Jan thought of what he knew of this woman. “Better make it scotch.” Jan returned to the window and studied the barge moored in the river channel. His mind wasn’t on the battered craft. He hadn’t spoken to his ex-wife, Angela, for almost fifteen years. Now, her sister, Elaine, was on her way to see him, in a blizzard no less. What could she possibly want? She wouldn’t say over the phone, only stating that it was urgent. He had never liked the woman. Elaine was prone to melodrama, so in her mind, urgent could mean anything from a house fire to a hangnail. Still, she sounded serious.

A SOFT buzzing sound pulsed at regular intervals in each room of the loft apartment. Someone or something had tripped the intruder alarm. Amal went to the house security monitors and watched a tall woman and what looked like a small man hurrying from the parking pad, across the frozen lawn, through heavy snow, and up to the arched doors leading to the ground floor entry. This must be the woman. He

wondered if he should tell his master that the woman was not alone. Better be safe. Returning to where Jan stood sipping his drink, Amal said, “Effendi, your guest is here. The woman is not alone.” Jan thought a moment. Now what? Then said, “All right, Amal, let them in.” The young Arab turned on a silent heel and left his master deep in thought. Jan walked to the fireplace and stood close to the flames. He had suddenly grown cold. In a few minutes, he would face his past once again. His mind flooded with the memory of his ex-wife Angela and her last words to him, words strung out in a fury of reproach. You son of a bitch! Tim Morris! That’s who you’ve been running off to, isn’t it? You’re breaking my heart. Why did you marry me if you’re gay? You bastard! I hate you! Jan turned as Amal entered with Angela’s sister, Elaine. His exsister-in-law was once an elegant, tall, and slender woman. Now she was merely tall. She had aged in a way women who covet looks often do. She wore make-up in quantities good taste would have forbidden. Her swing coat of Siberian Fox, while chic, was cut for a much younger figure. Jan mused that this must be a special occasion because she sported a red shoulder-length wig that the unkind wind had blown askew. Elaine had a young boy with her. “Sir, Mrs. Brogan to see you.” Before Jan could speak, Elaine pranced across the long room dragging the boy toward him. She had her shoulders thrown back, and her feet pointed out in a strut that she clearly thought attractive. All that was lacking was a pair of twirling batons and an accompanying marching band. Jan offered a wondering smile as he looked at the snow-covered boy shedding water on the gleaming oak floor, a mirror image of himself at that age. “Elaine, I….” “Well, Jan, it’s just like you to have me announced like you’re some Persian potentate.” Gesturing to Amal, who was dressed in his galabiya, she asked sarcastically, “Where’d you find Ali Baba?”

Jan set his jaw and narrowed his eyes, trying hard not to break the tranquility of his home. He spoke to Elaine, but his eyes were fixed on the boy, who kept his head down as he dripped melted snow from long blond lashes. Exasperated with the woman and the intrusion, he asked, “Elaine, what do you want? We haven’t seen each other in years. Couldn’t we have kept it that way?” “No.” She slipped behind the boy and grabbed his shoulders. Pushing him forward, she snapped, “This is your kid. He’s yours. You take care of him.” As if on cue, the boy looked up at Jan, staring with the same startling cobalt-blue eyes Jan’s mother once had. Past and present collided in one single look. Jan began to shake. What is she saying? This can’t be! Seconds ticked away as Jan stared at the boy. Fearing his master’s reaction, Amal stood very still, ready to intervene if the woman became abusive. Suddenly, the youngster shuddered with a stifled cry as Elaine shoved him into Jan’s arms. Jan gently shifted the boy aside and grabbed Elaine’s arm as she turned to leave. “Ouch! That hurt!” Jan ignored her complaint. “Hold it right there. You’re not going anywhere until I get some answers.” As she struggled to free herself from Jan’s hard grip, Amal quickly positioned himself between the retreating woman and the door. At that moment, Jan reached out and pushed a button on a nearby control panel. A shoji screen, hidden in a slot in the wall, rolled out, bisecting the living room, leaving him with Elaine on one side and Amal and the boy on the other. Jan heard the youngster’s voice for the first time as he yelled, “Aunt Elaine!”

Four

ELAINE despised gay men and everything they stood for, rejection of her sagging charms chief among them. She loathed the idea that any handsome man would prefer another man to her. Her emotions alternated between hate and envy. In moments of reflection, she would jokingly admit to herself, Well, one out of the seven deadly sins ain’t so bad. She once confided to her therapist, “As much as I hate the picture of two guys together, what really galls me is they can be happy. Those sick bastards are actually happy! You know that’s just crazy!” That Jan could be happy while her sister died a broken woman made Elaine furious. She whirled around at Jan. “You faggot SOB! Let me outta here!” “Believe me, Elaine, I want you out as soon as possible, but not until I get answers, so sit down!” Elaine frantically looked for a way out. The living room door lay a few tantalizing steps beyond the paper wall that held her prisoner. Instinctively, she knew a breakout, however easy it looked, was bound to fail. She flopped onto a low bench in the center of the sparsely furnished space, scowled at Jan, and said, “Make it quick.” As she waited for Jan to speak, a tense calm settled between them. Elaine stroked the sleek blue silk fabric on which she sat, resenting its luxury, luxury she envied with every inch of her soul. Jan watched the woman, detesting her even more than he had before she stepped over the threshold of his home. Sweat poured down

his back, rolling a warm creek into the waistband of his shorts. God, I wish I’d finished that drink! “Right,” he said. “Now, start at the beginning.” Elaine craned her neck to look at her onetime brother-in-law. “What’s to begin, Jan? It’s plain to a blind man. Angela was pregnant when you walked out on her. Colin’s your son. Just look at him, all pale and blond. He looks like he was picked out of your ass, for God’s sake!” Jan thought, Colin. My son’s name is Colin. He liked it. As far as he knew, no one on either side of their families had that name. There’d be no unhappy associations to dog him or his son. “I wish I had known. I wish I had been with her when she named him,” he muttered. Elaine widened her eyes in mock sympathy. “Oh, poor, poor Jan. Well, life’s just tough all round! Huh?” Eyeing the ebony lath and rice paper wall, she asked, “Can he hear us?” “Not if we speak in a normal tone, but if you’ve noticed, you haven’t been doing that.” Elaine shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He knows the story anyway.” “What story?” Jan asked. He felt as if his stomach were tying itself into a fancy knot, much like the one he needed to tie at his Boy Scout initiation. “How you married my sister under false pretenses and then left her without a backward glance. He knows all about your prostitute past and all the men who’ve had you. Lucky for him he’s a red-blooded boy. No queer shit for him. We all saw to that!” Elaine waited silently for the outburst any man would make, even a fag. Dazed, Jan walked to the wide window and peered out at the silver-capped black water of the Delaware River. How could this happen. Fourteen, almost fifteen years, and I didn’t know. Not even a hint. They cheated me out of years with my

son. Rotten bastards! I could wring their lousy necks. Well, I’ve got him now! Jan was not a violent man, far from it, but if any time was ripe for murder, it was now! “Where’s Angela?” he whispered as he stared out into the darkness. Elaine shook her head at Jan in disbelief. “She’s dead, of course! Do you think you’d get your hands on Colin if she wasn’t?” Jan hung his head and stood still. Once again, Angela’s voice filtered back to him. Not the angry voice of loss and despair, but the fresh, sweet murmur of their early days. He shook off the memory. Now was not the time—later perhaps, when, or if, Colin asked him about his relationship with his mother. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Where, umm, I mean how….” Elaine frowned at Jan. She hated retelling the story, but if it would get her out of Jan’s sight, she could do it one more time. “Angela was with Mom and Dad at the cabin on Thunderclap Mountain. Some idiot forest ranger started what they call a backfire to burn out underbrush. Of course, the fire got out of hand. By the time the fools realized what was happening, it was too late. No one made it out.” Jan pulled up a chair, sat, and leaned forward. “What about Colin? Where was he when all this was going on?” Elaine glanced back at the closed shoji screen and lowered her voice. “He was on his way up there for the weekend with a neighbor and her son when the state police turned them back. Colin was hysterical for days. After the funeral, I took him in, but it was supposed to be only temporary. I’ve had him for six months now, Jan, and I’ve got a life that doesn’t include a kid, not even him.” Jan slipped his hands under his thighs to keep from hitting the woman. They sat in silence for a while; then Elaine said, “Look, is that

all? I have to get back to my hotel. They’re having a midnight champagne party in the penthouse, and I’ve got a taxi outside with the meter running!” A New Year’s Eve party. So that’s what brought her out in a blizzard, not the boy, Jan thought, as he tried to contain his fury. “So you’re just going to leave him like an unwanted pet?” “Yep. He’s not my responsibility, and you’re the only one left, unless you want the state to take him, Daddy!” Jan stood and walked away. He needed to put space between them. He jammed his hands into his pockets and turned to face Elaine. “I assume you brought his birth certificate with you, his school and medical records, that kind of thing?” “What? Still don’t believe me?” Elaine sneered. “Don’t fight me on this, Elaine. I can get what I need myself,” Jan shouted. Elaine picked up a purse and rummaged through what looked more like a trash bag than a woman’s accessory. “Here, asshole! I brought everything, just so I never have to see your sorry ass again. That is, if it’s all right with you!” “Oh yeah!” Jan sneered. Elaine stood and flung the documents on a side table. They slid off, splashing onto the polished oak floor. She stood, unsure if she should retrieve the papers and hand them to Jan. Confused, she turned to make her way out but realized once again the shoji wall blocked her retreat. She asked, “How the hell do I get out of this place?” Jan walked to the wall and opened a polished bronze door. “This leads to a hall. There’s an elevator to the outside. Follow the walkway around to the front. You’ll know you went the wrong way if you fall into the river,” Jan said with unmasked sarcasm. “Bastard! I never liked you!” Elaine spat. With those parting words, Elaine pushed passed Jan and raced toward the elevator. Jan closed the door, locked it, and went to the security monitor. He watched as Elaine left the building, beating a hasty retreat across the snow-covered ground to a waiting taxi.

“What a pity she had a sense of direction,” Jan’s devil whispered behind him. Dismissing the troublesome imp, Jan’s thoughts turned to Colin. He must believe everyone who should protect him has left him alone. God knows I know that feeling. Alone, with everything familiar ripped away. He didn’t deserve this. Well, at least I know the drill. He won’t have to make the same mistakes I made. Bending down, Jan retrieved the papers Elaine so carelessly tossed at the table. Sadness swept over him as he realized these few typed lines and scrawled signatures were all he knew about his son, so far. He glanced briefly at the birth certificate and then slipped it and the rest of the papers into a table drawer. He sighed deeply. Behind the shoji screen, not forty feet from where he stood, was his son. What is he like? Quiet or boisterous, playful or shy, as I was when I was that age, or is he angry? Is he frightened of what life will be like now? For sure, Jan was afraid. Faced with a situation flung on him without warning, he felt as if his heart had frozen in his breast. He wished he had more time to absorb what all this would mean to him, to Michael, and especially to Colin. If only there was more time.

Five

JAN stood, head bowed, before the shoji screen. The events of the past forty minutes attacked him like a virus, sickening his aching heart. Poor Angela. He lifted his hand to the control button, hesitated, and then smashed his palm down. The partition silently retreated into its home in the wall. The living room was empty. Jan called Colin’s name softly, as if the entire event had been a bad dream that any sound might revive. “Hello?” No answer. The only place Colin could reasonably be was the kitchen or third floor guest bedroom. Jan knew Amal would never let him roam the house alone or leave on his own. He headed toward the spiral stairs leading to the second floor of the three-story loft. Stopping in the broad hallway, he turned and walked to the end, where a window offered a panoramic view of the river. Stray moonbeams jabbed through ragged clouds, turning the water into a glittering black and white ice-covered night. Jan watched the mini-icebergs bash against a red buoy, marking a now indistinct channel in the swollen river. Suddenly, he became aware that his own heart was pounding in rhythm with heaving ice. “When did it happen?” he wondered aloud. Jan strained his memory. Oh, come on. We made love only once in those last six months. I was with her… when? Damn it! When? His sole memory during those hideous days of fierce words, was Angela’s parting epithet. You son of a bitch! I hate you!

Jan drove away the sound of his ex-wife’s angry words. Then he remembered. It was the night before he left. He had decided to tell Angela he wanted a divorce. Unaccountably, she was amorous. Why had he agreed to make love? To placate her? One more time for Old Glory? Who could say? Jan leaned forward, his hands palm down on a long ebony table that stretched below the dark window. Soft light drizzled down through intricate grills set deep into the ceiling. A blast of wind slapped at the window’s thick glass with insolent fury, yet Jan heard nothing. He stared at his reflection in the wood’s highly polished surface. If I could take that moment back, would I? There was no answer to ease his mind. Jan’s angel asked, “What are you going to say to him? How are you going to explain it all to him without trashing his mother’s memory? He’s only fourteen. He can’t know what it was like married to a woman dominated by alcoholic parents who neither wanted nor liked their second daughter. She needed far more than just an attentive husband. You couldn’t have known that when you married her.” Jan’s devil said, “Look, that bitch gave you nothing but two years of hell. Why make her a martyr? Now’s your chance! You’ve got her kid. You can make him into anything you want!” “Stop it, both of you, and let me think!” Jan shouted at his reflection. “Effendi?” Amal had joined Jan in the hallway. Puzzled, the Arab looked around to see if anyone else was there. Jan was not a man given to shouting at walls. Composing himself as best he could, Jan slowly turned. “Where’s the boy?” “I took him upstairs to the guest bedroom. I thought it best for him not to hear the woman. Did I act correctly?” “Yes, thank you.” Jan patted Amal on the shoulder as he passed. “You’re a good man, thank you.” “Effendi, has the woman gone? Or—”

“The woman has left, Amal. She won’t be returning, but if she does return, you are to refuse her. Do you understand?” Amal nodded, then said, “Effendi, forgive me, you do not look well. May I get you something, tea perhaps?” Jan gave Amal a tired but grateful smile. “No, no, I’m all right. The boy shouldn’t be left alone.” Jan squared his shoulders and climbed the stairs. At the end of a long hall, he saw the guest bedroom door ajar.

Six

COLIN was sitting on the far side of the bed with his back to the door when Jan entered the room. Even in the dim light Jan could tell from his uneven breathing, the boy was racked with sobs. Jan knew that kind of sorrow. At age twelve, he suffered the loss of his father through suicide. Six years later, his mother drove him from the house. The overwhelming feeling of abandonment and sense of aloneness, of helplessness and raw, nerve-wracking fear, was still very much a part of his memory. The difference here was, unlike Jan, Colin had a father to turn to. My son. Jan wondered what he felt for the boy he’d just met. Pity, empathy, a tugging at the heart for a lost son now found? He didn’t know Colin. Was it reasonable to expect he should love this boy, a person he didn’t know? Would he come to love him? Only time would answer that question. “Colin?” Jan said softly. The boy stifled a sob. “Colin, we need to talk. We don’t need to say everything there is to say right now—tonight, I mean—but I think we should at least say something.” Colin remained silent. He put his hands to his face and bent forward. This man, his father, was a stranger he had been taught to hate all his life. A queer! Now he was in his house. Colin felt sick. He was breathing hard. He felt like he needed to vomit. Why had Aunt Elaine left him here? Why did his mother have to die and leave him? What if his father tried to do something to him? Queers like boys.

That’s what everyone says. In a panic, Colin looked around. He had to get away, but where could he go? He didn’t even know where he was. He had never been to Philadelphia. Who could help him? As Jan sat down on the edge of the bed, he reached out lightly, touching Colin’s shoulder. Colin pulled sideways. He moved as far away from Jan as he could get without falling on the floor. Still refusing to look at him, he was determined not to let this man touch him. Jan sighed, not knowing what to do or say. Keenly aware of Jan’s presence, Colin tried to clear his thoughts of panic. This man made his mother sad, and he hated him. Aunt Elaine and the whole family hated him too. “Colin, please, can’t we—” “Don’t touch me!” Colin yelled. “What’s wrong? You act like you’re afraid of me,” Jan complained. Colin refused to look at him. Father or not, he hated the man who had made his mother unhappy. Hate! Hate! Suddenly, Colin blurted, “I hate you! I don’t care if you’re my father! I’m not queer like you!” “I didn’t think you were. What made you say a thing like that?” Jan asked, shaken. His father’s calm voice confused Colin. He expected him to get angry and yell at him as Aunt Elaine always did. He looked away, not wanting to look into Jan’s face. “Aunt Elaine said when you were a kid you were okay until some guy got you, and he, well, well, he made you have sex with him. After that, you couldn’t make yourself like girls again, but you tricked my mother! Well, I like girls! I’m not like you, and you can’t make me be that way!” Colin’s nose began to run. He looked around for a tissue before drawing his sleeve across his face. Tears mingled with snot smeared his shirt. Jan sat, stunned. Elaine said they made sure Colin wasn’t gay, but

she didn’t say they’d made him homophobic too! This, he hadn’t expected. How do I talk through this? How do I make Colin understand this is as scary for me as it is for him? How can I convince him I’m a good person, that I didn’t intend to hurt his mother, that our relationship just didn’t work, and if I had known about him, things would have been different? Jan knew he had to think fast. He needed just the right amount of sincerity in his voice and the words to back it up. Of all the issues they were bound to face, this was the one Jan had hoped would be put off until much later, yet here it was, first and foremost. Sexuality had never been a problem before. Now the stakes were no less than his future relationship with his son. “Come on, you’re a lawyer. You can do this in your sleep,” Jan’s devil chided. “Charm him as you would a jury. Make him know you didn’t wrong him. His mother’s the one that screwed him up.” “Pride goeth before a fall,” his angel warned. Jan ignored his imps. One claimed to be from heaven, the other boasted Satan as a comrade. “Colin,” he said. “No one here is going to do anything to you. Do you understand that?” Colin shrugged off Jan’s assurance. Still sobbing, still angry, still hating, he was in a combative mood, like a small animal far outmatched by a larger one but unwilling to go down without a fight. Nothing this man could say would make him drop his guard. He’s nice now, but he might try to come in the night and rape me. This kind of stuff is on TV all the time. Colin thought about his mother crying when she thought no one was watching. He remembered the wedding picture she kept hidden in her bureau drawer. She looked so happy then; so did his father. Colin breathed deeply and gave a glaring sidelong look. “Why did you leave my mother if you’re not a fag?” he demanded. Jan wanted to correct Colin’s use of the word fag, but confrontation was the last thing they needed right now. If he was going

to succeed with the boy, he needed a peaceful atmosphere between them. Slowly, Colin tipped his head toward his father, trying hard to keep a stay away from me look in his eyes, but he had to look, he had to see Jan’s face as well as hear his answer. Jan hesitated. The question, as well as Colin’s palpable rage, had caught Jan off guard. God help me. How am I going to make him understand a lifetime of events and emotions, especially with his attitude so skewed by his own fears? The two sat a few minutes before Jan spoke. “Colin, your mother and I had deeper problems than the sex stuff. I can’t expect you to accept that now. Adult relationships are complicated. When you’re older, I think you’ll understand it better. Someday when you’re ready to talk about it, we will. When you think you’re ready to hear my side of the story, just let me know, but for now, I want you to know that when we married, we believed we loved each other. In the end, we realized we made a mistake, and—” “A mistake? Are you calling me a mistake? Go away! I don’t want to talk to you!” “No, no. You don’t understand! I don’t mean you, Colin. I didn’t know your mom was going to have a baby. I had no idea you even existed.” “If you’d bothered to call her you’d have known!” Colin yelled. “Colin, some people don’t want to talk to each other when they aren’t married anymore. Some people do. Your mom didn’t want to talk to me any more than I wanted to talk to her. When she left Philadelphia, she didn’t tell me where she was going. Believe me, she sure didn’t tell me she was going to have a baby. Do you think I’d have ignored you if I knew?” Without warning, Colin blurted, “You don’t want me!” Jan thought, so now we’re down to it. Then he said, “Well, Colin, it’s really not up to me alone. You have to decide if you want me. In most cases, parents and kids don’t get to choose one another. It’s like the man says, ‘You pay your nickel and you take your chances.’ In our case, we have to choose.” Unbidden tears streamed down Colin’s cheeks. “What if I choose

you, and you don’t choose me?” he mumbled. Jan looked his son in the eye. “Trust me, Colin, if you choose me, I’ll choose you. In fact, I choose you no matter what you decide. It’s what dads do.” Colin replied with stoic silence. He didn’t understand this man whom everyone had taught him to hate. Jan patted his son’s shoulder. At least he didn’t pull away this time, Jan thought. How warm Colin’s body felt under his palm. This flesh and blood existed in part because of him. Half of this being came from him. Jan felt an undeniable connection, a spiritual sense that linked this life, this boy, to him. Jan sighed. His voice was tired. “It’s been a difficult evening for both of us.” Colin stared blankly, not responding. He was exhausted too. “Look,” Jan said. “The bathroom is through that door. Why don’t you get a shower, and I’ll have Amal lay out a robe and some pajamas.” Still no response, but the hard edge to Colin’s expression seemed to give way to genuine fatigue. Jan got up and walked to the bedroom door. “He won’t come in while I’m in the bathroom, will he?” Colin asked shakily. Jan said, “No, of course not. We can talk again in the morning. Oh, just so you know, I share this home with my partner. His name is Michael. He’s a very nice man. You’ll meet him in the morning. I hope you’ll like him.” “Is he que—I mean, is he gay too?” Jan smiled. Maybe all was not lost. “Yes, he is.” Sensing the direction Colin’s question might be leading, Jan quickly added, “But Amal isn’t, if that makes you feel more comfortable. Not everyone in my life is gay. Amal has some great

stories about growing up in Egypt. Maybe he’ll tell you about it one day.” Jan stood with his hand on the doorknob, his back to his son, hoping for something, any sign, any reassurance that Colin was feeling better about all that had happened this night. Finally, Jan said, “I’ll see you in the morning, then.” No response. Colin stared at his shoes. He felt so stupid. This was probably the most important conversation he had ever had, and all he could think about was how the salt from the snowy parking lot made a white ring around the soles of his shoes. Jan closed the door and stood in the stillness of the hall. Leaning against the doorjamb, he closed his eyes and asked a silent, God, why? Am I so wicked that you punish my son with sadness? Jan descended the stairs slowly, went into his study, and closed the door.

Seven

MICHAEL LIN leaned back into the soft leather seat of the stretch limousine as it crawled along an icy path made by a giant snowplow. Camille Saint-Saëns opera, Samson and Delilah, played softly through the stereo. Interstate 95 this New Year’s Eve was the only route still open to travelers seeking the city’s sanctuary from the storm, but the heavy snowfall clogged the lanes as fast as they were opened. Jan’s private jet met Michael at Seattle’s Tacoma International airport, leaving little time to adjust from his flight from Hong Kong. The plane’s diversion to Newark, New Jersey, for what turned out to be a perilous landing, made him even more anxious to be back in the serenity of his uncluttered home. Michael was grateful that Jan sent his limousine up to Newark. The blare of the limo’s horn jarred Michael out of a moment’s nap. “What is happening?” he asked, irritated by the sudden disturbance. Guthrie, Jan’s chauffer, spoke into the intercom. “Sorry, sir, some guy pulled off the Arimingo Avenue ramp right in front of us. I don’t think he saw the limo. After all, it’s silver, and in all the snow, he probably didn’t see us. I just wanted to let him know we’re here.” Michael stared out at the swirling sheets of ice and snow. Barely readable through the car’s steamy glass, a slush encrusted ramp sign read Arimingo Avenue. The next exit ramp led to Columbus Boulevard and home.

Michael had driven a hard bargain with the Cathay Tea and Import Company. Few people got to see the inner circle of CTIC. That he had done so, spoke loudly of his skill as a businessman and of Jan’s far-flung influence in opening doors closed to ordinary folk. Lifting his briefcase onto the seat, he retrieved a black lacquered box swathed in pale green silk. Michael pulled the cloth wrapper away, opened the box, and inspected, for the umpteenth time, the porcelain figure of a prancing horse made during China’s Tang Dynasty. He ran his soft fingertips across the ceramic’s translucent, slick, multicolored glaze and thought, When this was fired in a Chinese potter’s kiln, the Venerable Bede shivered in a damp, dark monastery cell completing his History of the Church in England… so long ago. “We’re here, sir.” Guthrie’s words roused Michael’s wandering mind back to the present as the sleek limo inched into the underground garage of the home he and Jan had shared for the past twelve years. “At Last!” Michael said as he stepped out of the car. “I’ll fetch your bags up for you, sir. I know you’re tired.” “Thank you, Guthrie. Yes, I am tired.” Michael smiled at the chauffer, pulled his black cashmere overcoat over his shoulders, and headed for the elevator that would carry him to the penthouse loft. Turning to the older man, Michael said, “Oh, by the way, I almost forgot. Happy New Year, Guthrie.” “Thank you, sir, Happy New Year to you too.”

Eight

“Mon cœur s’ouvre à ta voix.” My heart opens to your voice. Delilah’s love song to Samson flooded Michael’s head as the elevator carried him up to Jan. Michael never mentioned how his heart turned the first time he heard Jan’s voice all those years ago. That meeting, in Michael’s tiny Chinatown import shop, had catapulted him from financial disaster to a mover and shaker in the Asia-Pacific economy. Jan changed his life in ways portrayed only in movies, and here he stood, respected, wealthy in his own right, and in love. Life was good. The elevator car came to a gentle stop. Michael placed his hand on a pale blue screen and waited a moment. A series of palm print recognition circuits did whatever palm print recognition circuits do, and a green light flashed. Michael always marveled at the gizmos Jan added to their home. The polished steel doors slid open revealing a gold-tiled foyer, which in turn led into the sparsely furnished living room with its acre of pale oak flooring and wrap-around windows overlooking the wide Delaware River and the New Jersey shore beyond. Amal stood ready to take Michael’s coat as he entered. “Welcome home, sir.” “Thank you, Amal, it is good to be home at last. Where is Jan?” “My master is upstairs in the guest bedroom. There has been a problem tonight.” “A problem? What kind of problem?” “I am not sure I should say. I cannot explain it.” “Well, I better go up, then.”

“Please, sir, forgive me. My master said he should not be disturbed,” Amal ended in a whisper. “I am sorry.” Michael didn’t like the sound of any of this, but for Jan to ask for privacy meant something important was going on. Tucking Jan’s gift under his arm, Michael said, “Amal, I am going to get a shower and change. If you see Jan before I return, please tell him where I am.” “Of course, sir,” Amal replied. He offered a slight bow, thankful he had apparently handled the situation well. Michael tiptoed up the wide steps, each plank notched into a single oak beam that wound up to the third floor. He listened briefly for any sound coming from the end of the hall. Hearing none, he returned to the second level and crossed the wide hallway into the master bedroom suite that he and Jan shared. A few minutes later, he was enveloped in steam and scented soap from India.

Nine

JAN was headed to the master bedroom when he caught up with Amal. “Amal, would you please get some pajamas and a robe for Colin? He’s a little scared now, so please don’t approach him. I’m afraid he thinks he’s going to be raped.” Amal’s eyes grew large. “Effendi, why would he think that?” Jan shrugged. “His mother and grandparents worked to turn him against me. It will take time, but I believe he’ll come around.” Amal drew a deep breath of regret for his master but kept his opinion on homosexual behavior to himself. “Effendi, Mr. Lin has arrived.” “Michael’s home already! Where is he?” “He is in the bath, washing the fatigue of travel from his body.” Jan quickly turned toward the bedroom and then stopped. “Amal, please bring something up for us to eat, and also something for Colin. A hamburger and french fries for him. He’s probably not ready for anything exotic just yet.” “I shall feed the young master first, and then I will bring something for you, if that is agreeable.” “Sounds like a plan. Umm, Amal, please don’t hurry with our food,” Jan said with a grin. That settled, Jan entered the sprawling bedroom and went straight into the steam-clouded bath where Michael hummed a Chinese love song.

Jan poked his smiling face around the glass partition and asked innocently, “Want some company?” “Jan!” Michael exclaimed as he pulled his lover into the shower. “Hey! At least let me get undressed!” Jan protested. “I think I can help you with that. Let me see, where should I begin?” Michael teased. “If you don’t hurry up, I’ll forget why I came in here!” Michael kissed Jan’s idle threat away as he stripped the sodden clothes off him. Jan handed Michael the scented soap and said, “Here, rub my back, will you?” Weeks of denied pleasure cried out for that most ingrained of male traits, instant gratification. No love ballet this time. Tonight was given over to raw need. At last, the hot water faded to cool, then to cold. Michael stood and pulled Jan to his feet, leading him to the bed. The corner fireplace warmed them as they lay clean, naked, insatiate, each needing more than nature reasonably could provide. Michael rolled onto his stomach and nuzzled Jan’s ear. “Sweetie, Amal said there was a problem tonight. Are you okay? What’s going on?” Michael’s question yanked Jan back from his blissful dream state. “Can we talk about it later?” “Sure… anything you say,” Michael agreed uneasily. Then Michael remembered the Tang Horse he had brought Jan. “Oh! I have something for you,” he said, smiling. Reaching across Jan’s chest, Michael grabbed the silk-clad box from the nightstand and handed it to him. “You know I love presents!” Jan said, opening the box. The gleaming ceramic of the majestic horse momentarily robbed his breath. “Oh, Michael, it’s magnificent! It must have cost the earth!” “You are worth the earth.”

“Come here, you!” Jan said, pulling Michael onto his chest. After a long kiss, Michael sighed and said, “Jan, you do realize that someday there will come a time when we will no longer have the strength for this.” “Pessimist!” Jan said.

SOME time before dawn, the storm passed, dragging away its heavy clouds and leaving only stray snowflakes to bounce on the wind. The sun, a ragged ball, eased over the horizon, tinting the bedroom a blood red. The fire Amal laid the night before was a smoldering memory, yet Jan and Michael’s lovemaking remained fresh, alive. Jan pressed his lips onto Michael’s chest. “Ready to go again?” he whispered. Michael's eyes fluttered and then opened. Amal’s warning that there was trouble brewing tore at his mind. He pushed Jan back with a soft hand. “You are avoiding telling me what has happened. I love you, and I love making love with you, but do not use it as an excuse. You will have to tell me sometime.” The two lay quietly, looking through the big glass window. Together they watched the sun rip the sky with sharp streaks of fire as if it were angry at the night for taking too long to leave. “Do you have business today?” Jan said. “Jan! It is New Year’s Day!” “Okay, okay. Umm, we have a situation, maybe even a problem.” Michael propped himself up on one elbow and looked cautiously into Jan’s gray eyes. He wasn’t sure he was ready for what was coming. He always feared one day Jan would come to harm because of Mundus and its projects, projects that could turn deadly if plans, even though laid through careful thought, went awry in execution, but no. To his surprise, the problem had nothing to do with Mundus. He remained silent as Jan recounted Elaine’s visit, ending with Colin and their shaky exchange the previous evening. Jan’s earlier playful mood changed to one of dead seriousness. Michael realized that, literally overnight, the life they had together was forever altered.

Michael took Jan’s hand and drew it onto his breast. “Well, we certainly have a situation, there is no getting around it, but a problem? No, I do not see a problem. He is your son; therefore, it follows that he will be my son too.” “But I haven’t had a family since I was a boy. I never learned how to do this!” “Jan, there is an old Chinese proverb that says, ‘Handle a family as you would cook a fish, very gently.’” Relieved, Jan burst into tears. “My God, what a man you are!” He snuggled against Michael’s smooth skin, murmuring, “I don’t think I could live without you.” “Shush! Do not tempt the gods!” “Michael, you’re Catholic. What’s all this talk of gods?” “Yes, I am Catholic, but I believe in hedging my bets. Where is the boy now?” Before Jan could answer, there was a knock at the door. Michael slipped from the warm bed and escaped into the bathroom. “Just a minute,” said Jan, as he tugged on a pair of pajama bottoms. Safely covered, he opened the door. Amal had placed a breakfast tray of fresh figs, Turkish coffee, and yogurt on a table near the door. “You can come out now. Amal left breakfast for us.” Michael returned to the bedroom rubbing his hands together. “Food! I’m starved!” Lifting the silver dome off the tray, Michael’s face collapsed in genuine disappointment. “What’s wrong?” Jan asked. “Is it too much to ask for a couple of glazed donuts, just once in a while? You know I love Amal like a brother, but I want donuts!” “All right! Don’t get your shorts in a knot. I’ll go down and get your donuts.” “We have donuts?”

“Yeess! We have donuts. I know you like them, so I got a couple at Zina’s Bakery before the storm hit.” “Why didn’t Amal bring them up?” “He hid them. He says they’re bad for you. They are, you know.” “All right, all right! I will eat the figs.” Michael bit into the green fruit, made a sour face, and said, “Where did Amal hide the donuts?”

Ten

AMAL tapped on the bedroom door before he entered, carrying a breakfast tray of cold cereal, milk, and juice. Colin, drowsy from a fitful sleep, tried to ignore the intrusion and snuggled deeper under the warm duvet. Sharp sunlight cut across Colin’s face as Amal pulled the curtains away from the windows. “Hey! What’s the idea? Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep here?” complained the sleepy teen. “It is already nine o’clock. The house has been awake for two hours. Time to get up.” Colin slid farther down in the bed, a scowl masking his true reason for not wanting to leave the bed. I can’t let this guy see me with a hard-on! This place is full of homos. I don’t care what Dad says about Abdul a Bull-Bull here. Dad? Why did I think that? What am I supposed to call him? I wonder if I can find somebody to get me out of this place. “Well, I’m not ready!” was his sullen reply. “Then, young master, I will change the bed linens with you in them. I have duties to perform, and I will not be delayed by a lazy boy.” As Amal took a step toward the bed, Colin leapt from the other side and ran into the bathroom, trying to cover the front of his pajama bottoms, which were sticking out like a theater marquee. It was then that the Arab realized what the delay was all about.

A few minutes later Colin emerged, relieved and modestly deflated. He stopped and watched Amal fluff the bed pillows and place them evenly against the mahogany headboard. “Where is my… I mean, where is everybody?” “My master and Mr. Lin ate breakfast hours ago. They are downstairs in the living room.” “Why do you call him master? Are you his slave?” Amal stiffened at the thought. “No, young master, I am a slave to no man!” Calming himself, Amal explained, “I serve your father because of who, and what, he is. I am here of my own will. I call him Master, or Effendi, because it is the custom of my people. It has nothing to do with being a slave. I hope you understand that.” “Okay, okay! Don’t get your hair up, I was just askin’.” Amal said, “Also, I wish you to remember that I am an honored person in this house, as you are, so please address me with respect.” Embarrassed, Colin’s first impulse was to defend his rudeness with a show of bravado; however, he wasn’t stupid. A little voice told him that the Arab would make a better friend than enemy. “I’m sorry… I apologize. Okay?” “Yes. Thank you, young master. Please eat. Your father is waiting for you downstairs.” Amal left Colin sitting at a table by the window. As he ate, he looked out at the frozen river. The sun made no impression on the blocks of ice packed against the ships moored on either side of the deep channel. The thick window glass blotted out the sound of a Coast Guard icebreaker as it slowly chewed a path for oil-laden ships, whose cargo couldn’t wait for the river to thaw in order to dock and unload. A chill shot down his back as he reached out and touched the window. He watched a wedge of Canada geese fly lazily along the far bank of the river. I wonder how they stand the cold.

Eleven

COLIN finished his cereal, stood, and looked down at the dirty dishes. What am I supposed to do with these? He eyed the bedside clock and ran his fingers through his blond hair. He sighed. Ugh, better get a move on. I wish I could just close my eyes and all this would be a dream. Colin went to the bedroom door to turn the lock, only to find there was none! Crap! Now what! he wondered. He looked around, then slipped off his pajama bottoms, tossing them onto the bed. “Well, no guts, no glory,” he muttered to the empty room. After soaping himself in the shower, Colin’s thoughts once more turned to how he could work his way out of this situation. A feeling of isolation pressed down on him as he came to the realization that, like it or not, he was stuck in a strange place without as much as a friend. There was nowhere to go and no one to turn to. Until I can find someone to help me get away, I’ll have to grin and bear it. Well, maybe not grin. His loins stirred as his hands swirled the lather around his groin. Colin discovered the joys of masturbation the year before and rarely missed an opportunity to delight in it. This time was no exception. Suddenly, he stopped and looked around for spy holes, or even for a camera. His expanding cock quickly deflated at the thought. This can’t be happening! I gotta get out of this place! Shower and drying completed, Colin peeked around the bathroom door to make sure the coast was clear before he stepped into his bedroom. He noticed the breakfast dishes were gone. “That guy sneaking around gives me the creeps!” he muttered.

Twelve

JAN and Michael sat in leather club chairs near the fireplace, speaking in hushed tones. The midmorning sun had begun its southern arc. Its golden rays, slanting through the windows’ thick glass panes, divided the large room with a wall of shimmering light. Jan looked around and nudged Michael. “He’s coming down,” Jan said. The two men watched as Colin crept down the winding stairs. “I hope he likes me,” Michael whispered. “I hope you’ll like him,” Jan replied. As he wound down the stairs, Colin peeked over the rail, looking for the first time at the room in daylight, the same room where his Aunt Elaine abandoned him the night before. Amal waited for Colin at the foot of the stairs. “My master is waiting for you by the fireplace,” he said. Colin looked at Jan and Michael sitting close together. He whispered in Amal’s ear. “Hey, what’s that guy’s name again?” “His name is Mr. Lin. He is Chinese.” “Does he speak English?” Colin said. “Yes, he does.” As Colin began to move off, Amal caught his sleeve and, with a wink, said, “You should call him sir.” Colin smiled. “Gotcha. Thanks.” Michael and Jan stood as Colin approached.

He looks so much like his dad! Michael thought. Michael leaned in to whisper in Jan’s ear. “I though you said he is a boy. He looks grown up to me.” “He’s almost fifteen,” Jan said. Colin came to within a few feet of the men and stopped. “Michael, this is my son, Colin,” Jan said. Michael offered Colin his hand. “Welcome to our home. I hope you will be happy here.” “Thank you, sir,” Colin replied nervously. He turned and smiled politely at Jan. The defiant youngster of last night had melted into a charming boy. Jan beamed back his approval and thought, Will wonders never cease? “Did you sleep well, Colin? Was your breakfast suitable?” Michael said. “I slept okay. I’m not used to eating breakfast. Usually I just get a donut.” “You like donuts too! That is the one thing I missed most when I was in China.” “So you missed donuts, eh? I’ll remember that!” Jan said, joking. “You know what I mean, silly man.” Michael gave Jan a playful nudge and laughed. Colin watched the two men. He didn’t understand all this. I thought these guys are supposed to act all girlie. Maybe they’re not as bad as I thought. “Colin,” Jan said. “I don’t have your school transcripts. What grade are you in now?” “I’m halfway through my high school freshman year.” Jan looked surprised. “Really!” “Yeah, I skipped a grade. Mom was real proud….” Colin’s voice faltered. “Sorry.” Jan put his arm around his son’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Colin, it’s okay. You can talk about her if you want.”

Michael stood by uneasily, wishing he could say or do something to break the tension. Then he thought of his nephew. “Colin, I just remembered something. My nephew, William, is about your age. He attends a very fine school in the city.” Michael turned to Jan. “You know the one, Jan. It is All Souls on Samson Street, unless you prefer Saint Dominic Academy.” “Oh, no!” Jan protested. “I’m not sending Colin there. It’s taken me twenty plus years to get over Sister Mary Heart O’Stone and her brass ruler. Damn! That thing hurt.” Colin stood wide-eyed and annoyed, while the two men discussed his fate as if he were a pet about to enter obedience training. He could feel heat rising in his face and prickles down his back. What do they think I am, some dog to play house with? Jan noticed Colin hunch his back and clench his fists. This is not going well. He cocked his head toward Colin. “Michael, I’m not sure Colin wants to go to a private school. What about it, son? How do you feel about it?” Colin thought, He’s overdoing the son routine. How can he feel like my father overnight? I sure don’t feel like his son! “I’m not sure,” Colin replied flatly, hoping Jan hadn’t noticed his anger. “School’s school, I guess. One’s like another, but I sure don’t want anybody hitting me!” Michael said, “Well, you better think fast because I believe school begins in a few days, so you must decide soon.” Colin stared into the new fire Amal had lit in the fireplace and tried to focus on what was happening. School. Another rope around my neck! Jan nodded and said, “Colin, do you mind if I check into All Souls and see if they have an opening there? They’re run by the Episcopal Church—no nuns, thank God!” Colin shrugged. “If I don’t like it I can switch to public school?” “All right, so long as you give All Souls a chance. Deal?”

“Deal,” Colin agreed. “I’ll call the school tomorrow, and we have to see about some clothes for you. Did your Aunt Elaine pack anything for you?” Jan said. Colin walked over to the window. Jan followed and stood beside him, looking out of the corner of his eye while pretending to watch a Coast Guard officer board a newly arrived ship anchored near the pier. Great! Jan thought. Just what Michael needs, a security check on one of his deliveries, and on New Year’s Day, no less. “Colin, I guess you’re feeling pretty overwhelmed. I can’t blame you. I would too. Trust me, things will settle down.” “Doesn’t my Aunt Elaine love me anymore?” Colin blurted, his voice hanging between anger and the fear of knowing an awful truth. The question dragged Jan back to his past, so similar in so many ways. His father dead, ordered from the only home he ever knew. Tim, the man he loved, kept him like a sex toy, someone easily turned in for a brighter model at any moment. Even his brief stint as a husband ended after Angela drove him from their marriage bed. His heart ached for Colin. He chose his words carefully. “I don’t know. What I mean is, I don’t know her very well. She never seemed like a person who wanted kids around, so that probably made her look like she didn’t love you. I’m sure she did.” Jan wasn’t sure of anything of the kind, but he wasn’t about to hurt his son anymore over the situation. She doesn’t give a shit about me. Colin thought. All she wanted was to get rid of me. That’s why she dumped me here with these queers. Colin shot Jan a cynical look. “Thanks, nice try.” He looked down and shuffled his feet. “Umm, can I go to my room for a while?” “Sure. Amal will prepare lunch later. I’ll call you down when it’s ready.” As Colin turned back from the window and walked away, Jan noticed Michael was gone.

Thirteen

JAN dropped Colin off at the entrance of All Souls School, having secured a place for him in the freshman midterm curriculum the day before. Driving back to the Federal Court House offices, Jan reflected that from the moment they met, Colin’s behavior swung wildly between barely suppressed rage and a slow, almost unconscious attitude of acceptance. At times, he even seemed happy. He can’t go through this much longer or he’ll have a meltdown, Jan thought. I wonder what he’s really thinking.

BROTHER JULIAN met Colin inside the entrance of All Souls School and guided him out through a colonnade of covered arches that embraced the four sides of a grassy quad. The open cloister served a variety of functions. In good weather, the brothers took breakfast and evening meals under frescos of Olympian deities. “Italian immigrants painted these ceilings in the mid-nineteenth century,” Brother Julian explained. “During the school year, the brothers and students meet here for silent prayer and reflection. Of course, attendance is optional. If you want to join us, that’s good, if not, that’s good too.” Colin stopped and looked a long moment at a large cast iron fountain, its waterspout frozen in midair from the subfreezing temperature. The only sound came from a lone sparrow, rummaging among ivy that clung stiffly on a stucco wall. He shivered in the biting

cold and puffed out blue-gray breaths, which a soft wind instantly snatched away. Brother Julian smiled at him for the first time since Colin arrived at All Souls. “Don’t worry, Colin. All Souls isn’t as grim as it looks today. You’ll settle in soon. If you need me for anything just ask any brother to find me. We’re very informal here.” Colin gave a brief smile. “I’m not worried. I just hope everyone likes me.” “Just remember, Colin, not everyone is expected to like one another here, but everyone is required to respect each person’s space and privacy.” Brother Julian concluded, “There are no gangs, no hazing, and no disrespecting anyone. That sort of thing will get a student expelled, pronto.” Colin nodded and said, “Got it.” Brother Julian said, “One more thing. There’s no glory in keeping your problems to yourself, if you have any… problems, that is. Our job at All Souls is to help you become a happy person, and of course, to educate you. The rest is up to you.” Before Colin could respond, a gong sounded, announcing the first class of the day. Brother Julian pointed to a door across the quad. “Go around the cloister and through that door. Your first class is Modern History. Mr. Jamison teaches that class. Remember, you met him at your interview. He’ll give you your schedule for the day. If you like the setup, we’ll leave it for the rest of the term. Well, I think that’s all, off you go, then,” Brother Julian said with another reassuring smile. Colin jogged around the quad, stopping at the door marked “Modern History - 8:00AM.” He ran his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath, and pushed through the door.

Fourteen

NINETEEN pairs of curious eyes met Colin as he passed through the door marked Modern History. Colin searched the classroom for an empty seat and, more importantly, a friendly face. “Mr. Jamison?” he said. Mr. Jamison walked over, smiled a greeting, and shook Colin’s hand. Mr. Jamison was impressed during their interview, and he was happy that Brother Julian had offered Colin a slot in the student body. Selfishly, Jamison was relieved to have a round number in his class, since he regarded the number nineteen as personally unlucky. “Come in, come in!” Mr. Jamison said. “Class, I want to introduce Colin Phillips. He’s just moved here from Washington State, and I expect you all to make him feel at home.” Colin stood facing his new classmates. He shifted uneasily in the new clothes Jan and Michael helped pick out the day before. Trendy or not, he was painfully aware that traces of factory creases proclaimed them as new. So very not cool! Mr. Jamison eyed his students’ bright faces and said, “I see by all your expressions that Colin’s clothes have sparked a renewed hope that All Souls has decided to abandon its uniform code. Alas, ’taint so, my friends.” Groans met the unwelcome news. “Colin will be joining you all in regularity by next week.” Pointing to an empty desk, Mr. Jamison said, “Colin, if you would, please take that desk.” To Colin’s ear, the man whispered, “If you want

to move to another row let me know after class. Okay?” Colin nodded. A moment later, he was safely ensconced in a metal seat with a newly polished wood slab which served as a book rest and writing surface. Behind him sat a chubby girl with short red hair. In front of him, a boy sat with a brace clamped around one of his legs. A tubular crutch, marked with a tag in large black letters identifying its owner as TOBY, leaned against the nearby wall. On his left sat an Asian boy with long, glossy black hair. I wonder if that’s Mr. Lin’s nephew. To his right, a girl with large brown eyes and curly auburn hair smiled coyly at him. She extended her hand. “Hi, my name’s Alexandra Betterman. You can call me Zan. That’s short for Alexandra. I hate Alex. I think Zan suits me better.” Colin took her soft hand, and for the first time in his young life, fell headlong into real honest to goodness lust. A line of sweat instantly drew a dewy mustache across his upper lip. He looked around, positive everyone was watching. “Hi,” he said, thankful his desktop hid the stoolpigeon in his pants. “All right,” Mr. Jamison said, “let’s get to work.”

COLIN trailed Alexandra and the Asian boy, who introduced himself as William Tan, into the dining hall. “Something smells good. I’m starved,” Colin said. “More mystery meat and stewed peas, no doubt,” complained William. “Mystery meat is what you have for dinner, William,” Alexandra joked. “Zan, you’ve been to my house for lunch, and every piece of meat was identifiable,” William said as he sniffed the familiar scent of roast beef. “Maybe so, but I didn’t see a single cat or dog in Chinatown when I was there, and I looked for them too!” William laughed. “That’s just a myth, and you know it. You’re

just trying to embarrass me in front of Colin.” Colin said, “There’s a big Asian community in the town I grew up in, and everybody said the same thing about dogs and cats, but I know it’s not true.” The three breezed through the cafeteria line and settled in a corner near a window that overlooked the frozen quad Colin had passed through earlier. They dug into their food like starved prisoners. At last Alexandra asked, “How’s yours?” “Not bad. I was so hungry, I probably would have eaten a cat,” Colin joked. “Comrade!” William smiled and patted Colin’s shoulder. “A brother in gastronomy!” Colin grinned at clearly breaching the walls of unknown territory on his first school day. If everyone is like this, I’ll be happy here. Alexandra pulled Colin’s sleeve. “C’mon, we’ve a little time to ourselves before the next class. I’ll show you around.” As William pushed his chair back, Alexandra pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, gazing at him meaningfully. Friends since the first grade, William got her message, loud and clear. “Oh, umm, you guys go ahead. I need to go to the boy’s room.” Satisfied she would have Colin all to herself, Alexandra said, “Let’s go.” Mary Lamb, the girl with the short red hair who sat behind Colin in Modern History, said, “Well would ya look at those two?” She furtively jammed a large piece of pie into her small purse as her tablemates turned to see Alexandra and Colin exit the dining hall together. “Isn’t it a little early for spring to be in the air?” Mary said, wiping pie filling off her purse clasp. “Why, Mary!” a girl with tiny pimples mapping her forehead said in a broad voice, “I do believe you have a happy facility for observation and a firm grasp of the obvious.” Laughter ’round the table greeted this accurate, albeit unkind, imitation of Brother Lucas, the school’s librarian.

Fifteen

FROM that first school day, Colin and Alexandra became inseparable, spending every free hour together. By month’s end, Colin and Zan, as he now called her, were, in teen parlance, an item. By definition, an item included, but was not limited to, exclusive dating privileges, ice cream sundaes at Schrafft’s candy store on Walnut Street, walking hand in hand through Philadelphia’s tree-lined parks, and chaste pecks on cheeks, when in the company of their peers. Over the course of those early weeks, Colin shared details about his family, his mother’s death, and how his Aunt Elaine summarily dumped him, on New Year’s Eve, at Jan’s doorstep. For the moment, Colin kept the fact that his father was gay a secret, saying only that he was unmarried. “I’m a one parent kid too,” Alexandra had said, agreeing soberly that it was a hard situation to be in. As their friendship blossomed, Colin spent much of his day thinking about Zan. Up to that point, the relationship had remained wholly innocent. Each day, he could barely wait to get home and into the shower, where fantasy and desire collided in a furious discharge of caged lust. Too bad I can’t just stay in here, Colin said to himself, as he stepped from the shower stall and into the spacious bathroom. Drying himself with a huge bath sheet, he walked into his bedroom where he noticed a note placed on his bed.

Your father would like a word when you are dressed. Finding the note in Amal’s elegant script again warned Colin that the interior doors had no locks, a fact he found curiously disturbing.

COLIN walked into the office Jan and Michael shared. Like all the rooms in the loft, this one too was extraordinarily large and had few furnishings. A thick wool rug, depicting an angry Aztec god, hosted three leather tufted sofas. Behind these, frosted glass partitions separated them from computer workstations. One side of the room was devoted to Jan’s legal cases. Michael’s half sported two large screens. One screen swarmed with blinking colored dots, delineating the whereabouts of all ships at sea, while another monitor provided global information on every cargo container and bill of lading in service. Jan’s desk sported two computer monitors and a laptop. On one screen, several columns of data scrolled down at an impossible speed. Jan sat motionless as racing lines of information shot up and away into oblivion. Colin watched a moment and then asked, “How can you read that?” “Oh!” Jan said as he turned in his chair. “I didn’t hear you come in, Colin. Sit down. I’ll be just a minute.” Nodding to the screen that came to rest at a line labeled Middle East Oil Ltd. vs. Italian Government, Jan pointed and said, “I don’t try to read all of it. I was scanning for a particular case. I need to see if we’ve any clients involved with other cases that include litigation with Middle East Oil Limited. If not, we can represent them. The firm’s conflict analyst said there might be a problem with this particular one, so I need to research it. There’s no magic to it.” “I see,” Colin said. He didn’t really understand but felt he should at least look interested. All he could think about these days was Zan, Zan, and more Zan. “So, how’s All Souls? Like it, hate it, so-so?” Jan asked, trying

hard not to lead his son into saying something he might not truly feel. Colin smiled broadly. “I like it a lot. Everyone is nice.” He decided not to mention Zan. His love life, such as it was, was no one’s business, and he certainly wasn’t going to share it with these two fags! “So, you think you want to go back there next year?” “Yeah, like I said, I like it, and they like me too.” Jan turned this in his mind. They like him. That’s got to feel good. “I’ve a surprise for you,” Jan said. “What?” Colin asked, curious. “Turn around.” Colin turned. A state-of-the-art wireless PC sat on a new desk. A winking screen message warned, “Colin’s PC—Keep Out!” Colin got up, walked over to the computer, and sat down at the desk. Jan followed and stood, looking over Colin’s shoulder. Colin examined the slim, gunmetal gray mini-tower with its ultraquiet power supply, whirring at whisper speed. “Wow! This is so cool!” Colin said. “It’s just like the ones we have at school. Is it really for me? I mean, can I use it now?” “Of course.” Amal looked on from the doorway. As Colin eagerly bent over the keyboard, Amal cleared his throat loudly. “Ahem!” Colin looked up to see Amal jerk his head toward Jan. Colin quickly turned. “Oh! Sorry. Thanks. I guess I got excited and forgot my manners.” Jan ruffled Colin’s hair saying, “’S okay. It’s from both of us. You can thank Michael when he gets home.” But it wasn’t okay. Jan suspected Colin’s sweetness was, in reality, teenage guile. He hoped not, for everyone’s sake.

Sixteen

“DAMN you, Louis! What’s the matter with you, Son?” Victor Carew roared at his only child. Louis Carew stood uneasily on the Persian carpet that covered a highly polished floor in his father’s posh Society Hill study. A gentle light bathed the book-lined walls. Gold-stamped leather volumes reflected red, green, and blue hues around the cozy room, creating a feeling of tranquil thought. Tranquility was the least sensation Louis felt as he fixed his eyes on the rug’s intricate pattern. His heart thumped hard in his chest. Flight from his father’s wrath was his first instinct on hearing the opening salvo of a battle. Louis kept staring down at the rug and thought, If only this thing could fly! The older man circled the oak desk like a man searching for a cufflink lost in midair. In doing so, he was trying very hard to keep from looking at his son, an act he was sure would result in him leaping at Louis’s throat with murder on his mind. “Louis, you’ve had every advantage I could provide. You have a first-rate education, connections in this town, and the opportunity for any career you could possibly want. You’ve got a townhouse with a fancy address, privacy, more money than God, and several bailouts with the law… one that nearly landed you in prison, which I need not mention.” “Yeah, well then why mention it? And, just for the record, that particular run-in cost me four million bucks, not you! Those spic brats took me to the cleaners! It’s taken me years to make up that loss. Not

you!” Referring to the out of court settling of a civil suit, alleging that he seduced two twelve-year-old girls, brought back mixed emotions for Louis. On one hand, robbing them of their sweet innocence was, in his mind, worth the risk. On the other hand, the price was way too high. The girls’ status, as two of the city’s underprivileged, meant that without a high-end law firm behind them to tackle the Carew name and wealth, they were unlikely to see a dime from the man who drugged, stripped, and raped them, each in turn, until he tired of the game. “You just remember who kept the criminal charges from going to trial, mister! Your cash may have paid those brats off, but my influence got you off, and don’t you forget it!” The younger Carew needed no reminding. The humiliation he felt at the time flushed again in his gut. “I remember,” he said bitterly. Louis remembered too that it was Jan Phillips and his oh-so-righteous Templars of Law that made possible the enrichment of a couple of Mexican wetbacks. Rather than take Louis on as a client, Jan instead decided to represent Louis’s alleged victims in the civil action. For once, the Carew name was useless. Twelve years had passed, and Louis had hardened into a man of thirty-six. He’d also developed the spine that he lacked when his father rescued him from the clutches of Graterford Prison. He vowed to get even with Jan Phillips one day. The hatred he felt for Jan was as hot as the day he signed the check for those brats. Victor Carew’s angry voice brought his son back to the present. “Louis, I’m not interested in hitting you over the head with the past. I’ve got work to do, and one of these days I’m going to be able to do it without having to worry about you ruining your life, and mine as well. Thank God your mother isn’t here to see what you’ve become!” A slavishly devoted son, Louis was just a boy when his mother died from a sudden aneurism. Afterward, he tried to transfer his love to his aloof and oftentimes forbidding, father. He became resentful of what he felt was his father’s crushing remoteness. Consequently, Louis felt unwelcome in his father’s home, much like a stray kitten, too pitiful to drive away, yet an unwanted addition to the household all the same. Brushes with school authorities and the law were mere cries for

attention. Victor put these down to rebellion and meted out stiff penalties, which only served to widen the gulf between son and father. Over time, their battered relationship morphed into one of neutral adversaries, each hopelessly unaware of the other’s wondering need. “What I’ve become is what you made me!” Louis snapped. “Now, will you please tell me what you want?” “What?” Victor said, wondering what his son meant. Louis rolled his eyes and whined, “What do you want? I still don’t know why I’m here.” Louis’s father made a sour face, walked behind his desk, and pulled out a drawer. “Here, explain this, if you can,” he said. Victor slammed a DVD case on the desk. On the cover was what appeared to be the meat department of a supermarket. A man and woman, locked in the throes of pornographic passion, copulated on a butcher’s table. The title read: “Manager’s Special—Ready For the Fire—Bone In!” Victor Carew flipped the case over and read the production credits. “It says, ‘LC Enterprises’, Louis. That’s you, isn’t it!” Louis stared at the leather-clad desktop without looking directly at the hottest DVD product his mini-production company was currently marketing in all of Philadelphia’s porno parlors. He raised his eyes, trying to look at ease. “So?” he answered coolly. “Is that all you have to say? Well, Mr. Hollywood, what about this?” With that, Victor retrieved a second DVD. This one was far different from the other. Splashed across the glossy cover, a very young boy performed fellatio on a clearly much older male. A large red dot masked the area around the boy’s mouth. “Is that boy legal, Louis?” Louis shrugged. “He says he is. He has state ID. It’s all on record.” “Yeah, right. And you know as well as I do a fake ID is as easy to

get in Philadelphia as ice cream on a July Sunday!” Victor regarded his son with a mixture of suspicion and pity. He had reproached himself countless times for his helpless indulgence. Never mind that Louis, from the age of thirteen, had begun to develop into a violent, cruel, power-hungry libertine. Victor shamefully realized that, aside from gluttony, his son wallowed in all the vices attributed to hell, and he enjoyed every one. “Look, Dad,” Louis said, “the movies make good money. I haven’t dipped into our joint account in weeks. You should be happy!” “Happy? Well excuse me, Louis, but running a business that could land you in federal prison makes me queasy, so you’ll forgive me if I seem somewhat sangfroid!” Exasperated, Louis said, “Well, Dad, what do you want me to do?” “Close down, or at least stop the porn.” “No.” Victor shook his head in disbelief. “But… why not? Louis, you know I’ve got contacts in the film industry—legit, not the stuff you’re mixed up in.” Louis resumed eyeing the carpet at his feet. “Look,” Victor said hopefully, “you could make a documentary about Philadelphia, or the town in Scotland where your grandfather came from. Just do something else besides this sick stuff!” Louis chewed the inside of his cheek. How many times has this old fart yelled at me? One of these days I’ll show him I can do a hell of a lot more than stand around and take his guff! Louis wasn’t about to make documentaries or anything else when the porn business got him sex in numbers and varieties that rivaled the twelve Caesars. Still, he needed to quell his father’s anger and avoid the old man’s interference in his profligate lifestyle. “Look, it’ll take some time, but I’ll think about it, promise. Okay?” Louis said, hoping his insincerity didn’t show. Victor slumped into his desk chair and thought, I can’t trust him, but this is as good as I’ll get, for now. I’ll have him watched in the

meantime. He nodded grudgingly and said, “All right, Louie, all right. Wanna stay for dinner?” “What are you having?” “Pasta al forno.” “Dad, you eat too much of that stuff. The carbs are gonna kill you.” “Do I look like I’m ready for the grave?” Louis looked at his father. He saw a tall, broad-shouldered, deepchested man. No beer belly testified to overindulgence in food or drink. He also knew his father was a regular at the Pinnacle Club’s penthouse gymnasium. “No, you don’t,” Louis admitted. “I’d like to stay. Thanks.” As the two men made their way to the dining room, Louis’s cell phone emitted a soft burring sound. He stopped, pulled the phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and pressed the “read text” button. “Dad, you go ahead, I’ve got to take this.” “All right, boy, but don’t be too long. The pasta won’t wait.” “Be there in a flash,” Louis said with a grin. The younger Carew read the text message. Special friend in town. Need entertainment. Call PK.

Seventeen

JAN sifted through the day’s mail and stopped when he came to a long pale yellow envelope. He glanced at the return address. The words, “All Souls, Deans Office,” caught his eye. Jan slipped a letter opener along the envelope’s flap. Extracting a precisely creased rectangle of stiff paper, he unfolded it and read Colin’s end-of-the-year grade report. He read and then reread the cold statistics. Numbers and letters that could either make or break a student’s future. Jan walked into the study he and Michael shared. Michael sat at one side of their partner’s desk, busily processing invoices. Jan walked over and handed Michael the sheet of paper with its neatly typed rows of data. “What is this?” Michael asked. Jan was grinning from ear to ear. He said, “Take a look.” Michael ran his eyes over the paper. “Wow! All A’s! And for the whole semester too! That is excellent. I am so happy for you. It is one thing you will not have to worry about. You must be very proud!” “I would be if I had anything to do with raising him, but Colin’s native intelligence and his mother’s love made him the person he is, not me.” “Genes count for a lot too. You know that, Jan. You are one smart fortune cookie!” Jan smiled, slipped the grade report into the envelope, and put it near Colin’s computer.

“Jan, you must reward him. What do you think he would like?” “A one-way ticket out of here would be my guess.” “That is very cynical. He seems happy to me. At least he has not said anything to me about wanting to leave.” Jan sighed. “I don’t think he would take either of us into his confidence if he was planning to run off. I don’t know, maybe I’m just being insecure. You know he’s never called me ‘Dad’, or ‘Pop’, or even ‘Father’. It’s always ‘sir’, and even then, it’s an awkward ‘sir’. And I know he spends more time on his computer than I like. He rarely initiates conversation, and when we do talk, he looks at anything and everything but me. He hasn’t volunteered any more information about how he’s getting on in school, or if he’s made more friends. Do you know if he’s had any phone calls?” “How I would know a thing like that? He has his own phone.” “Right. I’m not thinking,” Jan admitted. “You really believe he would try to run away?” Michael said. Jan shrugged his answer. “Why not ask him the questions you want answered? Are you afraid he would feel you are intruding?” “Yeah, something like that.” “Well, perhaps he feels that if you do not ask, then you do not care.” “You’re right. Michael, you’re so wise.” “It is an Asian thing,” Michael joked. “As for Colin not calling you Dad, give him time. After all, he has lived almost fifteen years without one. I love you, and in time he will too.” Michael reached up and brought Jan’s mouth to his. He broke away and whispered, “Amal is going out. He will not be home until late, and Colin said he was staying late at school. So, you see, we have some time for ourselves.” “Is that an invitation?” Michael said coyly, “Maybe.”

LATER that evening, Jan found Colin at his computer downloading a page with information about the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Jerusalem—The Knights Templar. Their motto: Non Nobis Domine ✠ Non Nobis ✠ Sed Nomini Tuo Da Gloriam stretched diagonally across the web page. Jan stood behind his son and translated the text aloud, “Not to us oh Lord, Not to us, but to Your Name give glory.” “What?” Colin said, looking around. “You were wondering what the Latin meant.” “How did you know?” “Everybody does.” “You know Latin?” “The school I went to taught it. I must’ve been good at it, because I never forgot it.” “They don’t offer it at All Souls. Besides, what good is Latin nowadays? Nobody I know is interested in it.” “I don’t know. It’s kinda fun. As for All Souls not teaching it, they’re Episcopal. Historically, Latin is definitely not their thing.” “Uh, uh,” Colin muttered, unconvinced as he returned his attention to the Templar website. Jan wasn’t happy about Colin’s interest in the Templars, since their ancient history was the foundation of Mundus Society. Jan was determined to keep his son far away from Mundus and the very real dangers it posed for its members and loved ones. “Did you see your report card?” Jan asked. “I left it by your keyboard.” Colin kept his eyes focused on a page detailing the fabled Templar treasure. “I did. Thanks.” He answered in a tone that clearly signaled he wanted to end their conversation. Jan stood still. I wonder if I should push this a little. Then Colin spoke again. “I didn’t think I’d get an A in geometry. We had to learn how to read a slide rule! I didn’t even know what the thing was when Brother Boniface passed them out!”

Jan chuckled at this. “I had to learn it too. To tell the truth,” he said, “I never used it after school. I asked Brother Julian about it when I saw it listed as a pass/fail requirement. He told me the reason they teach it is to instill discipline of the mind.” “I think I’d rather take a beating,” Colin said sourly, his eyes still fixed on his computer. Jan thought back on Saint Dominic’s Academy and Mother Eileen wielding her brass-plated ruler with obvious glee. “Oh no, you wouldn’t. Trust me!” They sat a few minutes while Colin maneuvered though the Templar website. Damn, I wish he’d find something else to interest him. I suppose it’s too late for “Nanny Watch.” He’d probably find a way around it. What will I say to him if he falls into the thrall of the Templar mystique? Colin clicked a page tab, and the screen switched to a Templar battle scene. It was the siege of the city of Acre, the Templar’s last stand against Saladin. “Isn’t there something else you’d rather read than this old stuff?” Jan said. “Umm, no. I like reading about these guys. Why?” “No reason.” Jan’s devil whispered in his ear, You handled that real well. What do you do for an encore, ya dummy? His angel defended Jan. He’s only trying to protect the boy. Leave him alone, you big bully, or I’ll smack you with a thunderbolt! Jan decided it was time to change the subject. He took a deep, silent breath. “I was wondering if you’ve made any more friends at school. You haven’t said much since you started at All Souls, and I was wondering….” Colin turned in his seat and faced his father. “Everything’s fine. I thought you knew that already.”

Not wishing to sound confrontational, Jan made a conscious effort to soften his tone. “How would I know? You don’t say much. Aside from your grades, I don’t know what’s going on with you at school.” “I told you before I liked it there. I guess I thought you’d ask Brother Julian if you didn’t believe me,” Colin said. “I wouldn’t do that! I wouldn’t spy on you.” “Oh.” Colin returned to reading the Templar webpage. I hope he doesn’t ask about Zan! The two sat in silence a while, and then Jan said, “Well?” “Well what?” Colin said. “Well, have you made any new friends in school?” I wonder why he’s asking me this stuff. Why the sudden interest? Take it easy, don’t push back. See what he wants. “Yeah, I have,” Colin said brightly. “William Tan, he’s Michael’s nephew, but I guess you knew that, and Toby Holcomb, he’s got something wrong with his leg. William said it never grew right. Toby never said anything to me, so I keep quiet about it. And, umm, the girl I met on my first day at school. Remember, I told you about her. Name’s Zan.” Colin hoped his reference to Zan sounded casual enough, since he wasn’t sure how Jan, being gay, felt about girls in general. Jan remembered hearing the name, but he thought he had heard it from someone other than Colin. He pulled at his memory, but nothing came to mind. “Well, that’s great! That’s… that’s… great. So, umm, what would you like as a reward for getting such good grades?” “I don’t need a reward. I like school.” “Okay, but I’d like to do something to celebrate, go out to dinner, anything you’d like.” “I know,” said Colin. “I’d like to go out… I mean if it’s okay.”

“Sure. Where do you want to go?” “Well,” Colin said, biting his lower lip, “I don’t think you understand. I mean… I want to go out with someone else.” Jan absorbed Colin’s words as they finally registered. “You mean out on a date?” Jan asked, a little startled. The idea of his young son out and about on his own in Philadelphia, scared him. Then, as if reading his father’s mind, Colin said, “Ah, yeah, I turn fifteen next week. Don’t you think I’m old enough to go out?” Colin was getting nervous. He had seen Jan angry only once, last New Year’s Eve when his Aunt Elaine left him. He never wanted to see his father that angry again. “Who were you going to ask out on this date?” “Well… I thought I’d ask Zan. We’ve been hanging out together, and well, I really like her and all.” Jan looked at his son, trying to get a sense of how important this was to him. “She’s in the same grade as you, right?” Here it comes. I’m gonna get grilled, Colin thought. “Yeah, she’s in most of my classes, and she’s real cool, and I like her, and she likes me too… kinda… I think. I thought since it’s my birthday, I could take her someplace and….” Jan watched Colin’s face flush deep red. “Okay, okay. Calm down before you pop a blood vessel!” Jan said, laughing. Colin sagged into an embarrassed slump. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh,” Jan said, allowing himself one more giggle before pulling a serious face. My son has a girlfriend. How about that! Well, this is one part of his life they can’t rob from me. “So, Colin, how long have you known this girl?” “Well, I met her the first day at school,” he said sheepishly. “Wow, fast worker, eh?”

The added remark caused Colin’s scarlet bloom to intensify. Jan reached out and tousled his hair. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you, but I think I need to know more about her. We should….” Amal interrupted Jan in midsentence. “Excuse me, Effendi. You have a phone call from France.” Jan sighed at the interruption. “Thank you, Amal. I’ll take the call in my bedroom.” Colin’s eyes followed him as Jan walked to the door. Jan turned and smiled. “We’ll talk about this later, Colin, okay?” “Okay, but there’s a Black as Night concert that William told me about, and I’ve never been to one, and, well, I would need to know pretty soon, I mean if it’s okay.” “I’ll let you know pretty soon,” Jan said as he left the office. Colin returned to the Knights Templar website. Ugh Latin! That’s almost as bad as slide rules. I wonder why he doesn’t want me to look at this stuff?

Eighteen

THE phone call from France was Jan’s weekly conference call, a routine catch-up on Mundus’s European activities. One item discussed in depth was a curious jump in tourism in, of all places, Iceland. That in itself was not unwelcome, but the tourists’ countries of origin were unusual. Egypt, Algeria, Morocco, and Syria headed the list. It seemed Arab nations were supplying an inordinate number of glacier climbing enthusiasts, flooding into the island nation on a large scale. It was this fact that was so troubling, in these troubled times. Was this paranoia profiling, or a wake-up call? That was for future Mundus intelligence operations to determine. In the meantime, Iceland needed watching. After the callers rang off the secure Mundus phone line, Jan dialed Nick Flamingo from his cell phone. Nick owned and operated the I Spy Detective Agency in Philadelphia. If anything happened in Philly, Nick knew about it. “Nick, it’s Jan Phillips. Please pick up the phone if you’re there.” Jan waited several long moments, wondering why the detective’s answering service didn’t respond. Just as he was about to hang up, Nick Flamingo answered breathlessly, “Flamingo.” “Nick, you sound all in. Have a rough night?” Jan said. “If you call sitting in a car, watching a warehouse all day and half the night rough, I guess I’d say yes. So, what can I do ya for?” Nick said, still groggy from lack of sleep. Nick’s English usage notwithstanding, he was as good as you get when it came to detective work, which was why Jan used his services when his law firm needed information denied to ordinary folk.

“What do you know about a band called Black as Night? They’re playing at a place called the Old Rockadero,” Jan said. “Black as Night, eh? They’re a local Goth band. The kids who go to those things are way too young for you, my boy,” Nick replied with a sarcastic snigger. Jan brushed off the good-humored jibe. “Very funny,” he said dryly. “What else should I know?” “Know? Uh… they’re like a lot of rock bands. They stand up on a rickety stage and, in costumes you wouldn’t wear on Halloween, make bad noise. What else do you need to know?” “Nick, don’t fence with me. I’m serious.” Nick yawned into the phone. “Serious, huh? Okay, let’s see, they’re strictly local, but they’re pretty well funded for a cult band, and they target the under twenty ‘mom and dad have too much money’ crowd. There’s heavy security. That’s supposed to mean no alcohol, no sex, pretty clean for drugs too. The drug stuff is more trouble for the band members than the fans, but what these people do before they hit the stage is anybody’s guess. As these things go, they’re pretty tame, at least on the aisle side of the stage. That’s not to say there aren’t after-show parties. I have seen some lowlifes in big limos hanging around before and after the shows. Why do you ask?” “My kid wants to see them.” “No foolin’! You gotta kid?” Nick said, letting out a whoop of laughter, then instantly regretting his crack about Philadelphia’s moneyed crowd, of which Jan was a card-carrying member. Jan ignored the “You gotta kid?” crack and the attending mirth. He waited quietly for Nick to compose himself. “Tell me about the lowlifes,” Jan said, his tone as flat as a calm lake. Taking his cue, Nick became all business. “Most of them are regulars. They’re smart, and they know their way around the law if they get caught. Like they say, ‘You can do anything you want, but never get caught with a live boy or a dead girl.’ One’s a particularly nasty fellow, a Russian guy. Name’s Pytór

Krevchenko. He seems to have a lot of very young nephews and nieces flying back and forth to Mother Russia. This Pytór has a new sidekick, a recently transplanted Saudi national, goes by the name Ben. Don’t have a last name for him. He’s a big guy, looks tough. Oh, and this will interest you. Krevchenko hangs out with your old buddy, Louis Carew.” Nick paused to let Jan absorb this tidbit of underworld gossip. Jan thought, Carew! It’s been a long time since I heard that name. Jan shivered at the thought of Colin running into a man like Louis Carew. His imagination ran riot until Nick jarred him back to the real world. “Hey! You still there, Jan?” “Yeah, umm, so, Nick, what made you flag Carew?” “I got a client. His fourteen-year-old daughter went missing after a party, and somebody saw a limo that looked like the one Carew uses. Given Louie’s track record with underage girls, I’m sorta keeping my eyes peeled. I’m staking out a warehouse he rents just over Vine Street from Chinatown. I figure if he had anything to do with the missing girl, somebody around there might have seen something. Trouble is, see, like, they got lights at this warehouse that go on and off, but nobody goes in or out.” Suggesting the obvious, Jan said, “Maybe the lights are on timers.” “That’s what I figure, but I still don’t see nobody goin’ in and out, even in the daytime, and it’s supposed to be a business, if you get my drift.” “I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Jan said wearily. “So, do you want I should keep an eye out for this kid of yours? I mean in case somebody approaches him?” “Nah, I’m not going to spy on him.” Jan paused a moment to reconsider the offer but decided his first instinct was best. Then, “Okay, Nick. Got anything else?” “That’s about it. One thing I heard through the grapevine, Carew the younger runs a smalltime porno studio. The word is daddy’s furious

about it. That warehouse I’m watching is where Louie baby is supposed to be filming. That’s the business I was referring to, if you can call it that, but like I said, if somethin’s going on in there, I sure can’t see it. The police haven’t found the missing girl yet. Hey, you want I should dig a little more?” “Yes, you do that, Nick. Fax your report to me at the office, okay?” “You got it.” With that, the detective rang off. Jan sat on the edge of the bed and thought, Carew and kids. That guy just won’t quit. “Jan?” Jan turned to see Michael standing in the doorway. “I didn’t hear you come in.” “I could not help overhearing. What is this about a Black as Night concert?” Jan shook his head. “Oh hell, I don’t know. Colin wants to take a girl from school to one, and I was just trying to check these so-called concerts out.” Michael laughed. “My sister’s son William goes to them. She says she does not mind as long as he washes the purple and green out of his hair and cleans off the black fingernail coloring from his hands. I saw him once. What a mess!” Jan winced. “Black fingernails and green hair? What ever happened to Walt Disney movies about pirates and crocodiles?” he said. “My sister said it is just a stage kids go through.” “The Asian community is pretty conservative. Did you go through a stage like that?” Jan asked dubiously. “No, but, Jan, you must remember this is America, not China. Besides, it has been many years since we were teenagers. Still, I think it is harmless. Do not worry so much!” Jan was still troubled despite Michael’s gentle assurances. “I never heard Colin express an interest in this kind of thing. You really think it’s okay?” Jan pressed.

“Jan, I am not sure of anything in life. Let him go. He is an intelligent boy, and he has been with us for, what? Four months now? He knows to be careful. I think with a proper warning, it would be fine.”

MICHAEL and Jan lay smiling in each other’s arms. The bedroom cast in deep, mobile shadows as sporadic moonbeams pierced through thin black clouds, a celestial residue of yet another passing midnight storm. “Still in love?” Jan asked. It was a question-and-answer game two lovers played. Michael scooted against Jan’s pale skin, made silvery in the unstable moonlight. “You are the prince of my dreams,” Michael answered.

Nineteen

JAN dropped Colin off at the corner of Fifth and Race Streets. He watched with increased trepidation as his son turned to wave, then plunged into the crowd of teenagers dressed like vampires on prom night. Colin hurried to join the end of a long line of youngsters waiting to buy tickets. A last minute change listed Misericordia as the featured entertainment for the teen fans who packed the wide sidewalk as they shuffled along toward the ticket booth. Misericordia. Jan eyed the band’s poster and thought, Mercy! How apt! At least I don’t have to listen to it. Walt Disney! Where are you? Jan merged into the light traffic. He glanced into the rearview mirror for another look at Colin. I wonder what he’s thinking.

TUNES from Misericordia’s previously recorded albums played from weak speakers located at the seedy building’s double-door entrance. Colin looked around nervously and fingered the twenty-dollar bill Jan gave him. Also in his pocket was an additional twenty Michael had palmed him, just in case Zan wanted to get a snack after the show. “Don’t tell your father,” Michael had warned with a wink and a nod. Colin scanned the street again. Where is she? It’s getting late. She

said she’d be here. Colin felt a pang of abandonment. What if she and William didn’t show up? What if they were already here and he couldn’t find them in this crowd?

PARKED across the wide street from the theater, a black Mercedes limousine sat with its engine idling. A lone man occupied the back seat. The figure slowly lowered the car’s smoked glass window and lifted a pair of high power binoculars. He watched the teens shuffling along in the cool night air. A swirl of sewer steam blew up from a manhole, temporarily blocking his view. “Damn,” the man swore. Rubbing his eyes, he replaced the binoculars. After a moment of scanning the line, he stopped. The man dropped the binoculars to his chest. He sat a moment considering if what he saw was accurate. Slowly he looked again through the lenses. “Holy shit!” “Sir?” a man behind the wheel looked up into the rearview mirror. “Nothing. Wait here.” The man put the binoculars on a tray next to a glass of iced bourbon. He yanked the car door open and stepped out into musty Philadelphia air. Dodging taxies and evening delivery trucks, he sprinted across Race Street.

COLIN jumped when a hand tapped him on the shoulder. “Well, well, if it isn’t Jan Phillips. Out slumming with the kids?” Colin pulled away and looked up at a tall man whose face was in shadow, his figure backlit by the bright headlights of a passing car. Colin squinted against the momentary glare. He guessed the man to be around thirty years old. “I’m not Jan Phillips. He’s my father.”

The man took a long look at Colin and chuckled. “His son! Geeze, I’m sorry. You look so much like your dad. It’s amazing! I couldn’t help making the connection. But then, I don’t think he’s ever had his hair spiked like a wagon wheel.” Colin smirked. “That’d be a sight, wouldn’t it? Who are you, anyway?” The man held out his hand. “My name is Lou Carew. What’s yours?” “Colin. Are you a friend of my father’s?” Lou didn’t look like the kind of person his father would have as a friend. There was something sinister about him. “Well, kind of. We did some business a while back.” Suddenly, there was a commotion in the line. Colin asked a fat girl, squeezed into a black Latex bustier, “What’s going on?” “The assholes ran out of tickets. This is the last time I get all dressed up to come to this place!” she screamed back as she stomped off down the street. “All dressed up and nowhere to go. Pity,” Carew said. “She’s pretty cheezed,” Colin said. “Not her, you! You’ve got the coolest outfit I’ve seen in a long time.” A knot of boys and girls pushed between Colin and Louis as they grumbled their impotent discontent. Colin noticed the older man’s irritation at the interruption. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and said, “I don’t wanna seem rude, but aren’t you a little old to be doing a teen concert?” Lou masked his annoyance toward Colin’s make-believe, hardass-kid attitude with a hearty laugh. “You don’t understand, kid. I’m here looking for talent. I run a film studio, and I scout kids who’re interested in breaking into the movie scene and in making some serious money while they’re doing it.” “Movies? Really?” Colin perked up. This could be my way out!

Louis was an old hand at this. He knew when he had a fish on the line. This one was so easy. All he had to do was reel Jan Phillips’s baby boy in. He’d waited a long time for an opportunity like this. “Here’s my card. Come see me. You’ve got style, and I’m always looking for new faces.” Colin took Louis’s business card, glanced at it, and then shoved it into his pants pocket when he heard a voice call from across Race Street. “Colin!” Alexandra waved and hurried to his side with apologies. “I’m sorry. The hem on my skirt came apart in the wash, and I didn’t see it until I was ready to leave.” She eyed Louis Carew warily. He was still talking to Colin, despite her presence. “Who are you?” she demanded. “I’m an acquaintance of Colin’s father,” Carew said, masking his frustration at the intrusion with feigned friendliness. Colin turned to face Alexandra. “Zan, the show’s sold out. We were too late,” he complained. “What! I don’t believe it.” “It’s true,” Louis said, mocking their disappointment. “Well, this sure sucks! Now what do we do?” Zan asked, clearly dissatisfied with the news. “Hey, why don’t you two stop over at my film studio, and I’ll show you around.” Zan was instantly wary of the stranger. Raised in the city, she knew adults simply didn’t approach kids their age without an introduction. The man was a little too friendly. “Excuse me?” she said suspiciously. “Louis here has a film studio!” Colin said. “He was telling me about it before you got here.” It was clear to Alexandra that Colin wanted to accept Louis’s invitation. God, what can he be thinking?

She had to think fast if she was going to short circuit this idea. This was their first real date, and she wasn’t about to share it with some strange old fart! “Yeah, well I told William that since he couldn’t make it tonight we’d go to his house after the show. Now that we can’t get in, I think we should keep him company.” Alexandra pushed her nose to Colin’s and narrowed her eyes. Colin regarded her stare and its silent message. “Oh. Okay. Sorry, Lou, some other time… okay?” Alexandra snatched Colin’s hand, and the two walked off, heading toward Chinatown just a few blocks away. To onlookers, they looked like a two-headed monster loose on the town. Louis chuckled to himself as he headed back to his limo. Yeah, kid. You better bet there’ll be another time.

Twenty

“SHH.” “Why are you shushing me?” Alexandra said. “There’s no one home.” Colin looked around the large living room. Anyone could see that the plush wall-to-wall carpet would muffle the sound of approaching footsteps, but if Zan said it was okay, he wasn’t going to argue. Still, he was nervous. “Don’t you think we should check?” he said. “My mom’s at work. She never leaves the office before five thirty, unless I’m home sick. Come on.” Zan grabbed Colin’s sleeve. She led him down a short hall and up two flights of oak spiral stairs that opened directly into her bedroom suite. “Wow! Is this your room?” Colin said. “Yeah, kinda big, isn’t it? There’s a computer room through that door. The other one is to the bathroom. My mom’s room is downstairs. It’s just like this one.” Alexandra stood close behind Colin as he peeked through the computer room door. Justin Timberlake, Jude Law, and Orlando Bloom as the Lord of the Rings elf, Legolas, beamed sexy, I’m yours for the asking grins from slick posters. Colin noticed they were all blond. She likes blonds. Good for me!

Alexandra’s computer workstation looked like a starship console. Every imaginable piece of computer-related magic competed for desk space. As he turned, he accidentally brushed against her breast just as she stepped away. Face red with clumsy excitement, he said, “Sorry.” “Don’t be, I didn’t mind,” she said with a smile. Colin looked at Alexandra for a long moment. He murmured, “I’ve never been this close to a girl before. I mean… alone.” Alexandra echoed Colin’s shy confession. “I’ve never been this close to a boy before. I mean… alone.” “Yeah. Umm… Zan?” “Yes,” she said eagerly. “Do you like me?” She giggled. “Of course I like you!” “I don’t mean like that.” Colin stammered the words. “I mean do you like, like me?” Momentarily puzzled by his words and her own feelings, Alexandra looked down, trying to hide the uncertainty that she knew her eyes would betray. She had never liked boys before, except as friends, but Colin was different. He was kind, and he made her feel that whatever she had to say was the most important thing he was going to hear that day. He was funny too. Before she met him, Alexandra had concluded that boys were funny in a stupid way. Colin made her laugh in a good way. Then there was her desire to see him naked, to feel his skin against hers, to taste his kisses… the real kind, and more. She had fantasized about it since their first meeting. Alone in bed, she would stroke herself into a frenzied release that left her aching for him. I suppose this is what love is supposed to feel like, she thought. Alexandra blushed, lifted her head, paused to catch her breath, and looked into his eyes. “Yes, Colin. I like, like you.” Colin exhaled a long-held breath. His voice trembled with a combination of anxiety and relief.

“I’m glad. I like you too,” he said. Somewhere downstairs a clock chimed two bells. Now what do I do? he wondered. Alexandra waited patiently, wondering, too, if something was expected of her. The two stood gazing into one another’s eyes as Colin reached out his hand, waiting for an eternity counted off in heartbeats, not knowing if Alexandra noticed the gesture or if she would respond. Then he felt her soft hand slip into his damp palm. He gave an instinctive tug, and she inched forward against his chest. “Your hand is sweaty,” she said. “I’m sweaty all over… I’m sorry.” “I think guys are supposed to be hot all over.” “What about girls?” “Girls too.” Colin nuzzled his lips against Alexandra’s slender neck. “You smell good.” “Tender Touch.” “Thanks.” “No. I mean that’s the name of my perfume.” Colin’s face clouded an embarrassed red. “Oh. Sorry.” “’S okay.” Alexandra giggled as she pressed her lips to Colin’s cheek. Her body trembled ever so slightly. She felt her skin heating up, yearning for that first forbidden touch. Colin felt his cock tighten against his cotton briefs. His thighs shook like willow trees in a gale. He thought, It’s now or never. Boldly, he slipped his hand around Alexandra’s waist. With the other, he cupped her breast. Alexandra pulled his hand away yet remained willingly in his arms.

“I think you’re supposed to kiss me first,” she said as she tilted her head slightly. “Have you ever deep kissed a guy before?” he asked, dreading the answer. “No—I never wanted to before.” “Me neither, I mean, I never deep kissed anybody before….” They touched lips, allowing their tongues a long moment of pleasure before breaking away. “Whaddya think?” Colin said. “Good… more,” Alexandra said, pressing herself deeper against Colin’s chest.

THE new lovers lay in a tangle of damp sheets. Colin scooted up, then down, then to the left. “What are you doing?” Alexandra said. “Looking for a dry place to put my butt! How come it’s never messy in the movies?” “Here. It’s a little drier here.” Alexandra pulled Colin over and onto her body. Colin’s cock instantly responded, hips thrusting, pushing against her pubis. Alexandra’s mouth, slightly bruised from hard kissing, sought out Colin’s equally sore lips. Once again, their bodies fitted together, curve for curve, like a jigsaw puzzle. Once again, he was inside her, pressing deeper than before, measuring, adjusting his thrusts to hers. Colin thought, This feels so right. Queers have no idea what they’re missing. The downstairs clock warned four bells. For a moment, they froze. With a sigh of regret, Colin pulled away from her. He slid back onto the bed, looked her over, and smiled. “I like your body, Zan, I mean, it looks so nice. It feels good too. I was surprised.”

“Did you think it would be ugly?” she accused, her passion dampened. “Oh no! I thought… well… I thought your breasts would be hard.” “Oh, thanks. Just what a girl wants to hear.” Colin chewed his lower lip. Well, Mr. Smooth, you screwed that up… jerk! He waited for the moment to pass. “Well, the only breasts I’ve ever seen are the ones on statues or in pictures. They look hard, not soft.” Alexandra giggled and then realized that Colin was serious and that she was embarrassing him. “I’m sorry.” She giggled again. “I am sorry, Colin. I can’t help it, but didn’t you think there’d be a difference between a statue and a live person? Besides, haven’t you ever seen a statue of a man before? You’re not hard like that… I mean you’re hard like you’re supposed to be, not like stone, or something….” “I don’t look at statues of naked men! I’m not queer or anything like that!” Colin said, his raised voice suddenly defensive. Interesting, Alexandra thought. I wonder what that’s all about. “Don’t break out in a rash, Colin. I was just comparing stone to flesh!” Colin looked up at the ceiling in confused silence. He rolled onto his stomach, reached over, and lightly stroked Alexandra’s neck with his fingertips. The resulting fire shot down to her thighs and made them quiver. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Four thirty. No time. “Zan?” “Yeah?” “Can I ask you something?” “If you’re going to ask me if it was good, don’t! All the books say that guys who ask are just insecure and want reassurance.” How did she know I was going to ask that?

“Well, how’s a guy supposed to know then? I mean, you could tell with me,” he said. Colin blushed as he felt a drop of late arriving cum leak onto his leg. Alexandra stared at the ceiling. She wasn’t sure if she’d had an orgasm. It wasn’t like the orgasms she experienced the times she’d masturbated, where her fantasies dominated her search for pleasure. With Colin inside her, the sensations were stronger. His hot skin was real. His kisses were urgent and longer lasting, but she admitted, the finale was not as intense as she had expected. Different, but definitely better was her final assessment. She looked at the bedside clock. “We’d better get dressed.” “Are you mad at me? I mean, for asking.” Alexandra snuggled against Colin’s shoulder. “No, of course not.” Taking his hand, she said, “Help me get these sheets off and remake the bed. Then let’s go over to Schrafft’s, and you can buy me a sundae.” A few minutes later, the two walked hand in hand through Rittenhouse Square and crossed Walnut Street. They did not walk unobserved.

Twenty-One

MARSHA entered Alexandra’s bedroom. Finding it empty, she crossed over into the computer room and walked to where her daughter sat engrossed, typing an e-mail. Marsha stood behind Alexandra and fidgeted with the clasp on her bracelet while her daughter finished. Looking over Zan’s shoulder, she read the address, CJPhillips@ zip.com. As Alexandra clicked on send, a wallpaper photo replaced the email window. Marsha let out a short gasp. There, staring at her, was a spitting image of her boss! “Zan! Where did you get a photo of Mr. Phillips?” Alexandra turned in her chair, laughing. “Oh, Mom, that’s not Mr. Phillips. It’s his son, Colin. He goes to All Souls.” “Oh!” Marsha said, relieved. Marsha had come to have a heart-to-heart talk with her daughter. She knew she should have had this conversation long before now, but as it stood, now had to be the time. She bent forward to get a better look at the young face smiling sheepishly for the camera. Dazzling eyes of blue sapphire and corn silk lashes stared back with smoldering innocence. She thought, Geez, he looks just like Jan! They could be twins. Okay. Better get this over with. Marsha pulled a chair up to the desk and sat down. “Zan, honey, I need to talk to you about something.”

Alexandra looked at her mother, her eyes questioning the suddenly serious tone of Marsha’s voice. “Okay, what is it?” “Bridget did the laundry yesterday.” Marsha took a deep breath. “She showed me your bed sheets. Zan….” “Mom! I had a snack and I spilled some milk…. Okay?” Despite her protest, Zan’s face paled in the glare of her mother’s accusation. “No, it’s not okay.” Marsha was close to losing her temper. “Zan, this is serious business. Milk was spilled on the bed, but it didn’t come from any cow. Bridget found bloodstains on those sheets too. We have something big to talk about, young lady! Now don’t try to tell me you cut yourself shaving, or we’ll have to see about getting you a transfusion!” Caught! Alexandra knew there was no way out of this conversation. She crumbled into tears. “I can’t believe Bridget told you,” she complained. “Why can’t I have some privacy? It’s my life, you know!” “Zan, no one comes in here snooping around, and you know it. And yes, it is your life, but you’re not the adult in this house. I am, and what I say goes! Look, what you do affects me too, not just whomever you’re sleeping with. You do see that, don’t you?” Alexandra wiped a tear from her cheek, looked down at her shoes, and said nothing. “Zan?” Marsha prodded. “What?” Alexandra didn’t look up. “Am I at least allowed to know who the boy is? I assume it is a boy.” Colin’s outburst about not being “queer” sprang to Alexandra’s mind.

“Of course it’s a boy. Do you think I’m gay?” Marsha gave a little chuckle. “To be honest, I didn’t think of that, but no, I meant he’s a boy, as in someone your own age.” Alexandra gave her mother a quizzical look. “Of course he is.” Marsha shook her head. This was exactly what she didn’t get about being a parent! “Zan, dear, there are boys, and then there are boys. I just want to be sure you haven’t gotten involved with someone who’s too old for you.” Alexandra crossed her arms over her chest and slouched deeper into her chair. “Well I haven’t! Satisfied?” she said defiantly. Marsha waited a few moments for the rest of her answer. She wasn’t about to be baited into a screaming match, but she didn’t have all evening either. “Well?” she said with calm insistence. “Well what?” “Who is he? What’s his name?” Alexandra looked at her mother and then darted her eyes toward the computer monitor. Colin’s sweet face looked back, digitally frozen in time. “Colin! But, Zan, do you know how old he is?” “He’s my age, and besides, he’s very mature for his age.” Marsha thought, Mature. Hmmm, does that mean he has a big dick or that he can read James Joyce and understand him? She’s young, but no younger than I was when I gave in to my first love. She summarized the plusses and minuses of Zan’s sexual involvement with the son of a powerful man. A man who just happened to be Marsha’s employer. On a professional level, she knew Jan Phillips very well. She knew him less so away from the office. How will he take this? How will he react when I tell him about Zan and how I got her? she wondered.

Then there was Zan herself. Until now, Marsha’s daughter had shown no interest in boys. Was this just a reaction to surging hormones, or was there something deeper? Could there be something deeper between the two youngsters? Marsha looked at Alexandra. She’s headstrong like I am. If I try to stop her from seeing Colin, she’s likely to do anything. On the other hand, if I encourage her, she’ll get her heart broken. Well, if she has to get a broken heart, it’s better coming from him than me, she reasoned. “Okay, Zan. You win. You can see him, but no sneaking, understand?” “But, when…?” “Privacy, Zan, doesn’t mean having sex behind my back. You’ll have your privacy, but I don’t want any more surprises. If you’re going to have him over here, I want to know about it. Okay?” Marsha frowned. Filled with a foreboding she couldn’t resist, she wasn’t about to seal this agreement with a phony smile. This was new territory for Zan. Until now, she had never thought of defying her mother. She thought about Colin. “All right, no more surprises,” Alexandra said, tracing a cross with her finger over her heart, “Promise.” She knew her mother very well, and she knew this was not an easy compromise for her to make. This was as good as it would get. Still, it irked her to think her mother was in a position to approve or disapprove of her actions. “Are you going to tell Colin’s dad?” Alexandra asked with visible apprehension. “Yes, of course. He has to know, that is if he doesn’t already. We can’t stop you two from having sex. That bull has already left the pasture, but as parents, we have a responsibility to see that you don’t do something you’ll regret.” Alexandra’s mind was a whirl of mixed emotion. On the one hand, she was relieved that her relationship and sexual status was at least out in the open. On the other hand, Colin’s father was an unknown. She had met Mr. Phillips before, but she had no way of

knowing how he would take the news that his son was having sex with his office manager’s daughter. Marsha could tell Zan was not happy. She felt herself slip from the role of mother into that of friend and confidante. She smiled and ruffled Alexandra’s long, wavy hair. “I suppose you like him a lot, or you wouldn’t be spending time with him.” Alexandra looked up, smiling. “I do. I like him a lot. I hope you will too.” “Yeah, well, you two are very young to be starting this. There are emotions that need to grow and things you need to learn. I know you’re going to be hurt. I wish there was some way I could prevent it.” “What do you mean I’ll be hurt? Colin likes me too. He’s not going to hurt anybody.” “Zan, life has a way of teaching lessons with a hard hand. That’s all I mean. No parent wants a child to cry.” “Mom! You sound like a soap opera. I’ll be fine, all right?” “I’m sure you will. After all, you have me for a mom. Oh, umm… Zan, you are using protection, aren’t you? Please tell me you’re using condoms.” Zan kept a bright smile as she thought, Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! “Yes, we’re being careful,” she lied. “Good.” Marsha stood to go. She bent down and gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek. The realization her little girl, who just a few years ago stated emphatically she hated boys, was now sexually active, unnerved her. Marsha closed her eyes. It was just a few years ago, wasn’t it? She’s growing up so fast, so fast. She looked down at her daughter, so young and confident, and said, “I love you.” Alexandra reached up and took her mother’s hand. Answering with the same words she used since she was a child, “I love you better.”

Twenty-Two

ALEXANDRA handed Colin a foil packet containing a Thrust condom. “What’s this?” Alexandra wrinkled her forehead. “Whaddya mean, ‘what’s this?’” “Okay, I know what it is.” Suddenly a light came on in Colin’s brain. “You’re not, not….” “No, I’m not, and I don’t want to be, not yet anyway. Besides, if I were, they wouldn’t be much use now. I just think we should start using them.” Relieved, Colin readily agreed. “Not a problem.”

COLIN lay on Alexandra’s still heaving breasts. On the bedside table, the crumpled condom packet caught his eye. The brightly stamped foil seemed to wink at him. He closed one eye and squinted at the shiny logo. “Thrust For Lust.” “I wonder who writes that stuff?” he said, laughing. “What?” “The logo on the condoms. I said I wonder who writes those things.” “Probably some ad guy in New York who never used one,” Alexandra said. “They don’t smell very good, do they?” she added. “No, sorta like rubber scented Vaseline… Zan?”

“What?” “Did it feel okay?” Oh brother, here we go again! she thought. “It was fine, Colin! I thought we had this conversation already. You do just fine, no complaints, okay?” “I didn’t mean that. I was wondering if it felt different when I was inside you.” “Oh, that. Yeah… a little, I guess. How about you?” Colin crinkled his face. “Umm, I didn’t like it. I couldn’t feel as much as before,” he complained. “It’s sorta like taking a shower in a raincoat. I wonder if it’s supposed to feel like that, or if there are better ones.” Alexandra said, “Well, these are ultra-thin. It says so right on the box!” “Compared to what, a truck tire?” “Fine, next time you buy ’em,” she said in a huff. “Okay, I will.” “Fine!” The dynamics of sex confused Colin. He sensed their relationship had changed somehow. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he even expected it would, and yet he was baffled. Why can’t I just say what I’m thinking without her arguing back? “Zan, are you mad at me?” Colin asked meekly. Alexandra rolled onto her side facing Colin. She ran her tongue across his pulsing throat and purred, “Not anymore.” I don’t understand any of this!

Twenty-Three

JAN sat at the head of the table in The Templars of Law Grand Conference Room. It was the annual all-staff meeting. This morning, he would name the firm’s new partners, as well as those who had elected to retire. It was here, too, where newly hired associates were welcomed. Tradition dictated the large room be used for this particular event only, a once-a-year extravagance that awed Jan’s employees. Also, true to tradition, Jan conducted the entire meeting without speaking a word. Around the long ebony conference table sat more than fifty men and women, who through talent and longevity achieved the coveted rank of partner. Behind them sat the attorneys’ paralegal assistants, many of whom hoped to become legal eagles in their own right. At precisely eleven o’clock, Jan nodded to Marsha Betterman, office manager and self-styled grand marshal of the meeting. She handed Jan a leather-bound folio with the names of the select. Jan opened his copy and nodded to his assembled staff members, who in turn opened the folders before them. Each saw at a glance his status within the firm, his salary, and any bonus awarded, along with a detailed growth plan for future advancement. Jan always ensured everyone a piece of the pie, whether in the form of cash or a promotion. After a pause, Jan closed his folder, handed it to Marsha, and stood to leave. The assembled staff stood and applauded. Back in his office, Jan turned to Marsha, who had followed him. “You know, that’s the weirdest meeting. I wonder why we still do it.” Marsha rolled her eyes and laughed.

“Beats me, but all the corporate minutes say that’s how it’s been done since, well, since forever.” “Do you think I could change it?” he said. “Are you asking if I think you could change it, or if I think you should change it?” Marsha said. “Both.” “Yes to the first and no to the second.” “Why not?” “Because it works. The whole affair adds mystique to the place, a sense of history. Everywhere I go, it’s the same stale corporate atmosphere. Even the smaller firms are depersonalized.” “Yeah… but it’s still weird,” Jan said. Marsha laughed again. “Weird or not, it works, and we have drawers full of résumés to prove people want to work for you. Jan headed to his desk in the center of the plush office, then stopped and looked down at the thick antique carpet that stretched across the room. Jan studied the carpet’s intricately woven hunting scene while he pondered what she had said. Marsha, too, had something on her mind, and it wasn’t as trivial as letting people speak in the Grand Conference Room. She had decided she would tell Jan about Alexandra, and her involvement with his son. She moved to the dry bar and picked up a bottle of scotch. “How about a drink?” she said. Always one with her nose to the grindstone, Marsha’s out-ofcharacter offer instantly caught Jan’s attention. He narrowed his eyes as he searched her face. “I don’t drink before one in the afternoon. You know that. Are you trying to get me drunk?” Jan accused. “Or did I just give away money the firm hasn’t got? Marsha, what’s going on?” Marsha’s tone turned serious. “No,” she said, “the company’s fine, but we do need to talk, and I just thought a little libation would make for a nicer conversation. That’s all.”

“My God, Marsha! You’re leaving!” Marsha let out an unhappy laugh. “No, I’m not leaving. This has nothing to do with work.” Jan walked to the camelback sofa that faced the broad, arched Palladian window, and stretched out in a languid pose. “Okay, let’s have it. Speak to me,” he said lightheartedly. “Jan, you remember my daughter, Alexandra, don’t you?” “Of course, I remember her from last year’s company picnic. As I recall, she chased a boy twice her size around the softball field with an aluminum bat! The kid later confessed he tried to kiss her. I think he got a rude introduction to how dangerous love can be!” Jan joked, still wondering where this conversation was going. “Yeah, well, she’s a year older, and she caught a boy with just batting her eyelashes. No hardware needed.” “Marsha, this is all very interesting, but is it news I can use?” “I don’t know any easy way to tell you this, so I’ll just say it. My Alexandra, Zan, and your son, Colin, have been dating.” Jan swung his legs around and sat up. “Marsha, it’s okay. I gave Colin permission to date. I just didn’t make the connection. I always heard you refer to her as Alexandra. I will say I was surprised that her parents hadn’t contacted me to see what kind of family he comes from, but I guess you have that information already. Do you have a problem with her seeing my son?” “I don’t, but you might,” Marsha said. “Why?” Jan asked suspiciously. “I found out by accident that they had sex. I expect they’re still at it.” Jan’s face registered a look of dumb shock, like that of a sacrificial ox someone had bashed in the head with a fuller’s club. He swallowed hard, then said, “Scotch, double. No ice.” Marsha knew her boss and usually knew what he needed before he knew it himself. “Here,” she said, handing him the tawny beverage.

Jan took a long sip. The smoky liquor, hot with the fires that made it, burned his throat. “What do you mean they’re having sex?” he asked, breathless from his drink and the unbidden image of his son engaging in what early sexologists euphemistically referred to as coitus more ferarum. “What do I mean? Jan, you do remember straight sex, don’t you?” “Ah, yeah, but I was kinda hoping you were talking about a different kind I hadn’t heard of yet—like, when nothing really happens.” Marsha plopped down bedside her boss. She stared blindly out the window and took a sip of scotch. “Dream on,” she said. “What are we going to do?” he asked, hoping Marsha would have already formulated a plan of action. She gave a short laugh. “Nothing. This is the moment I’ve dreaded since she turned thirteen. I’ve expressed my misgivings to Zan about the two of them having sex at such a young age, and I warned her about using protection. These days it’s simply a fact of life that we, as parents, have to deal with. It probably wasn’t much different when we were young. I don’t know. Anyway, there’s not much more we can do other than fitting them both with chastity belts.” “Yes,” Jan muttered absently, his mind still trying to get around the whole idea. “It’s all very stressful, and there’s more,” Marsha added. Jan’s heart began to race. Oh boy, here it comes! “What do you mean more?” Jan said.

Twenty-Four

“YOU know I never married. The reasons were the usual ones career women use to avoid commitment, and I won’t bore you with those. Still, I wanted a baby even if I didn’t want a husband. I suppose many women feel the same as I did, so I began searching for a way around my problem. Sperm banks were too clinical for my tastes, but at the same time, I didn’t know any men I would want as the father of my child—except one.” Marsha looked Jan straight in the eye. “Tim Morris is Zan’s father.” Jan got that sacrificial ox look again, along with a flush of anger Marsha didn’t expect. My Tim? Is she saying my Tim is Alexandra’s father? Jan narrowed his eyes and searched Marsha’s face, hoping she was joking. Suddenly, he felt hot. His eyes refused to focus. All he could see was Tim’s face. Anger seized his throat. He croaked his disbelief with a strangled, “What!” Marsha tried to smile away his hostility, saying, “When you took over the firm from Tim, Zan was a baby and—” “Why?” “I told you. I wanted a baby, and Tim knew how desperate I was, my getting older and all, and so he offered and—” Jan held up an impatient hand. “Marsha, I knew Tim, and I knew what a wonderful, generous man he was. That he offered to be the father of your baby is no surprise to me, but the fact that you chose to

hide this from me for so long is about as low a thing as I could imagine. Here she is, Tim’s child, and you never told me! And, what’s more upsetting is that if Colin and Zan weren’t screwing like a pair of mink, you still wouldn’t have said a word.” Marsha’s maternal side surfaced as she squared off with her boss. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Jan. Alexandra is mine, not Tim’s, and she certainly is not yours! No matter how deep your relationship with Tim was, it doesn’t give you any privileges where my daughter is concerned.” Marsha got up and walked to the bar. She put her empty glass down and turned to face Jan, who had not responded to her outburst. She squeezed her lips together. “I told you about her relationship with Colin as a matter of courtesy. This is about being a parent!” “Bull! It’s a matter of expediency. You wouldn’t have said a word otherwise,” Jan accused. The air between them was hot with barely repressed hostility. The two glared at each other. At last, Marsha found her voice. “Am I fired, then?” “What?” Jan asked, puzzled. “Am I fired?” she said again. “Of course not. This is personal, not professional, I just wish you had told me before, that’s all. When Tim died, all I had left was his property and money, but nothing of him. You have the only part of him that walks and talks. I’m jealous.” Usually never lost for words, Marsha, for once, was silent. She wasn’t going to rub salt in an obvious wound, but she wasn’t going to give ground, either. “Well, I’d better get to work.” Marsha headed for the padded office door, where she stopped and turned. “Oh, by the way, don’t forget you have a meeting with the deputy ambassador of Belarus this afternoon.” Jan nodded, then said, “Marsha, you and Tim didn’t, umm… you know….” Marsha gave a little laugh. “No! It was an artificial insemination. I thought you’d have figured that out on your own.”

“Sorry. Actually, I’m not sure why I asked,” Jan said, annoyed with himself. “You’re not going to take this out on Colin, are you, Jan?” she said. “They’re just kids, you know.” “Marsha, what do you take me for? Like you said, all we can do is watch over them until they either make or break themselves.” “I didn’t say that, but thanks for the sentiment.” “Welcome.” “Are you going to speak with Colin about the sex thing?” Jan replied, “Does the Pope wear a white dress?”

Twenty-Five

MARSHA left Jan sitting on the office sofa, gazing out the window at the broad view of Rittenhouse Square below. He looked long into the noon light, trying to sort out his feelings. Tim has a daughter, he thought, a child of his blood. And Marsha. She sees Tim every time Alexandra walks by. She sees his auburn hair full of soft waves and curls, his dark eyes…. Jan wondered if Alexandra’s nose crinkled when she laughed, the way Tim’s did. “And what do I have to remember him by?” he asked the empty office. He waited for an answer, but even his angels seemed at a loss for words. The carriage clock on his desk chimed one thirty. Jan heaved himself to his feet, walked to his desk, and grabbed his briefcase. He ran his fingertips over the words embossed in the rich buff-colored leather: FACERE LUDICIU, DILIGERE MISERICORDIUM Do Justice, Love Mercy. Tim gave Jan the de Main family motto as a Christmas gift when Jan was eighteen. “Well, at least I have this,” he said, answering his own question. Out on Rittenhouse Square, Jan headed to the Saint Roi apartment he and Tim shared for so many years. Since moving into Michael’s loft

on Columbus Boulevard, Jan hadn’t visited the old Saint Roi address more than once or twice a year. Several months had passed since he'd walked down Van Wyck Street, and yet so little had changed. The flower shop, directly across from the Saint Roi where he first met Tim, continued to thrive. It had new owners, but the same battered sign leaning in the front window, now faded by harsh sunlight and dust, still read: “Special Today! Large bunch only $10.” The traffic began to build up, as those who could afford city parking-lot fees fled to their suburban homes. A boy Jan figured to be about fourteen or fifteen approached him, looking for a hand out. Through gray teeth, discolored by cocaine use, the boy asked, “Got any loose change?” The teen’s clothes were stiff with dirt, body soil, and constant wear. Jan could smell him from four feet away. The stench attacked his eyes, making them water. He saw himself, and what, in all probability, would have been his fate as a sidewalk boy toy, if not for Tim Morris’s intervention. But for the grace of God go I. Jan blinked away the image. Jamming his hand into his pants pocket, he retrieved a five-dollar bill. “Here,” Jan said, “get something to eat.” The hustler fingered the fiver and said with a smirk, “If you’ve got a little more and a place to go, I’ll do ya.” “No thanks.” Undeterred, the boy pled, “Come on, I’m real good.” “I said no. Besides, how do you know I’m not a cop?” Jan said. “Your shoes,” was the kid’s saucy reply, as he wobbled off in a narcotic daze. He watched the boy as he approached another man farther down the block. Jan let out a rueful sigh, turned, and finished his walk down memory lane, crossing the street and ending up in the Saint Roi’s lobby, where a celebration was in full swing. “What’s going on?” Jan asked, amused.

Mary Ann, one of the security guards, turned to answer. “Oh, hello, Mr. Phillips. We’re having a little party for Jerry. It’s his fifteenyear anniversary here. Fifteen years in the same building. Can you beat that?” Just then, the guest of honor stepped up. “Hi, Mr. Phillips, have a glass of champagne!” Marsha’s revelation that Jan’s first love and mentor was the father of her child had dampened his sense of bonhomie. “Thanks, Jerry, another time. Okay?” he replied, trying to hide the anxiety in his voice. Jan didn’t wait for an answer but went directly to the private elevator that had only one destination beyond the Saint Roi’s marble lobby, his penthouse condominium.

JAN eased himself onto a window bench in the master bedroom. For six years, he and Tim Morris had slept and made love and, in the end, tearfully parted here. The room was unchanged since that day. The four-poster bed, with its double king mattress, though huge by any measure, stood dwarfed by the bedroom’s sheer size. Jan snatched up a corner of an ecru colored silk curtain and idly twisted it around his finger. A thin line of sunlight knifed across the plush carpet, then zigzagged up the face of the red mahogany armoire before fading into a poof of stray beams and floating dust. Jan closed his eyes, conjuring up memories of Tim’s strong arms around him, his laughter and raw sexual energy that, at times, became unpredictably harsh. Still, it was the sense of being wanted that fed Jan’s heart. Although he shared his life and wealth with Jan, Tim remained, much like this room, a man hidden in the shadows. The break between them came when Jan finally understood that Tim’s true interest in him went well beyond love, or even the raw desire for an androgynous eighteen-year-old. His intention was for Jan to be an extension of himself, representing all Tim believed in and stood for. There was little room left for Jan and his dreams. On his death, Jan did indeed inherit Tim’s world in every respect but one.

Jan pulled his knees up under his chin, looked over at the bed, and thought of Alexandra, Tim’s very much alive daughter. “Tim, you son of a bitch. Will I ever be free of you?” Jan muttered.

Twenty-Six

“CHRIST, Pytór! Did that idiot Yuri have to kill her? “I thought he was joking when he said she was pretty enough to snuff,” Louis Carew screamed at the Russian. Crazed with remorse and fright, he wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. Louis was referring to the girl half of the city was looking for, a girl who, with Louis’s help, Pytór Krevchenko had delivered to his client for sex, perhaps more. The more part of the bargain meant the killing of an innocent child. Louis recalled the girl’s panic when she realized what was happening to her. “Please let me go! I promise I won’t tell…. Please!” she had cried as the Russian jammed a rubber ball gag into her small mouth. Louis paced the room, wringing his hands. “We’ve got to do something. Do you hear me? Something, damn it!” The once very blond, very thin, and very handsome Russian, now middle-aged and paunchy, said in a voice made husky from a lifetime of chain smoking and hard drinking, “Louis, sit down, and please restrain yourself before you become ill.” Pytόr guided the stricken man to a shabby sofa covered with a fabric stained with residues of indeterminate origin. The Russian put his strong hands on Louis’s shoulders and pushed him down onto the spongy cushions of the lone seating in the

Fly-Away budget motel, so named due to its noisy proximity to Philadelphia’s airport. Suddenly, the tiny room shook like a bowl of sugar-free Jell-O at a Weight Watcher’s convention. Pytór waited patiently as the afterboom of a jumbo jet faded away. “Louis, my friend,” Pytór continued, his words rolling in a thick Ural accent, “you knew perfectly well snuffing the girl was, how shall I say it, an inevitable yet regrettable outcome.” If the Russian was trying to calm his American counterpart, who also was in the business of supplying children for sex, he was failing miserably. Sex was one thing. Louis liked girl flesh too, but murder! He hadn’t bargained for murder. Louis pushed the Russian away and stood. He resumed pacing the room, wringing his hands and cursing. He thought, I gotta get out of this mess! Pytór began to suspect he was losing his control over the American. Like Pytór, Louis loved the huge amounts of money he made catering to the depravities of wealthy men and women. The trouble with this American was, like others fed to fatness in a decadent and spineless society, he had a conscience. It was an intolerable liability in their line of work. Louis stood with his back to Pytór. He looked down at the thin industrial pile carpet and shook his head. “You just don’t understand, Pytór,” Louis yelled. “This is America! People go to jail or worse for killing people, especially little kids. Are you trying to get us killed?” Louis turned and faced the Russian. “Do you know what happens to guys who hurt kids when they end up in prison? Well, do you?” Pytór Krevchenko studied Louis’s sweaty face. He offered a reassuring smile to his agitated cohort and said, “Believe me, Louis. No one is going to prison. Do not give the girl another thought. She was nothing, my friend, a bit of fun, that is all. Although Yuri told me she was a fighter to the end. She tried to scratch him, and the poor man had no choice but to cut the girl’s hands off, just so he could keep her an

extra day without having his eyes gouged out. He said it was messy but effective.” Louis turned as pale as the white shirt he wore. Words from a Bible story he had read as a child kept jumping around in his head. Fragments, bits and pieces that didn’t mean anything, jabbed his memory. Gradually, they coalesced into “Woe be unto him who harms one of these innocents. For I tell you their angels in heaven always behold the face of My Father.” Louis began to sweat even more. Great, just fucking great, now I’ve got an angel mad at me! Once more, Louis turned his back to the Russian. He couldn’t bear to look at the man who so calmly discussed murder for fun. “What kind of people are you?” he whispered. Krevchenko reached around Louis’s shoulder and handed his partner in sleaze, and now murder, a large whiskey. “Here, drink this. You look as if you can use it. You know, my friend—you worry too much. No one will ever find her.” “I wouldn’t bet the farm on that,” Louis said shakily. “She wasn’t just some throw-away street kid. Mike Bocalora is a big man in this town. These people have deep pockets, Pytór. Money is no object. They’ll never give up looking for her.” Cloudy from multiple washings, the stubby glass still looked dirty. Louis stared at the amber drink and then downed it in one gulp. He went to the tattered sofa and slumped onto the worn cushions. Every aching nerve in his body seemed to bypass the alcohol’s dulling effect. Pytór tried to mitigate his partner’s distress. “Well, my friend, they will have to look very hard and very long. She’s buried in a radioactive waste dump in a place called Utah. It will be nine hundred years before anybody will look for her there.” The Russian’s words melted into meaningless noise as Louis’s mind sawed back and forth, trying to see a way out. Unable to reason the facts away, he admitted, “I don’t like this, Pytόr. I don’t like it at all. This is going to bring us all down!” Pytόr shrugged and said, “Louis, you take this sort of thing too

seriously. Children die every day, especially in Russia. I prefer to think of us as assisting in the process of natural selection.” “Christ, you’re one sick bastard, ya know that? A monster. That’s what Yuri is, a monster, and… and you’re no better!” Louis spat. Pytόr Krevchenko walked to the sofa, leaned in, looked the frightened man in the eye, and whispered, “Go to the mirror, Louis. Take a good look at yourself, my friend. We are all of us—monsters.” From throat to butt, Louis’s guts were in full revolt, much like a man on death row in his last hour of life. He was sick, and the whiskey didn’t help his jittery stomach. He reproached himself silently as he poured out the last of the cheap alcohol. Why did I let Pytór talk me into getting the Bocalora girl for Yuri Barsukov? I should have known he’d do something like this, and now Barsukov is safe in Mother Russia, and my ass is left swinging in the wind! Louis stared down into his glass for a moment. He put the untouched drink on a rickety side table and stood up. He staggered a few steps and headed to the bathroom. “I’m gonna be sick.”

Twenty-Seven

The Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul

VICTOR CAREW knelt in the half light of the tiny box, which to him felt like a coffin turned on its end, and said, “Bless me Father for I have sinned.” Victor stumbled on the next line of the old rubric, it has been X number of days, months, years since my last confession. A tense pause folded over him as he struggled to recall the last time he had ventured into a church, any church, much less a confessional. “Go on, my son,” the voice behind the cloth-covered grill soothed. No response. “Are you there, my son?” Victor whispered a quiet, “Yes. I’m here.” “How long has it been since your last confession?” the voice prompted. “I can’t remember.” “A year?” “More.” This time the priest’s comforting tone carried a mild reproach. “Two years?” Victor Carew groaned.

“I said I can’t remember. Let’s just say it’s been a long time.” “Then, my son, we’re going to be here for a while.” The minutes stretched into a half hour, and Victor was still reciting a litany of wrongdoing that would have made a Mafia hit man look like a church social worker. His mouth was dry. His words faltered, finally fading into fractured phrases. “My son, you’re stalling.” “What!” Victor shouted his indignation. He couldn’t see the priest’s indulgent smile through the thin black cloth that separated sinners from absolution. The priest said, “I do this for a living, my son. I can tell when a penitent is confessing something in order to avoid a more urgent problem.” “I see… yes, you’re right, but what I have to say may take a while longer,” Victor said, hoping the priest was as tired as he was and eager to end his soul-wrenching session. “I have all the time in heaven,” assured the priest. Victor’s hopes collapsed into a final admission. “I’m here about my son… I mean, the two of us.” “What about the sins you just confessed. Are they real, or not?” “Yes, I’m ashamed to say they are.” “Tell me about you and your son.” “His name is Louis.” Victor Carew slid back on his haunches. His thoughts tumbled backward into a maze of hazy memories, deformed by sadness. He wondered how to portray his son. Where should he start? How do I compress a lifetime of care and loving a child so devotedly opposed to that love and care? “You know, Father, when your children are little they step on your shoes. When they start to grow up, they step on your heart.” “Is that how it is? Your son has hurt you?” said the priest. Victor let out a sad chuckle. “I’m sure if you asked him, he’d say it was the other way

around.” Victor’s voice trailed off with a sigh. The priest considered this for a moment, then said, “Go on.” “My wife nearly died in childbirth. As it was, the pregnancy wrecked her health… I mean she never fully recovered… not the way she was before. Anyway, I took care of Louis most of the time. We loved each other then, I mean when he was a youngster. Football games, Cub Scouts, then Boy Scouts, trips to the Baseball Hall of Fame… that sorta thing. Ever been to the Baseball Hall of Fame, Father?” “No, I’ve never been there.” Victor’s smile went unseen in the gloom of the confessional. “It’s nice, real nice,” he murmured. “I’m sure it is,” the priest said. “Yeah, well anyway, I adored my boy. But then… there’s always a but in these things, isn’t there? Louis started to grow up, and he began to change, slowly at first. I guess I didn’t notice. After all, I was in a business expanding every day, which took up a lot of my time. It’s hard to know for sure. I ask myself if it was a combination of my work and having to take care of his mother at the same time, or his being a teen and not wanting the old man around that pulled us so far apart. Anyway, when he was around fifteen he got into trouble with the law. It was a minor thing. By that time, I had made a name for myself, so I was able to get him off without any arrest.” “What was the trouble about?” the priest said. “Oh, umm, he met some girl in Chinatown. He got fresh with her, and she made a complaint. I thought it was just a misunderstanding. Then it happened again with a different girl, but that time it was more serious. He, umm, got her naked.” Victor hastily added, “He didn’t do anything, though. He said he just wanted to see what a girl looked like… you know, naked… and all.” “What’s going on with him now? I assume something is very wrong with the two of you, or you wouldn’t be here. By the way, how old is Louis?” Victor shifted around on his knees, trying to get more

comfortable. The air in the confessional was stale. He began to perspire. “Uh, Louis is thirty-six now.” “Thirty-six!” The priest said, his tone clearly echoing his annoyance. “I thought we were talking about a child!” “We are talking about a child! My child. A baptized child. A child of God and an heir to heaven, Father!” Silence swamped the small space like a tidal wave. Victor waited for the priest to respond. He probably thinks just because I’m here confessing I’ve forgotten my catechism! The priest was unaccustomed to being lectured on the foundations of Catholic dogma. Usually it was he who retreated to such lofty rhetoric to prop up an argument. “We’re both tired,” he said, chagrinned. “Can you come back tomorrow? I….” “No.” Victor said flatly. Earlier, he would have welcomed a reprieve from baring his heart, but now he had the bit in his teeth, and he wasn’t going to let go. “Father, I need you now, and you know that I know you can’t refuse me confession, so let’s get this done.” “Very well,” the priest said calmly, “you talk, and I’ll listen.” After another heavy pause Victor continued, “I tried everything to reach Louis. The more I poured money and resources on him, the lower he sank into corruption. First, it was sex, then sex mixed with violence, and then drugs. Now he’s running a pornography studio! God help him, I’m sure it’s more than just movies.” Victor looked around as if to assure himself no one was listening at the door. “I’m no saint, Father. You don’t get to be as rich and as powerful as I am by playing Mother Teresa. But Victor Carew was always on the up and up. No illegal stuff. Never.” Victor waited a moment to see if the priest recognized his name, or if he would offer a remark, something like… well done! Good for you, Victor. When no affirmation was forthcoming, Victor said, “Father, I

love my son more than my own life, more than all the money I’ve got or will ever have. He’s all I have in the world, all I truly care about. How can I help him? You’re a man of God. You pray to God all the time. Tell me what I have to do!” The priest remained silent. Victor began to wonder if he had fallen asleep. “Father? Are you there? Fath—” “Have you told Louis you love him?” the priest said. “I don’t mean when he was a child, I mean recently, say, in the past month?” Victor settled into a shamed quiet, answering in a voice barely audible, even to himself, “No, no.” “Well, I’d say that’s the place to start. I don’t suppose he goes to Mass.” “No.” “If you came to Mass, do you think he’d come with you?” asked the priest. “I don’t know. I could ask. I guess it would be a start, as you say. I’ll do anything to save my boy.” “Well, you don’t have to make coming to Mass sound like torture.” Both men laughed, breaking the tension that had grown between them. Then the priest said, “You aren’t going to turn your son’s life around with one Mass. You have to leave that to God. And, Mr. Carew, don’t wait until it’s too late to tell your son you love him. He needs to know that now.” “I will. I will.” Satisfied, the priest raised his hand in blessing and said, “May the Almighty and Merciful Lord grant you absolution and remission of your sins, both known and unknown.” Buoyant with renewed hope, Victor prayed, “Amen.”

Twenty-Eight

VICTOR CAREW left the basilica, hailed a taxi, and ordered the cabbie to take him to 13th and Samson Streets, where he walked the short block to McGillin’s Ale House. Victor was tired, weary in his mind and soul. Since the death of his wife, Alma, two decades before, he had dedicated all his energies to two things: creating a business empire, and keeping his wayward son out of prison. Many times, he tried to persuade himself that jail was just the thing Louis needed to sober him up and set him on a path to healing. In his heart of hearts, Victor knew his son was emotionally unbalanced, or perhaps even mad. Still, according to the priest, he had reason to hope everything would work out between him and his son. McGillin’s was the oldest tavern in continuous use in Philadelphia. Steeped in traditions, sedition and revolution being just two of many, the tavern had been a meeting place for revolutionaries in 1776. A hundred years later, it was a hotbed of hatred against the British in Ireland. The joke was, if you entered McGillin’s on Saint Patrick’s Day, you’d better be Irish! Strictly speaking, the Carews hailed from Wales, but the bloodline, and the Welsh struggle against the English, was sufficient to admit him. Victor pushed through the tavern’s thick oak doors and breathed deeply. The walnut bar stretched three quarters along the left side of the windowless room. An arm’s length from the bar’s rolled edge, backless, leather-clad stools, tanned emerald green, stood bolted to the floor. Rows of colored bottles were stacked against two crystal mirrors, their reflections shooting merry prisms around the room. Between the

mirrors, a tintype portrait of Irish patriot Terrance MacSwiney, framed in somber black and swathed in the flag of the Irish republic, held a place of honor. Facing the bar, a wood fire burned gently in a brick and stone fireplace. The rush of cool outside air caused a wisp of pungent fumes to stray from the hearth and tangle with the smell of strong drink and beer. The warm air embraced Victor with a welcome that matched his mood. He slipped onto a barstool and smiled. He liked this place. A redheaded bartender, appropriately dubbed Red, asked, “What’ll it be, Mr. Carew?” “Hey, Red, give me a pint of Harp—and a phone book,” Victor replied. “Comin’ right up, Mr. Carew.” Victor looked around the half-empty bar and noticed two men who looked decidedly out of place sitting at a corner table. Although listed as a national treasure, McGillin’s was, first and foremost, a neighborhood tavern. The local Order of Ancient Hibernians met here. Tourists, eager to see the place where volunteers collected bales of dollars to pay for Ireland’s struggle for independence, came too. The men at the corner table were neither of these. When Red returned with the phone book and the pint of beer, Victor lifted his chin toward the two men huddled in whispered conversation. “New around here are they, Red?” “They’ve been in a few nights now. Not Irish, that’s for sure. One’s got a heavy Russian accent. The other one’s some sorta Arab type. Your son was just in here a while ago talking to ’em.” “Really?” Victor’s frown wrinkled his forehead. He didn’t like the sound of that. Red moved off to pull another beer. Victor thumbed through the yellow pages until he located the section listing film studios in the city. He found no listing for LC Enterprises. He wasn’t surprised that a porn studio went unlisted, but he had hoped to save time by catching Louis at… what… work? Disgusted with this setback, he pushed the dogeared phone book aside and proceeded to sip away his troubles. I guess I’ll have to catch him at home. What the hell is he doing

with Russians and Arabs? Victor wondered. Ah well, tomorrow’s another day.

ACROSS town, Louis Carew sat in the backseat of his limousine. His driver looked in the rearview mirror, waiting for instructions. “Where to now, Boss?” “Just drive around, Mario, I need to think a while.” As the long black car moved off into light traffic, a soft drizzle began to fall. While Mario drove aimlessly over the glistening macadam streets, Louis switched on the overhead reading light and flipped through a tattered notebook. He read the list of requirements Pytór Krevchenko gave him earlier in the day. The Russian known as Yuri wanted another girl, one of about ten or eleven years of age. The line written in red and underlined for emphasis, “no older than eleven,” jumped out at him. The highlighted words burned against his eyes like neon in the night… so many lives, so many nights. Louis looked out the limo’s smoked window glass and shook his head. He couldn’t believe the Russian expected him to help Yuri rape and possibly kill another kid, especially after the argument they’d had earlier that day. Oh no you don’t. Not again! he vowed. Louis returned his attention to the book. He turned a few more pages when a notation caught his eye. Added to the list of customers was a newcomer to Philadelphia, an Arab calling himself Ben, who wanted a girl and boy combination. Apparently, this client preferred to be a voyeur rather than a participating party. A dark shadow pressed like a mask over Louis’s face. He smiled as if his part in the murder of a young girl had never occurred. “Well, Ben, whatever feeds your monkey. Business is business,” he said with a low giggle. The smile faded from his lips as Louis flipped the page. Frozen on paper was the face of Jan Phillips. Louis yanked the photo from the

binder and studied it for a puzzled moment. Is this some kind of joke? Flipping the photo over, he read the inscription. The son of Islam’s sworn enemy. Name believed to be Colin Phillips. Capture and deliver. Money no object. At first, Louis thought it was a trap, but no, Krevchenko gave him the new additions before they had argued. Pytór wouldn’t have suspected that he would try to break with him. Louis took another look at the picture. He read again the details noted in a hand clearly not familiar with making English letters. The last line appealed to Louis especially, as his cash flow seemed to be perpetually in extremis. An evil grin spread across his face as he thought about getting even with Jan Phillips, the man who had publicly humiliated him. Payment for his trouble was an added bonus. So, they want the kid! This is heaven sent. “I’ve gotcha this time, mister high and mighty Jan Phillips, gotcha this time!” “Sir?” Mario said. “Take me home, Mario, and don’t spare the horses!”

Twenty-Nine

LOUIS CAREW stepped out of the limousine, pulled his pants up over a newly acquired paunch, and walked across the street’s cobbled surface to his Delancy Place three-story townhouse, a home he rented from his father’s company, PennEagle Inc. Inside, he walked to a downstairs bathroom, where he eliminated the beer he’d downed while meeting with Pytόr Krevchenko and the Arab, Ben. Relieved, he turned, rinsed off his hands, and looked at his haggard face in the mirror. Splashing cool water wouldn’t restore his lost looks, but he gave it a try anyway, only to find no clean linen on the towel rack. “Great! Just fucking great,” he swore bitterly. With that, he wiped his hands down the sides of his pants and stomped out into the hall. Louis was hungry, tired, and eager to contact Ben. Somehow, he needed to separate the Arab from the Russian. He sensed that a great deal of money would go to the man who delivered Jan Phillips’s son… to whom? “Hmm,” Louis mused aloud, “I wonder who wants the brat? Doesn’t matter, I guess. I just gotta get Krevchenko out of the way. After all, one goes into a check more times than two.” Just then, the phone rang. Louis hurried to the living room, crossed to a small table flanked by nine-foot windows that looked out onto the tree-lined street. He reached for the receiver. The caller ID flashed, “Victor Carew 388-1257.” Louis shook his head.

Oh no, you bastard. Not tonight. I’ve got too much going on to argue with you! Pressing a small button on the phone’s console, he looked at the caller log for the day. Of the dozen or so calls placed to him, clearly ten were from his father. Pushy asshole! The phone continued its shrill ring. Louis bent over, addressed the instrument, and yelled, “I don’t care what you want, old man! You think just because you’re a big shot, I gotta do everything you say! Well, I’m gonna be a big shot too, and soon. You just wait and see, ya stinkin’ son of a bitch!” Louis sagged into an overstuffed chair and simultaneously began to laugh and cry. The phone abruptly stopped in mid-ring. Louis looked at the phone and listened a moment. This time there was no message pleading for him to call his father. Both relieved and disappointed, he sat and looked out of the window. Louis was a simple man who liked simple emotions, like lust. Lust he understood, appreciated even, but feelings of regret or disappointment, when he felt them at all, left him confused. Instinctively, he knew that confusion in a simple mind never went unpunished. Louis cocked his head and watched the leaves of a sycamore. Etched against the evening darkness by the pale glow of the gas streetlight, the leaves swayed slowly to and fro, as if in a secret dance only the tree knew. Doubts dispelled, he reached for the phone and punched in a number he knew by heart, the number for McGillin’s Ale House. “Hello, Red?” Louis said. “Yeah, this is Red.” “It’s Louis Carew. Is that Arab guy still there—you know, the one I was talking to earlier?” “He’s still here. That other one, the Russian. He left a while ago. You want I should tell him you called?”

“No!” Louis said, his voice betraying his excitement. “Uhh, what I mean is, I want to talk to the Arab guy, okay?” “Sure. Hold on.” Anxious moments passed. Louis began to sweat. He rehearsed an imaginary conversation in his head… what he would say and what he hoped the Arab would say. Would this Ben character play ball with him alone, or would he insist that Krevchenko be in on any deal to snatch the Phillips kid? “Hello?” Ben’s voice sounded suspicious. Clearly, the Muslim was unaccustomed to receiving phone calls in a bar, especially one located smack dab in the middle of America’s Cradle of Democracy. “This is Louis Carew. I was with Pytόr and you earlier.” There was a pause. Louis figured either Ben was trying to place the name with a face, or he was deciding if he wanted to speak with a man he had only just met. He held his breath and waited. “Yes. I remember.” Ben rolled the Rs in the word remember. He spoke in a quiet yet wary voice. Louis fished a handkerchief from his a pocket and blotted away a trickle of sweat that had found the corner of his mouth. He said, “Krevchenko gave me a list of client requirements. I just finished going over it, and umm… I noticed one of the things listed was a certain person you had a specific interest in.” Louis let the thought sink in. His tongue flicked around his lips. They were salty and dry. He could hear the Arab breathe. Caution colored Ben’s reply when he spoke. “I recall something like that, but you must be more specific.” Louis pressed the thought. “We discussed certain, shall we say, clients who have certain tastes in, umm, companionship. I just reviewed the particulars Pytόr gave me on one such client. This person went so far as to request a companion—a boy—by name. Do you remember that?” Again, caution. “Yes, I seem to remember something like that.”

“What would you say if I told you I can deliver this person of interest?” Now it was Ben’s turn to sweat. He shifted the phone receiver from one ear to another and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “I would say that the identity of the person of interest, as you put it, would have to be proved, and I would also say that a means of transport out of the country would have to be provided by you. Do you understand?” “How much is your client prepared to advance?” Louis asked. “That is a matter for my client to decide. You can say what you feel is a fair price, and I will ask. I must warn you, this depends on whether the person of interest is indeed the one sought by the client and if delivery can be made without interference by the authorities. If not, nothing is paid.” “I understand. As for, shall we say, a finder’s fee, I was thinking in the range of four million.” Ben gave a short gasp. “Four million! American dollars? Pytór did not say—” “This deal has nothing to do with Pytór. You want the boy in question, and I can get him, because I’ve already made contact. If you want him, you have to deal with me, exclusively. As I said, the price is four million.” Once again, the Arab was silent. “The amount you demand is much larger than we expected to pay.” Louis ignored the remark. “When can you let me know? Maybe someone else would be interested in the boy.” “Where can I reach you?” asked Ben. Louis gave Ben his cell phone number, adding, “Ben, one more thing. Remember, this is a private deal, just between us. Understand?” Another trail of perspiration snaked a crooked path down Louis’s cheek, crossed to his chin, and fell with a splat onto the floor.

The short chuckle from Ben confirmed for Louis that the Arab understood. Pytόr Krevchenko would not be a party to this particular adventure in flesh peddling. Louis ended the conversation, returned the receiver to its cradle, and then began a tense wait. He had been prepared to hand over the Phillips brat for nothing, but he reasoned that if he could recoup the losses Jan Phillips’s law firm had cost him, so much the better. Four million dollars would also go a long way in freeing him from his father’s shadow. True to his word, the man who called himself Ben phoned later that evening. The deal was on.

Thirty

“HERE, Amal made you some green tea,” Michael said as he placed a cup of the pale brew on the table. It had been several days since Jan’s conversation with Marsha about his son’s sexual relationship with her daughter. Jan kept the girl’s parentage private, even with Michael, because it was clearly what Marsha wanted, although she hadn’t expressed it in so many words. “I’m too upset to drink tea,” Jan complained. “Well, I am sorry, but we are out of hemlock,” Michael joked. “Very funny, auditioning for the Tonight Show, are we?” Jan said with a smirk. Michael looked at Jan and said, “Oh come on. How bad can this be? Colin has discovered sex. It is just sex. You like sex, I like sex, and now Colin likes it. It is natural.” “Colin’s liking it is exactly the problem. He’s only fifteen, for God’s sake!” “Are you telling me you would have passed up a chance to have sex when you were fifteen?” Jan grinned shyly and twirled a spoon in the center of the teacup. “When I was fifteen the closest to sex I got was watching pigeons mating in the park, but you’re right, I should be grateful he’s not sleeping around with a squad of girls. At least I know Alexandra.” “Speaking of whom,” Michael said, “I thought she was very nice when she came to dinner. A little grown up for her age, but I expect that was just an act for your sake. Besides, having Marsha for a mother

would age anybody! I find that woman very intimidating.” “Alexandra’s acting grown up isn’t because she has Marsha as a mother. Being the only child of a single mother, she’s lived most of her life in the company of adults. I know that’s how it was with me. Aside from Bobby O’Farrell, the neighborhood friend I told you about, I spent most of my time with priests and nuns. Then it was home to Mom and my sisters.” Jan mentioning Bobby O’Farrell’s name catapulted him into a fit of remembrance. “Jan, you can make big money at Fifteenth and Van Wyck. All’s you gotta do is let queers… you know, do it to you.” “Do what?” “You know… suck your dick.” That conversation, shared so many years ago, set into motion Jan’s meeting Tim Morris and Jan eventually becoming the Mundus Master for North America, as well as owning his own law firm. Death and destruction also flowed from those few words spoken in hushed tones in a row house basement in Kensington. Michael noticed Jan had begun to frown. He said, “Drink the tea.” Michael’s voice shook Jan from his thoughts. “What? “Drink the tea,” Michael insisted.

AMAL stood outside Colin’s bedroom with a creased business card in his hand. He tapped the stained, cream-colored paper against a fingernail as he worked out in his mind what to do about this discovery. He read the engraved words again. LC Enterprises Model Agency and Film Company 1458 Seventh Street Philadelphia, PA 29900 Louis Carew, Producer 215-908-9997

The name, Louis Carew, seemed to grow larger the longer Amal looked at it. He had heard of this Carew person before. The words were words of disgust. So what was the young master doing with the despised man’s business card? Amal was torn with indecision. To take this to his master would most certainly bring wrath upon the boy. The two had formed a bond since Colin’s arrival. Amal sympathized with the teen’s feeling of alienation. He too, had felt out of place, and at times even threatened by the new world of Philadelphia, and the Americans who looked at him with suspicion and yes, even fear. Yet, to withhold the information that his son had some dealing with the hated Carew would be an act of disloyalty to his master. The son is the product of the father. Without the father the son is lost, he reasoned. His mind made up, Amal descended the winding staircase to the living room and approached Jan as he sipped the tea Michael had pressed on him. Michael smiled at Amal as he approached the two men. Between them, a haphazard patchwork of wooden tiles covered a Scrabble board. “It is too a word! I can spell just as well as you can!” Michael said, laughing. “You tell him, Amal.” Giving a mock serious bow, Amal said, “Alas, I have not sufficient knowledge of the language to judge.” “Give me the damn dictionary,” Jan said. “Let’s see now, how did you spell—” “Excuse me, Effendi,” Amal interrupted, as he handed Louis Carew’s business card to Jan. “I found this.” Michael leaned over the board to see what the card said. Jan puzzled over the card a moment. “Where did this come from?” “I found it on the floor in the young master’s bedroom. Forgive me, but this may mean something bad.” Jan let the dictionary drop with a thud. The thin pages fluttered open to the letter I. The first word to catch Jan’s eye was, “Imp: A friend from hell.”

“Jan, what is it?” Michael said. Jan handed the dog-eared card to Michael. “Louis Carew! How? Where would Colin get this?” “I’m asking myself the same question,” Jan said. Michael looked at the card once more before tossing it aside. Jan stood, stretched his arms, and walked to the window. He looked out at the river traffic. Carew! Jesu! The man’s as dangerous as an adder. What the hell is Colin up to? Where would they have met? Did Carew approach Colin? Jan shuddered at the thought. He turned to Michael and said, “Kids! Now I know the real reason Medea strangled her children!” Amal turned to leave and then stepped back. “Effendi, I did not wish to cause you unhappiness, or to anger you toward your son. It may be he is unaware of the danger.” Jan took a deep breath as he considered Amal’s wisdom. “Thank you, Amal. Would you leave us, please?” After Amal left them, Jan turned to Michael. “Colin says I don’t understand him, or maybe he means I don’t understand anything. I’m not sure… he doesn’t define his terms very well. My guess is what he really is saying is that he doesn’t believe I love him.” “Is he right? Do you love him because you feel you must, because he is your son, or because you find him loveable?” Michael probed. Jan thought a while before answering. Finally, he said, “Yes, I can honestly say that I love him. Don’t ask me where it comes from. Perhaps it comes with knowing your own flesh. I don’t know. I’m sure I’m not the only man who’s faced this, but, Michael, the truth is, I don’t understand him. You’d think he’d be happy to be here. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be left alone and frightened.” “Doesn’t he, Jan? How quickly you forget. A year ago, a mother he had loved and who protected him, was taken from him in a horrible way. Now he is among strangers who frighten him. Just because we

know he is safe here does not mean he understands it, any more than you understand him or what he wants.” “What could a fifteen-year-old possibly want that we can’t give him?” Jan said impatiently. “He wants what we all want, a sense of self, a feeling of fitting in—love. He is impatient, just like we were at fifteen.” Jan picked up a magazine, then flung it across the table in disgust. “First Colin hates me, he hates living here, then he’s having sex with my office manager’s daughter, and now he’s running around with gangsters. This kid is out to make me crazy!” “Oh, do not be so melodramatic. This is not about you, after all. Wait, see what he has to say, and for heaven’s sake, do not accuse him of anything—just see what it means.”

Thirty-One

ZAN and Colin sat side by side in a corner booth at Schrafft’s ice cream parlor as they shared a chocolate malted milkshake. Usually, they preferred to sit at the shiny chrome counter, on the wire-backed stools bolted into the white tiled floor. From there, they could watch the soda jerk create some of the 110 ice cream sundaes that made Schrafft’s famous. Alexandra slipped the paper wrapper from a plastic straw and jabbed it into the milkshake. “Why didn’t you get a shake of your own?” Colin asked, as Alexandra drew down on the straw, reducing the icy goblet’s contents by a full third. “I don’t want to get fat,” she replied. “You’re not fat.” “I know I’m not. I just don’t want to get that way.” Another slurp of the thick, sugar-laden liquid seemed to refute Alexandra’s desire to remain reed thin. Colin rolled his eyes in good-natured disbelief. “Don’t give me that look.” “Look? What look?” he asked with mock innocence. “You know,” she answered sharply. They sat in silence for a long while. Alexandra stabbed at the remnants of the shake with a long-handled spoon. Colin tore at the edges of the paper place mat.

Finally, he said, “Is something wrong? Are you upset?” “Upset? Why should I be upset?” A final slurp followed Zan’s cocky reply. Colin looked dumbly at his girlfriend. I wonder if she has her period. That health book at school said women get cranky when they have their period. They get sugar cravings too. I wonder if I should ask. Are guys allowed to ask? Before Colin could make up his mind, Alexandra retrieved her straw from the glass and placed it ever so daintily on the china saucer cradling the now empty tumbler. She straightened herself in her seat and pursed her lips. Uh oh, here it comes, he thought. “Did you or did you not say that your father wants you to go to France for the summer?” Dense as ever, Colin said, “So? Oh… you don’t want me to go, do you?” “Don’t play dumb with me. You know I don’t want you to go.” “Well, I don’t want to go either,” Colin said sullenly. Alexandra detected more than a tone of unhappiness in Colin’s voice. Something more like fear seeped around his words and expression. “Zan, why don’t you come with us? It’s going to be such a drag without you.” “Oh come on, Colin, it takes money to go to France. It takes money to go anyplace! And I don’t have any money!” Colin’s hopes deflated in the glare of what he knew was true. Neither he nor Zan had more than a few dollars between them. “Do you think your mother would give you the money?” Colin said hopefully. “No. I hinted at it after you told me that your dad was taking you. She wants to take me herself next year for my sixteenth birthday. What about your father? I don’t suppose he would pay for me to go with you.”

“Are you kidding? He hit the roof when he found out about us.” Zan felt a surge of nausea swirl in her stomach. Her usual creamy skin color drained to a dull gray. Until this minute, she had never knowingly been the object of anyone’s anger. The feeling was not good. She thought, Maybe his dad is going to split us up! “But, why?” Zan asked, her voice betraying her unspoken fear. “He didn’t act like he was mad or anything.” Colin soon realized he shouldn’t have mentioned his father’s man-to-man talk with him. It really wasn’t about Zan but rather the wisdom of teenagers having sex. By the time the discussion finished, Colin had no doubt that Jan did not approve. Still, he hadn’t forbidden Colin from seeing Alexandra. “Earth to Colin, are you there?” Zan said. “Umm, sorry, I kinda spaced, didn’t I? Zan, he wasn’t mad at you, he was mad at me, for… you know.” “Oh, yeah, well… I still like him. I think he’s cute like you but in an older way. Know what I mean? He must have lots of women after him.” Colin’s jaw dropped. “Jeez, Zan, he’s a queer! Everybody knows that!” “Colin! What a mean thing to say about your own father!” Zan leaned closer to Colin and lowered her voice. “You’d better watch out. You know how people are these days about that sort of thing.” “Zan, it’s true. Michael’s his lover and everything. Didn’t you ever wonder why Michael lives with us? They sleep in the same bedroom every night… in the same bed!” Alexandra stared at Colin in disbelief. She had known Jan Phillips all her life. There were times when she had felt like he was a long-lost uncle—rich, famous, and handsome. She gasped. “You’re making this up. I don’t believe you.” Even as she said this, Alexandra reflected on Colin’s unsolicited outburst the first time they made love.

I’m not queer or anything like that! She cocked her head, waiting, hoping Colin would burst into a “gotcha” laugh. He didn’t. “True?” she said. “It’s true, Zan. You met Michael when you and your mom came for dinner. Didn’t you notice how he was with my dad? They acted like married people, not just friends.” Colin’s face twisted with a combination of shame and fear. His voice broke in a half sob. “Nobody at school knows, so for God’s sake, Zan, please don’t tell anyone! Okay? Please, promise me you won’t tell!” Alexandra leaned her head on Colin’s shoulder. “So, your dad’s gay, so what? What does that have to do with you? You’re not gay. I mean, okay, I’m surprised. I’ve known him forever. It’s like you find out something about a person that all of a sudden makes them seem different.” “Promise me you won’t tell!” Colin demanded once more. “I promise. I won’t tell.” Alexandra let all this wash over her. She felt she loved this boy, but his life was more complicated than she had realized, and that meant that her life was getting complicated too. She didn’t understand why Colin was so upset. After all, she knew gay kids, and they didn’t threaten her in the least. She snuggled closer and closed her eyes. She pushed away all thought and let herself feel his body next to hers. “Zan, I was thinking….” Alexandra opened one eye and said, “What?” “You know that guy Lou we met at the Black as Night concert?” “You mean the concert that wasn’t?” she said guardedly. “What about him?” “Well, he said I had style, because of my outfit, and he said I should come to see him. He said he’s a film producer. So I was thinking, maybe I could get a job with him, and I could make enough money to get my own place.” Alexandra sat up and looked at Colin.

“Are you crazy?” she exclaimed. “You’re only fifteen! You couldn’t get your own place even if you had the money. Colin, what’s going on? Has someone done something to you, like abuse maybe?” “No… but I saw a show on TV where this girl divorced her parents, and the court made her an emancipated minor. I was thinking maybe I could do that.” “But why? Your dad and Michael are very nice. That Amal guy is a little strange, but he seems harmless, so if no one has done anything to you, why do you want to leave?” Colin looked away and said, “You just don’t understand.” “You’re right about that!” Alexandra tugged at Colin’s sleeve. He turned. “You know, Colin, there are kids we go to school with who would kill to have the life you have.” “Yeah, well they don’t know what I have to put up with,” Colin said. “Oh, you poor baby. You’re so disadvantaged,” Alexandra said sarcastically. “Did you know Toby Watkins has to walk on crutches for the rest of his life because his family couldn’t afford treatment for him when he had osteomyelitis?” “I don’t know what that is,” Colin said sourly. Alexandra frowned at this remark. “Toby told me he had an infection in his bone. By the time someone finally got him into a hospital, his leg bone was almost eaten away. Colin, he almost died!” “How can he go to All Souls anyway, if his parents are so poor?” Alexandra’s face flushed red with indignation. “He’s smart, or haven’t you noticed?” “Why are you pissed at me? What have I done?” Colin complained. “Because you’re acting like a brat.” Colin pulled away and got out of the booth.

“I gotta go.” For a brief moment, Alexandra wanted to let him go. She was tired of trying to get her head around a situation she didn’t understand, but she couldn’t let him walk away thinking she wasn’t on his side, whatever side that was. “Colin, wait! Come back.” Alexandra took Colin’s hand, drawing him back onto the seat. “I’m sorry. I was harsh. I just….” “Yeah, well… I’m sorry too. I’m sorry Toby is a cripple. I’m sorry I’m a brat. I’m sorry that I’m afraid all the time… afraid I’ll be like my dad someday. I’m sorry my mom’s dead, and my Aunt Elaine dumped me. I… I’m sorry… that’s all.” Colin bit his lip to keep from crying. So that’s it! He thinks no one wants him! Alexandra toyed with a strand of her long hair. “I want you,” she whispered. The lovers sat in uneasy silence, and then Colin said, “Okay look, I told Lou I’d meet him at his studio. You wanna come with me?” “Where is it?” “He said it’s in a warehouse across Vine Street at Sixth or Seventh. I forgot his business card, so I guess I’ll have to look for it. There’s gotta be a sign on the door or something. He told me to be there around seven o’clock, so we have plenty of time to find it.” “That’s too late for me. School tomorrow, remember? Besides, my mom won’t be home for dinner, and she’ll have a cow if I’m not home when she gets in. Sorry, I’ll pass. Colin… be careful. You don’t know this guy,” Alexandra warned. Colin became defensive. His earlier admissions put him in a combative mood. “I already talked to him once on the phone, and he’s really cool. He likes me, and I like him… okay? I think I can choose my own friends.” Alexandra leaned into Colin’s cheek and planted a wet kiss, a promise of things to come.

“Call me when you get home?” “Sure, Zan.” Colin searched for words to express how he felt about her, and his unhappiness at what turned into their first lover’s spat. “What?” she said. Rather than answering, he pulled Alexandra into his arms and kissed her tenderly. “Hey, you two! None of that in here! Take it outside,” a man in a chocolate-stained apron yelled from behind the counter. Blushing with embarrassment, Colin and Alexandra walked hand in hand down the narrow aisle that separated the counter from a row of window booths. As they passed him, the man gave the two a reproving glare. Colin turned and mouthed back at their tormentor, “Eat your heart out.” Out on the street, the two parted with a kiss.

Thirty-Two

COLIN left Alexandra staring at his back. He strolled along several blocks of familiar Walnut Street, stopping in at Hip’s Record Shoppe to check on the latest music releases. He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock. He had plenty of time to kill. Browsing along the aisles, he decided, I’ll get Zan a CD. Something romantic. Colin checked his watch again. Six thirty. He quickly picked out an album, paid a tall teen with a definite swish to his walk, and left the record store. Jogging along Walnut Street’s wide sidewalk, he came to Seventh Street, where he turned and dodged his way through Chinatown’s tourist-clogged streets. Leaving Philadelphia’s slice of Asia behind, Colin quickly walked on, crossing over Vine Street by way of a mesh covered overpass and into one of the city’s seedier warehouse districts. He had just ten minutes to find Louis’s film studio, and he was getting anxious. What if this scheme didn’t pan out? What then? As he walked the minutes away, Colin wondered, What does Lou have in mind? He’s a nice guy, and he likes me. Maybe I’ll be a stagehand or maybe even an actor! Maybe I’ll be famous! This has gotta work. As he walked up the center of the deserted street, he scanned windows and doors for signs of life. Row upon row of stubby buildings, each a twin and each ripe with decay, flanked the street for as far as he could see. One of these centuries-old brick warehouses

housed Louis’s studio. Colin watched an unsteady wind stir a small paper cup, which took flight for a mere second before crashing noiselessly into a knot of parched chicory weed. In this place, commerce had no use for beauty, and the stubborn blue flower was the only ornament to find a home in the brick and concrete desert. A once-proud Mercedes saloon car, wheels stripped to the axles, leaned paralyzed along a curb. What was left of the car’s interior had become a temporary shelter for men, women, children, cats, dogs, and armies of crawly critters. His father’s wealth had accustomed Colin to elegant automobiles. He looked sympathetically at the stricken vehicle, shook his head, and then walked on, scanning doors for addresses. Foolishly, he had forgotten to bring Louis’s business card with him. The only thing he remembered was 145, the first three street numbers. If he didn’t find the place soon, he knew he would have to turn back and possibly lose out on a golden opportunity. Colin was also aware that there was only a short time of daylight left. If he was going to find Louis’s building, he’d have to do it soon. Colin found what he was looking for in the next block. The chipped remnants of decades-old signs swathed the dull brick of a sixstory building. A wood plaque, hung haphazardly from a nail on the front door, read, “LC Enterprises.”

COLIN thought, This was easy. The gray, windowless steel door didn’t budge when Colin turned the knob. He pounded his fist three times against the rough metal, then stepped back and looked up at the building’s decayed façade. Paint covered all the windowpanes in a black wash. He waited a minute and banged on the door again. Nothing. Colin scratched his head and checked his wristwatch. It was just seven o’clock. Louis did say seven. Colin shrugged off his disappointment and walked to the right side of the warehouse, where a wide alley led back to a rusty chain link fence, which guarded a large parking pad, and a disused loading dock.

The gate was open. He looked around. That’s odd. There aren’t any cars here. I wonder if he’s here. Maybe I made a mistake—better make sure. Colin ignored the four cargo doors on the elevated bay and walked to a steel door that matched the one out front. An overhead light beamed down a dim pool of yellow light, illuminating a red button set into the doorjamb with the words, “Press For Assistance.” “At last!” Colin muttered. He mashed down on the button and waited. I hope he hasn’t forgotten.

LOUIS CAREW himself answered the call. He was dressed in jeans, a heavy flannel shirt, and work boots. Not the kind of clothes Colin expected a movie producer would wear, but rather someone setting out for a hike in the woods. “Hey, Colin! I was hoping I’d see you today. Come in! You sounded anxious to see my operation. That’s why I suggested you come over.” Louis led Colin up a flight of cement stairs, painted a shiny chocolate brown. The odor of new paint hung heavily in the stairwell. At the first landing, they came to another steel door. Louis’s business card hung taped at eye level. From the moment he stepped into the room, unusual smells attacked his senses—a mix of strong cleaning chemicals that he took for bleach, stale perfume, and something familiar, biological, yet out of place. It was the smell of sex. Colin knew the odor of sex. He had experienced it often enough after hours spent entangled in Zan’s arms. But why do I smell it now, in here? Colin wriggled his nose as if doing so would purge the odor that grew stronger as he moved closer to the center of the room. Here, the air redolent with sweat and something dirty, not unlike rotten rubber, was overpowering. Louis Carew closed the door behind them and turned the deadbolt

lock, slowly, quietly. “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Carew. I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” Colin said, “and I didn’t know if this was the right building. I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Louis’s smile had changed slightly from one of camaraderie to one of guile. “No, not at all. I wouldn’t have suggested you stop by if I was busy. Besides, Sunday is just another workday in the entertainment business. They don’t stop running movies, or cancel TV shows on Sundays, do they?” “No, sir.” “So, you came alone. I thought you were going to bring your girlfriend.” “She couldn’t come.” “That’s okay, another time, maybe.” Louis put his arm around Colin’s slim shoulders and gave a short hug as he guided the teen deeper into the studio. “Oh, and by the way, don’t call me sir. I want you to call me LC, and I’ll call you Col—if I may.” “Sure!” It made Colin feel like an adult when Carew insisted he call him by his initials. Standing beside Louis, Colin became more aware of his surroundings. Long cloth panels hung up, down, and sideways along the walls. Furniture of every shape and style lay jumbled everywhere. Along one rough brick wall, a rack of clothes held backdrop panels in place. Colin’s head swiveled from left to right, taking it all in. Floodlights, some lit, burned everywhere. Microphones covered with furry sleeves dangled from arms that telescoped from portable booms. In the center of it all was a brightly lit set. This display of what Colin imagined a movie studio to be, allayed his first, uneasy impression.

Hell, what do I know about how a place like this is supposed to smell? Colin said, “Wow! This is so cool. I always wondered how a place like this would look.” Louis took Colin by the arm and said, “Come on, there’s a lot more I want to show you. Let’s start with my office.” The windowless room was not as large as the one they had just left. The requisite steel desk and matching file cabinets, along with assorted metal chairs and a conference table, claimed the lion’s share of floor space. Still photographs littered every flat surface. A video camera whirred, quietly filming all who passed before it. An eerie blue light flickered fitfully from a row of fluorescent bulbs, their normal brilliance absorbed by a wooden floor, dulled through a century of wear. A soiled blanket hung in limp folds off the arm of a 1970s vintage sofa. The brown and orange upholstery, made slick with use, hosted crumpled fast food wrappers, plastic cups, and straws. However, the main feature in the office was a one-way glass partition from which the drapes had been drawn back to reveal filming already in progress. Colin approached the glass, eager to see his first live performance, a real movie in progress. His happy smile collapsed into slack-jawed shock as his brain processed the action before him. Under glaring floodlights was a huge platform bed covered in shiny red plastic. A nude black woman was on her back trying unsuccessfully to look as if she were in the throes of passion, while a pasty-white man with limp blond hair and angry red pimples on his ass tried valiantly to impale her. The woman’s unconvincing voice oozed from a metal speaker hung from the ceiling over the window, “Oh, yeah, baby! That’s the way! Fuck me! Harder! Harder!” A man approached the bed holding a camcorder against his shoulder. As he filmed, he shouted, “Come on, Troy! You heard the lady. Fuck her! And don’t forget to pull out this time! And when you

do, stroke that big dick of yours slow, just like I showed ya. Shoot it on her tits, not on the sheets. And remember, Troy, no cum shot for the camera means no nose candy for you afterward. So c’mon, you can do it! Go! Go!” When it became evident that Troy lacked the performance skills necessary for a successful finale, the cameraman yelled, “Hey, Billy, get in there and help Troy out.” From behind the cameraman, another naked man appeared from the shadows. Unlike Troy, who was having trouble keeping an erection, Billy was a beefy football type, with tight muscles and a raging hard-on a superhero would envy. Crawling onto the low-slung bed, he searched beyond the lights for more direction. “Okay, Billy. Get behind Troy’s asshole. Yeah, that’s it. Lube up. Okay, now mount him, yeah, that’s right—just like that. Find his love button in there, and let’s get the juices flowing!” Under Billy’s eager lust, the trio gasped and grunted their way to an explosion of award winning orgasms. Colin stared dumbly at the scene before him. Faggots! These guys are queer! Bile boiled up from his guts, burning the back of his throat. His hands and feet tingled as if suddenly deprived of blood. He reached up to his forehead to wipe away sweat that should have been there, but somehow wasn’t. Stunned by disgust and what was now a confirmed feeling of betrayal, he staggered back, bumping into the desk and pushing over a chair as he turned to leave. Louis blocked Colin by placing his hands on his shoulders. His voice was soft, almost mesmerizing. “Easy, kid, just take it easy. Just sit down for a second.” Loathing, fear, and above all panic, hopscotched around Colin’s brain. He heard Carew’s voice as if through a waterfall. He shook his head, pushing words and images away with all his might, but he couldn’t banish the vision of the two naked young men or the stinging

salt of his tears. His mind screamed, Oh God! I’ve gotta get out! With Louis blocking his path, Colin stood passive for a moment, hoping there was an explanation for this horror, but he knew the truth before he asked, “What is this place? I don’t understand. I thought you liked me! I don’t do this stuff! Why didn’t you tell me this is what you wanted?” He shot Louis an angry look and tried again to pass around the now hated man. “I gotta go.” Louis, taller and stronger, gripped Colin’s shoulders tighter. He guided the stricken teen to the dirty couch and forced him down. From where he sat, Colin could clearly see Billy, Troy, and the woman gyrating in feigned happiness. No longer able to contain himself, Colin burst into sobs. Louis sneered at the boy’s blubbering. “This place is where I make my living, and it’s where I get my nookie on the side.” Colin leapt up. “I’ve heard enough! Let me outta here!” he said, pushing past Louis. He stopped short when he saw a man sitting in a shadowed corner of the room, silently waiting for the charade to end. The Arab, who called himself Ben, had watched the scene with amused impatience. He shifted slightly in his seat, reaching out to switch on a reading lamp, and then adjusted something hidden under his wool coat. Colin tried to gauge his chances of bolting across the room and out the door. They weren’t good. He looked back at Louis, grinning like a jackass with a briar caught in its teeth. He looked at the Arab. Colin’s voice cracked. “Wha… what do you want with me?” Unknown to Colin, he was looking into the eyes of the man who had beheaded dozens of bound captives in the name of Islam, Soo

Kwon among them. “Mr. Phillips?” Ben said softly, his accent pronounced. The man’s formal manner, so out of place with the situation, made Colin take a closer look at him. His instinct to run away as fast as he could was momentarily smothered by characteristic teen curiosity. “You are the son of Jan Phillips, is that not correct?” “Yes!” Colin foolishly confessed. “And if you know that, then you know he’s an important man, so you’d better not touch me!” The man with the foreign accent smiled as one confident of his own strength. He said, “Mr. Phillips, the irony of worldly importance is that, once the game is over, the king and the pawn go back into the same box. However, for this moment in time, I, too, am an important man. Therefore, when you are in my presence you will be so kind as to lower your voice and be respectful.” To Louis, Ben said, “Close the drapes. It is not fitting for a son of Allah to witness the sins of the depraved.” Louis pressed a button on his desk, and a black curtain swept across the observation window. The show was over. Ben nodded. “That is much better.” Louis shrugged. “They’re finished anyway.” He checked his watch. “They’ll be outta here before we are.” “I don’t know what you people are up to. I just know it doesn’t have anything to do with me! Now let me go!” Colin shouted. “Very well, we shall be leaving soon,” Ben said. “I’m not going anywhere with you!” A wicked smile painted itself across the Arab’s mouth as he thought of the moment when he would hack this boy’s head off. Such sweet revenge, if Allah wills it. Ben’s smile drooped into a frown. “I am afraid I must insist,” he said smoothly. Colin sensed a movement from behind him as Louis moved up and attempted to slip a leather belt over his head and down around his

arms. Ben fingered the stun gun hidden in the breast pocket of his coat. He waved Louis off. “Restraints will not be necessary. Besides, if we are unfortunate enough to be stopped by the authorities, it would be difficult to explain a leashed boy in our company.” Ben reflected on Colin’s panic and his over-the-top reaction to the male on male sex he had just witnessed. Seizing on this vulnerability to further break the boy’s will to fight, he said, “Mr. Phillips, how would you like to star in one of Louis’s feature films?” “Yeah,” Louis said, “I’ll fuck you myself, ya little asshole. How’d ya like that? I’ve never raped a boy before. Might be fun at that!” Colin shook his head… a terrified, silent NO! Ben chuckled. “I thought not.” The Arab paused in mock thought. He walked around in a small circle, as if considering some weighty problem of state. Then he said, “Mr. Phillips, I am a reasonable man. I will strike a bargain with you. If you remain calm and do as I say, I promise you will live out the rest of your life in respectable obscurity. Fame will not be yours, at least not in this manner. How is that? Agreed?” Colin slumped onto a metal stool and hung his head. His voice, barely a whisper, trembled. “What do I have to do?” Ben looked at his accomplice. “You see, Louis? That was not so difficult, and all without force. So much more agreeable.”

Thirty-Three

JAN caught up with Amal at half past seven as he completed his prayers for the setting of the sun. Normally, he would not seek Amal out during prayer time. He waited respectfully for the Egyptian to stand and slip on his sandals. Amal turned, surprised to see Jan. “Effendi, I did not hear….” “I’m sorry to disturb you, Amal, but have you seen Colin?” “He has not yet returned from the city?” “No. I thought he might have come in and gone out again, but the security log only shows him leaving.” Jan had set aside the evening to have a talk with Colin about Louis Carew. He needed to know the exact nature of Colin’s dealings with the man. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good, and Jan was going to put a stop to it. Jan’s eyes darted around the sparsely furnished room Amal used for prayer and private time, unsure what to do next. “Effendi, perhaps you should contact the parents of Master Colin’s friends. Perhaps he went to the home of his lady friend.” The reference to parents and Colin’s lady friend was Amal’s tactful way of suggesting Jan call Marsha Betterman to see if his son was there banging her daughter. Jan gave Amal a knowing smile as they left the room and walked the long hall.

“Thanks, I’ll do that now. Umm… Amal, would you please have another look around?” “Of course.” Amal watched Jan walk on and descend to the lower level. He then climbed the stairs that led to the top floor observation deck. Amal knew that Colin often went up there to watch the ships as they docked farther down river. He also knew his master’s son was nowhere in the house.

JAN walked briskly to the office and straight to the phone. He snatched up the receiver and punched in Marsha Betterman’s home phone number. Four, five rings, then an electronic voice answered and encouraged the caller to leave a message. Jan slammed the phone into the cradle. “Damn!” “Jan! Such language, and on Sunday too! What is eating you?” Michael said. Jan turned. He hadn’t noticed Michael huddled on the floor, surrounded by boxes full of import invoices—all in Chinese. “I can’t find Colin. He hasn’t come home yet. Did he say anything to you about where he was going?” “No. I have not seen him since lunch. He did not mention going out to me, but then he does not say much to me anyway.” “Where could he be? He’s been gone for hours! What could he be up to?” Jan said, his own words adding to his mounting anxiety. “Have you tried Marsha’s house? Perhaps he is with Alexandra,” Michael offered hopefully. “That’s who I just phoned. I got an answering service.” “You did not leave a message.” “No,” Jan said, “what was I going to say, where’s my little boy?” “Well, Jan, he is a teenager with a girlfriend. Love does not always look at the clock.” He shook his head and chuckled. “You know, sometimes I think you are getting old.”

“Old eh? I’m not the one with gray hair.” Michael gave a shrug, shoved aside the box he had been examining, and frowned. “Lose something, old man?” Michael, who was younger than Jan by several years, had aged, not in his body, yet something was missing in his spirit. Michael raised his gaze with what looked to Jan like tears in his eyes. “I have been sitting here for a half hour, searching these boxes, and I can’t remember what I was looking for. It must be important. I think I need a vacation. Can we go to the beach house soon?” Jan knelt beside Michael. “Come here. You need a hug. We’ll go to the beach as soon as I round up my wayward son.” Michael replied with a thankful grin. Jan returned it with a troubled smile and said, “Michael, I think I’ll drive over to Marsha’s, just to make sure.”

Thirty-Four

JAN pushed the bell on Marsha Betterman’s condo door. He checked his watch. It was just after nine o’clock. The door opened just enough for Jan to see Alexandra peeking over the safety chain. “Mr. Phillips! What are you doing here? I mean… wait. I’ll take the chain off.” A moment later Jan was standing in the apartment’s posh living room. The décor screamed Coco Chanel. Scanning for signs of his son, Jan asked abruptly, “Alexandra, is Colin here with you?” Pummeled since birth with what her mother declared was a matter of manners, Yes please, No thank you, and How do you do, were drilled into Alexandra like Hail Marys into a sinner. On those occasions when she had seen Jan Phillips, he was cool, calm, and courteous. Standing in front of her was a man frazzled. Something was definitely not right. “No, Mr. Phillips, he’s not. I haven’t seen him since late this afternoon,” she answered honestly. She hoped to make a good impression on Jan, especially now, since Colin had told her how much his father opposed their relationship, at least the sexual part. “Is everything okay?” she asked. Jan ran a nervous hand around his face. “Umm… I’m not sure,” he said, scanning the room once more. “Zan, where’s your mother?” “She went to a meeting of the Professional Women’s Association. They always meet across the square at The Barclay. I have the number

for the hotel. Would you like me to call her?” Jan shook his head no. “When did you say you last saw him?” “It was around six—maybe a little before.” “You’re sure?” “Yes.” “Where were you when you saw him?” “Schrafft’s.” “Did he say he was going anywhere else?” From the look of growing panic on Jan’s face, Alexandra now knew something big was going on, but she wasn’t going to snitch about Colin’s plan to see Louis Carew about a job either. She knew if she did, he’d never forgive her. She hesitated. “Alexandra?” “No, he didn’t,” she lied. Jan wasn’t a lawyer for nothing. He knew when someone tried to mislead him. Still, there was little he could do to force information from this young woman. “Zan, he hasn’t come home yet, and I’m worried. He doesn’t know the city nearly as well as he thinks he does. I… I don’t know.” Alexandra felt her knees grow weak. She had warned Colin about that Lou guy, and now his dad was looking for him. And, Mr. Phillips was right. Colin wasn’t a city brat. He even gave panhandlers spare change! Just the same, this didn’t mean anything was wrong. Maybe he just lost track of time, or maybe he decided to skip meeting with Lou and went to a movie, she reasoned. Whatever the answer, she didn’t feel she should send Colin’s dad to wander around the warehouse district looking for Louis Carew’s film studio, especially when she didn’t even know where it was, for sure. Alexandra fidgeted with a silver bracelet, a gift from Colin. “Mr. Phillips,” she said, “if Colin calls me, I’ll tell him to phone home right away. I promise.” “Thanks, Zan, I’d appreciate it. Well, I’d better get going. Thanks

again.” As soon as Alexandra closed the door on Jan, she dashed to the phone books in the computer room and pulled out the business section. Oh, no! her panicked mind cried, There’s no listing for Louis Carew! Her mind racing, she threw the fat book aside and pulled a chair to her computer. She typed LOUIS CAREW + PHILADELPHIA in the Google search bar. Nothing. Variations of the search yielded zero hits. All she could remember of her conversation about Lou and his studio was the vague location Colin had mentioned. If that’s where he thinks it is, then that’s where he’s probably gone, she thought. Alexandra pulled on a pair of jeans, slipped on thick cotton socks, and jammed her feet into her leather boots. She grabbed a cashmere sweater and a down jacket, on the off chance that, for once, the weatherman was right and a cold snap was, in fact, heading for town. She snatched up a horde of ten-dollar bills from her rainy day stash and hurried out of the apartment. She had no idea how much bad weather she was in for.

Thirty-Five

NICK FLAMINGO sat slouched behind the wheel of his battered 2001 Nissan Pathfinder. A custom supercharged engine, combined with a carriage suspension that rivaled a Sherman tank, compensated for what this car lacked in sheen and style. Nick required speed and rugged agility in a car when he was working, and his souped-up model was just the thing. Surveillance was the worst part of the detective business. Flamingo had been sitting behind black tinted windows since seven thirty, a scant two hours with nothing to look at but decaying buildings and an occasional stray dog chasing a cat. Sunday traffic in the warehouse district was nonexistent. The building on this stakeout housed Louis Carew’s porn operation. Nick was into his second week, and hours of surveillance had produced nothing but a flare-up of painful hemorrhoids, another occupational hazard, besides boredom, or getting beat up by an irate husband caught cheating on his wife. Nick studied the old warehouse for the umpteenth time. What puzzled him the most was the lack of activity. During weekdays, the other businesses bustled, while LC Enterprises was as dormant as a hibernating bear. The approach of a white van caused him to look into the rearview mirror. The car passed by slowly, turned into an alley across from the stakeout, and disappeared from view. He noted the time in his logbook.

NICK sat up and fished under his seat for a Starbucks Frappacchino

that had long since lost its icy chill. Stretching awkwardly for the elusive plastic coated bottle, his fingers met instead with crumpled candy wrappers, an old racing form, and something very sharp. With bloodied knuckles and a kink in his back, he sat up and grumbled, “Damn! I’m getting too old for this.” Nick wiped the wide-mouthed bottle clean with a rag, gave it a hard shake, and unscrewed the cap. He lifted the bottle to his lips and then paused. A white teenage girl wandered down the trash littered street, stopping periodically as if looking for an address. The city streetlights burned with spotty efficiency, making her progress slow. The detective knew the girl was begging for trouble by showing up in a rough neighborhood, dressed in teen high fashion. He figured this was a poor little rich girl looking for edgy kicks. If that was the case, she picked the right place but the wrong day. Sunday was the wrong day and early evening the wrong time. Nick looked at the beverage in his hand, frowned, and replaced the cap, setting the bottle next to him on the seat. I oughta warn her to go home. He reached for the door handle and then stopped. Wait a minute. The PI racked his memory, finally recognizing Alexandra as one of the teens who frequented the mini-concerts put on by PhillyGoth Inc. Only this time, she didn’t look like a hard street punk. Darkness had settled in quickly. This part of town had yet to see the advanced outdoor lighting every city politician promised at election time but never delivered once in office. The businesses lining the street had taken it upon themselves to erect makeshift floodlights. Kids looking for an outlet for boredom had smashed many of these. The result was a landscape made eerie by insubstantial light and shadows that seemed to live and breathe. Nick lowered the smoke-colored glass to get a better look. What the hell is she up to? Nick watched as Alexandra stopped in front of Louis Carew’s building. He reckoned she was considering her options as she looked up at the warehouse façade. Suddenly, she turned on her heel, retracing her steps.

“That’s right, kid, go home. This is no place for you,” he whispered. The hard-bitten detective’s hopes turned to dross when the girl abruptly turned into the alley. Aw, shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Should I wait and see if anything happens, or should I go after her? Aside from her age, gender, race, and out of place clothing, nothing indicated she was in danger. There wasn’t a soul on the street. Nick glanced at his watch. Nine thirty. He’d give her twenty minutes. If she didn’t come out by then, he’d check the rear of the warehouse.

Thirty-Six

COLIN sat rigid with rage as the Arab chain-smoked short cigars and Louis sprayed air freshener in an attempt to clear a space not laden with nicotine and tar fumes. Finally, Louis looked at his watch and said, “It’s about time. I’ll call to make sure everything is on schedule.” Colin watched as Carew picked up the phone and punched a single digit. He waited and then said, “This is Carew, everything a go there?” Ben stood, stretched his body, and stood over Colin, who shrank back as far into the chair as it allowed. He turned to Louis, still on the phone, and asked, “Well?” Louis nodded once and then said, “Got it. We’ll be there ASAP.” “We’re on,” Louis said to Ben with a smile. “It takes a good thirty minutes to get to the field, so we’d better get going.” With that, Ben grabbed Colin by the arm and hoisted him to his feet. Louis yanked the belt from his pants and twisted it around Colin’s neck. As the three struggled, the office door burst open with a loud bang. Louis’s chauffer came into the smoky room dragging Alexandra by her hair. “Hey, Boss, look what I found. Can I keep her?” “You bastard! Let me go!” Alexandra bellowed as she clawed the air with impotent defiance. Louis eased up on the belt enough for Colin to yell, “Zan! What the—”

Colin wept frenzied tears as he struggled to free himself from Ben’s strong grip. His fine yellow hair, by now a tangled mat, dripped sweat from saturated ends. Louis pulled on the leather belt. Air deprived, all Colin could manage was a strangled, “Let her go!” “Colin!” Alexandra screamed. She reached out her hand just inches from his tortured face. “Enough!” shouted the Arab. Ben glared at Louis. “What is this?” he growled. “What is this girl doing here?” Louis looked sheepishly at Ben as his mind worked out an explanation. Then a thought—of course! “This is the other half of the package I promised. You wanted a teen couple, and now you have one. You can enjoy them both.” Ben didn’t buy the excuse, but he didn’t argue either. Time was wasting. Colin’s stomach muscles tightened to the point of pain. He felt his bowels begin to loosen. His mind flashed back to the scene of Billy ramming his cock into Troy’s ass. Fright and rage battled for his soul. Rage won. My God, they’re going to rape us! His throat now raw, Colin croaked, “You can’t do this, take… take me,” he sobbed. “Let her go. You can have me.” Genuinely surprised, Louis said, “Really?” Colin hung his head, his voice just above a whisper. “I won’t try to stop you.” “A generous offer, but no thanks.” Then Louis added cryptically, “We have bigger fish to fry.” Mario eased his hold on Alexandra. Foolishly, she took this as a chance to break free. She jammed her elbow backward, finding hard, unyielding muscle. She squealed as Mario pulled her hair and swung her around. Yanking her head upward, he forced a kiss on her. “Noooo!” Ben cuffed Colin across his mouth. He turned on Louis with a sharp, reproving glance.

“Enough of this! Carew, we need to go!” Mario said, “Boss, can I break her arm, or maybe her neck?” “Quiet!” Louis yelled. “And shut that bitch up!” “Zan!” Colin reached for his lover. Louis grabbed a knot of Colin’s hair and pulled his head back. “Listen to me, you little shit. Mario likes to hurt people. Now, either you shut up and keep still, or Mario here will start with her little finger and go on from there. Now, do I have your word you’re gonna do as I say, or not?” Eyes wide with terror, Colin nodded a silent yes. Louis nodded toward Mario. The thug bent one of Alexandra’s fingers back just to show Colin he meant business. Alexandra screamed more from fright than actual pain. Her usually calm mind played ping pong with her runaway emotions. She alternated between hating Colin, wishing she had never laid eyes on him, and aching for his fear… his fear of being sodomized, and of knowing that she, the girl he loved, would know it had happened. She began to cry. Colin pulled away just enough to reach out and touch her hair before Mario pulled her back into his bear-like grip. Colin’s eyes pled for forgiveness. Louis stepped up to Alexandra, who continued a fruitless struggle against Mario’s strong grip. “Now, little lady, the same goes for lover boy over there. Do you want to see him all broken up?” Alexandra relaxed into a submissive slump and whispered, “No.” Ben stepped up to Colin and looked into his eyes. “Mr. Phillips, it is my wish that you cooperate with me. However, if you feel you must resist, let me remind you that your friend’s good health depends on you—and yours on her. This is a serious situation in which you find yourselves. Each of you is responsible for the other. Do you understand?” The two teens nodded in wide-eyed unison.

“Mario, search the little lady for a cell phone,” Louis said. Alexandra offered no resistance as Mario rummaged through her pockets, lingering longer than necessary when he came to the front pockets of her jeans. At last, he located the suspected device in her jacket. “Here you go, Boss,” he said, handing the phone to Louis. Ben snatched the cell phone from Louis’s hand and checked the last call. Satisfied Alexandra hadn’t contacted anyone about her whereabouts, he flung the phone into a wastepaper basket. Then he turned on Colin. “Do you have a mobile phone too?” “No,” Colin lied. Frisking the teen produced another cell phone. Ben checked this one for messages too. None. He turned, dropped the phone into the trash, and wheeled around, backhanding Colin once again. This time he drew blood. Colin shook with impotent rage. No one had ever hit him before. Desperately seeking a way out of this dilemma, his mind raced into a brick wall. Outnumbered and outweighed, he realized at last that he and Zan were complete prisoners. Ben grabbed Colin by the throat and said, “Little man, let me give you a piece of advice to live by. Never lie, unless you are absolutely sure no one will ever find out!” Carelessly stubbing out his cigar in an ashtray, the Arab said, “Very well, let us go now, and Louis, put your belt back on or you will lose your modesty.” Then he chuckled, adding, “A little levity never hurts, yes?” Louis led the way while Ben shoved Colin through the office door and out onto the stairs. Mario followed, pushing Alexandra in front of him. Four flights down, they arrived at another door beyond which a tunnel spread into the darkness. Louis flipped on a light switch and looked back over his shoulder. “This leads to the old subbasement. There’s another tunnel that connects to the building across the street—handy, huh?”

Louis ignored Ben’s silence. “Anyway, I rented a van. When we get over there, we can leave on Rose Street. Even if someone sees us, they won’t connect the van with this place.” Ben said nothing. His confidence in Louis Carew and his capabilities was fast eroding. Already, there were unexpected developments. Louis Carew, he decided, was outliving his usefulness.

A FEW minutes later, the four emerged out onto a parking pad hidden behind the warehouse across the street from Nick Flamingo’s stakeout. Louis spun Colin around, forcing the teen off balance. “All right, kid. We gotta do some walking outside. Mario’s gotta gun, and he loves to use it.” “There will be no guns,” Ben cautioned in a smooth, calm tone. He drew the stun gun from his jacket. “This is all we need,” he said. Mario glanced at his boss for assurance that Ben was calling the shots here. Louis merely looked on. Ben’s eyes flashed like a child delighted with a new toy as he switched the device on. A blue arc flitted in the darkness. Colin drew back as the Arab waved the small gun near his arm. “Mr. Phillips, this is a stun gun. Look at the pretty light.” Ben walked over to Alexandra. He stroked her smooth cheek with the back of his hand. “You see, Mr. Phillips, as with most pretty things, the stun gun brings with it a certain danger. I have seen people who have experienced its power, scarred for life. If used improperly, it can even cause death. I assure you, if you cause me trouble, I will not hesitate to use it on the lady here.” Once again, the threat to Zan was enough for Colin. “No trouble… no trouble,” he murmured. “Good. Now we go.”

COLIN and Alexandra lay quietly on the van floor as Louis and the Arab settled into the large leather seats. Mario eased the big vehicle into the street and sped away. At one point Alexandra drifted into a short nap, while Colin tried to count the number of stops and right and left turns the van made. Finally, he lost count and gave in to fatigue. He rested his head on the coarse cargo carpet.

Thirty-Seven

NICK FLAMINGO abandoned the relative anonymity of his car and cautiously moved to the rear of Louis’s building. Surveying the back wall, he quickly found an alarm box neatly bolted to the underside of the loading dock. Please let this be the hard part, he prayed as he slipped a slim black case from his jacket pocket and fished out a length of wire and needle-nose pliers. Using the pliers, he deftly patched a loop across the alarm’s trip wires so when he opened the door, which he certainly would do, the connection would be unbroken, and the alarm would remain blessedly silent. The rear door proved even less of a chore. Clearly, whoever installed the flimsy lock was relying on the poorly hidden alarm box to foil burglars. Easing inside, Nick quickly closed the door and listened. Silence. Hmph, this could be good or it could be bad. The landing on which he stood gave way to two flights of stairs. The one to the left led down; the one to his right went up. When presented with a choice of direction, Nick always chose left. He reasoned it was because his mother had been a lifelong Communist. He flipped a light switch and looked over the railing. Naked bulbs dotted three landings below. He could see the outline of three doors on each landing. Great, this could take all night! Nick inspected the rooms at every level and found nothing but dust and rat droppings. Finally, he arrived at what he figured must be below ground level. A heavy sliding door barred his way. Taking a

chance on what may lie beyond, he rolled it aside on its well-greased wheels. A wide tunnel yawned into black. Nick bent down and ran his hand over the scuffed dust. The shoe impressions indicated back and forth traffic. They were new. So this is how they get in and out without me seeing them. The PI stared out into the gloom. Hmm, I’d better let the cops handle this. Backing away from what looked like the portal to Hades, Nick turned and crept back up the stairs, past the rear entrance landing, and up until he found Louis’s card on a door. He switched off the stairwell lights and pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. He turned the doorknob, giving it a slight push. No light escaped. The same odor that had repelled Colin assaulted the private eye’s nose. Ignoring the all too familiar smell of raw sex, he drew out a slim flashlight, switched it on, eased the door open, and scanned the room. Stage props. What, Louie boy’s tryin’ to look legit? Nick gave a quick look around for signs of the girl but saw none. A faint light creased the darkness. A door stood slightly ajar. Always one to take the path of least resistance, Nick moved closer, eased the door open with the toe of his boot, and peeked in. Empty. Terrific. Nick panned his beam around, taking in lighting fixtures and more camera equipment. He tiptoed across the room to the curtained wall and peeked behind the black drapes. Darkness rewarded his stealth. The detective frowned and shrugged his shoulders. He turned to leave when his tiny spotlight caught a smoldering cigar butt dying in a plastic ashtray on the desk. Solitary occupations often make people talk to themselves. Nick was no exception. He nudged the stub with his finger, then picked it up and gave the stogie a sniff. As he scratched his head he began a onesided discourse. Still warm. Hmm, foreign and expensive, this isn’t Louie’s style— more like Krevchenko, but he’s in Russia. I wonder who else Mr. Slime’s been playin’ with. Nick turned to leave, then stopped when his inner voice

reprimanded him. Hey, dummy, don’t forget to check the desk. Nick walked to the desk, pulled the chair back, sat down. He began pulling drawers open. He muttered, “This stuff can’t be too important or this thing would be locked. Ugh, oh! What’s this?” The PI slid a pack of photographs from a large orange envelope and flipped through them in the dim light. “Holy smokes! What’s Louie gotten himself into?” Nick turned on the desk lamp to be sure of what he held in his hand. Then it became clear. The pictures, stacked in reverse, chronicled the capture of a teenage girl. Jesus! It’s the Bocalora kid! A tortured, badly bruised face stared back in terror. Nick sifted through the remainder of the pictures. Several other young boys and girls seemed to have shared the Bocalora teen’s fate, all but one. One photo, a telephoto shot, looked as if it had been taken by surveillance. Jan Phillips! What the hell! Nick flipped the photo over and read the name, “Colin Phillips.” He looked at the image again. So this is what he looks like. Yeah, younger, but they could be twins. Frustrated, the detective leaned back in the chair, rubbed his eyes, and then returned his attention to the job at hand. He looked around the shabby office, hoping for something that would spark an idea. Bits and pieces of a puzzle lay everywhere, yet none seemed to connect. Then a tiny red beam caught his eye. Nick cupped his chin in his hand and pondered the little red light. Sawing his index finger across pursed lips, he wondered aloud, “Did I just get lucky?” Perched atop a tripod sat a camcorder, its lens aimed down. The red beam shot from the camera, burying itself into the wood floor. Nick pushed himself away from the desk and approached the camera. Cocking his head to one side, he studied it. He passed his hand

through the red light, and the recorder began to whir. Then it stopped. A yellow light illuminated a small message window. It read, “Out of Memory.” It’s worth a look-see anyway. Nick flipped up the view screen and pressed start. Five minutes of fast forwarding through Louis Carew’s sexual gymnastics with terrified prepubescent girls ended with a panoramic view of the office floor and muffled voices. Try as he might, Nick couldn’t make out anything other than the voices were of an older man and someone young, probably a teenage boy. Disgusted, Nick was about to shut the machine off when the audio burst with a loud, “Hey, Boss, look what I found. Can I keep her?” Nick recognized the voice as belonging to Louis’s muscle man. Mario! The bastard! Nick leaned closer to the video cam, straining to hear more. “Zan! What—” Then he heard what sounded like a struggle. “Let her go!” “Colin!” He had heard enough. Nick pulled the plug on the recorder, took it to the desk, and laid it next to the photographs. Louis Carew had the girl and Jan Phillip’s son. Poor Mike Bocalora, how the hell am I gonna tell him his kid’s dead… and like this too. Jesus, sometimes I hate this job! Nick forced himself to study the photos once more, committing the details to memory, and then reached for his cell phone. He needed to call two people right away, one was Rita Maro of the district attorney’s office, and the other was Jan Phillips.

Thirty-Eight

MARIO stopped the van at a small airport terminal. As Louis got out, he said, “Get to the plane, and get these brats inside. I’ll be there as soon as I file my flight plan. I won’t be long. As instructed, Mario guided the car past the terminal building where a female clerk sat looking out the window. Arriving at a lone plane waiting on the weed-crazed tarmac, Colin knew this was just another leg in a journey of terror. He knew, too, that once inside, escape would be impossible. The fear of Ben’s threat to hurt them only went so far. Ben stood by the van, watching while Mario stowed a small carry-on bag in the plane. Colin looked around and spied a light in a window of the airport terminal building. It’s now or never. He broke away, grabbed Alexandra’s hand, and said, “Come on!” His bravado earned each of them a blast from Ben’s stun gun. Moments later the two lay on the Beechcraft’s main cabin floor. The thick pile carpeting did little to dampen the vibration of the plane’s jet engines as it coursed through Colin’s aching body. How long they had been shocked into an electronic stupor he could not tell. All he knew was that he and Zan were captive, it was his fault, and his whole body hurt. He opened his eyes and watched Alexandra as she rocked back and forth, crying. She wouldn’t look at him, even when he begged her

to forgive him. Forgiveness was what he needed most right now. She had tried to warn him, but he was too obsessed with escaping from a comfortable home and from a man who had shown him only kindness, patience, and yes, even love. He knew he had been wrong, stupid, and arrogant, but that didn’t make up for the situation in which they found themselves. “Zan,” he whispered in a voice made hoarse from shouting. “Leave me alone, Colin. Please, just leave me alone.” Colin lay silent for a while. He tried to sit up until he heard Ben say, “No. No. You must remain down.” Colin eased himself back to the floor and looked up at Ben. Through his tears he said, “W-why? What do you want with us? We never hurt you.” “You must keep quiet and do as I say. Your feeble attempt to escape was an unfortunate move. I must speak with Louis now. I trust you do not wish another punishment—yes?” Colin merely nodded. “Good boy. You learn hard but fast.” Ben stood and steadied himself before moving forward to the cockpit where Louis sat at the controls. “Any trouble back there?” Carew said. “No trouble. Have you programmed the coordinates I gave you?” “I did, but those coordinates aren’t for the Reykjavik airport. I thought….” “We are not going to land at Reykjavik. There is a small airstrip near the Murderküll glacier. Volcano watchers use it part of the season. We will land there.” “Why Iceland, and why a glacier? Wouldn’t it be easier to just fly to Algeria or Spain?” “My associates have established a colony of devoted followers. The glacier is so inhospitable that we can work in relative isolation.” “I still don’t understand what you want with the Phillips kid, or the girl, for that matter.” Ben said impatiently, “Louis, just fly the plane.” Not willing to give up the subject, Louis said, “Oh, I get it, you

want the girl for yourself, but if you want the girl, why the boy?” Ben shook his head wearily. “Louis, you understand nothing. The boy will be killed. I assume you have at least grasped that.” “What about the girl?” Louis had visions of enjoying her himself. “At first, I was unhappy about her presence. An unexpected wrinkle, if you will, but she has provided an unexpected bonus, as she is useful in keeping the boy cooperative until he is, how shall I say it— released? After that, we shall see about the girl.” “Well, you’d better tie them up, or you’ll have a fight on your hands when they figure all this out.” “I have the stun gun. They will not wish to experience that again. Binding them is not an option. We will be climbing onto the glacier, and we can’t make such a climb carrying two bodies. No, it is better they remain able to move on their own. When we reach the first plateau, we will be met by my superior.” “We? What we? You gotta mouse in your pocket or somethin’? I’m not climbing any glacier. No sirree!” “Your four million American dollars depend on you delivering the Phillips boy. As I recall you did not specify the location. If you had the presence of mind to place limits on the delivery point, you could argue this. However, as it is, you have no choice, unless you are ready to forfeit the money.” Louis sat chewing the inside of his cheek. It was a nervous habit he had developed whenever his father scolded him. Now he found himself scolded by a stranger! He needed the four million dollars promised for the Phillips kid. He needed it desperately. I’ll show that old man he’s not the only moneymaker in the family. I’m just as good as he is! “You win,” Louis said sullenly. An air pocket bounced the plane, and Ben nervously looked at his watch. Louis read the Arab’s mind and said, “We’ve got another hour and a half flying time.” Louis flipped a switch on the plane’s control panel, checked the

reserve fuel level, and then looked out the side window. He scowled at a thick bank of gray clouds off to the north. Subtle flashes of light burst within the dark mass. Nature at war with herself. “That’s gonna mean trouble,” he muttered. Getting no response, Louis turned to see Ben had returned to the main cabin.

BEN’S absence gave Colin the opportunity to once again try to talk to Alexandra. “Zan, are you okay?” he whispered. “Compared to what?” “I deserve that. I’m so sorry, but please don’t hate me. It’s killing me that you won’t talk to me… please!” “What do you want me to say? I screwed up by not calling anybody before I came looking for you. I screwed up by not telling my mom where I was going. Colin, nobody knows where we are! Added to that, I ache like one big menstrual cramp. I’m not much in the mood for chitchat.” “I bought you something at Hip’s.” Alexandra looked over at Colin. She knew he was trying to make up. Her heart said, Give him a break. After all, you love him. “What?” she said. “What, what?” Colin said, confused. “What did you get me?” “Oh, it’s that Nectar album by Black Azalea. You said you wanted it, so I got for you.” After a pause, Alexandra said, “What’s going to happen to us, Colin?” “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on. At first, I thought Lou was going to make me have sex or something, but now I don’t know. I don’t think this has anything to do with sex.” “Colin, I’m scared.”

“Me too, I….” “I told you two to be quiet!” Ben stood towering over the prostrate teens. “Must I punish you again?” “I was just telling Colin I have to use the bathroom,” Alexandra said, her earlier defiance tinged her voice. “Bathroom? Oh, you mean the toilet.” Ben regarded Alexandra for a moment and then silently caressed his stun gun for her to see. Alexandra looked at the weapon, then up at Ben. She nodded her understanding. One false move like before and I’ll zap you again. “Very well,” the Arab said. “You may go, but you must leave the door open.” Alexandra nodded again and stood on cramped, unstable legs. She staggered to a door near the tail section of the plane. Moments later she returned, red-faced, as she realized the man had heard her every movement. “Get on the floor,” Ben ordered. Once Alexandra was back in her original position, Ben said to Colin, “Now you.” Colin wobbled to the toilet with Ben right behind him. “You don’t have to watch me!” Colin said. “I think I will anyway.” Colin blushed. “Please don’t,” he begged. Ben looked into Colin’s eyes and considered his plea. He stepped out of view and said, “Do not close the door.”

Thirty-Nine

JAN drove a zigzag course through the crowded Philadelphia streets in the hopes of spotting Colin. Perhaps he had simply lost track of time. The traffic on Broad Street was unusually heavy. Night delivery vans, limousines, police patrol cars, pedestrians, and cyclists all competed for space on one of Philadelphia’s main arteries. Jan sat impatiently at the corner of Pine and Broad Streets, waiting for the light to change. He checked his watch. It was after ten o’clock. “He’s got to be back home by now,” he muttered without conviction. Back at his waterside home, Jan pulled into the building’s underground garage, turned off the car’s ignition, and sat for a moment in an anxious daze. He realized he had no recollection of driving the last few blocks. Guthrie walked over to his boss. “Sir, you look all in. Is everything all right?” “No, Guthrie, nothing seems to be right tonight. Have you seen Colin?” “No, sir. I haven’t. I was just wonderin’ where he could be. It’s gettin’ real late.” Jan ignored the old man’s last remark as he hurried across the wood brick floor and into the elevator. Moments later, he slammed his left hand against the blue screen that scanned his palm print and muttered, “Come on. Come on!”

A split second later, the electronic latch released its hold, and Jan plunged through the loft door calling Colin’s name. He searched the living room, the study, the kitchen, and then headed toward the spiral stairs calling once more, louder this time. Instead of his son, Amal appeared. “Amal, has Colin returned?” “No, Effendi, he has not. You have a call from….” Jan turned away, waving off his loyal friend with an impatient hand. “I don’t have time for that. I have to find Colin!” Amal grabbed Jan’s arm with a strong grip. Jan stopped and looked at the Egyptian’s hand on his arm. Then he looked into Amal’s serious eyes. “Effendi, you must read the message.” Jan accepted the square scrap of paper and read Amal’s neat handwriting. “Call Mr. Flamingo. Urgent.”

AS HE dialed Nick Flamingo’s office, Jan’s heart banged in his breast. Four rings, five rings, and no Flamingo. Jan swore, “Damn you, Nick! Where the hell are you?” Then Jan heard a click and a robotic voice, “Your call will be transferred. Please hold the line.” Jan had little choice than to wait as instructed. “Flamingo here.” “Nick, it’s Jan Phillips. What’s going on?” “Bad news. Your boy was here….” “Where’s here? I don’t know where you are,” Jan shot back, his patience having long since departed. “I’m at Louis Carew’s warehouse.” Jan began to sweat. Carew again! What the hell is Colin doing with that man!

“I’ve got that asshole’s business card,” Jan said. “I’m on my way.” “Don’t bother. The boy isn’t here now.” Jan collapsed into a chair and hung his head. He felt as if his chest would split. He took a long breath. “How do you know he was there? You could be wrong.” “Jan, I’m sorry. I’m not wrong. Louie’s got a porn operation going on here. There are cameras everywhere, and I found a camcorder….” “My God! Nick, Louis didn’t force Colin to make a porn video, did he?” “Jan, I didn’t say that. I checked the camcorder, and he’s not in any of the vids.” “Thank God,” Jan gasped. “Yeah, well, as I was saying, I was searching the place when I came across a stash of photographs—heavy stuff—kids. Some were badly beaten. Then I found a surveillance photo of your boy. At first, I thought it was you, until I looked at the back of the picture. It said Colin Phillips. Later, I found the video recorder.” Nick could hear Jan’s ragged breathing become erratic. “Jan, I need you to calm down. Do you hear me?” “Yeah, I hear you.” “Okay. Now, your boy wasn’t on the camera video, but I got an audio. Most of the sound is garbled, but some girl with a crazy name like Zanadu called out his name—Colin. That’s how I know he was here.” “Zan.” “What?” Nick said. “Her name is Zan. It’s short for Alexandra. Her mother is my office manager. Okay, so he was there, but how do you know he isn’t still there? I mean, he could be locked up or something.” “Sorry, Jan. I checked the place before I found the video cam. Neither one of ’em is here.”

Silence. A weary voice forced itself from Jan’s throat, “Nick, you’re the best in the business. What does your nose tell you about where they went?” “There were voices saying something about leaving and something about taking thirty minutes and there being a field, some kind of rendezvous. “Field? An airfield?” Jan suggested. “That’s what I’m thinkin’, but an airfield just thirty minutes away? That leaves Philly International out because it doesn’t take that long to get there from here.” Frustrated with the circular logic that twirled between the two men, Jan said, “What are we talking about here, Nick? We don’t even know if this field is an airport.” Nick sat back in Louis’s desk chair and gnawed on a fingernail. Then he sat bolt upright and said, “Jan. Hold on a minute. I have an idea.” “I don’t have time for ideas, Nick!” “Make time—don’t go away.” Nick set his cell phone aside and pulled the desk phone in front of him. Again, he began his one-way conversation. A guy like Louie likes convenience, right? Speed dialing is convenient, right? Single digits, right? Okay, let’s see what numero uno gets us. Nick lifted the receiver and pressed one. A man’s voice answered, “This is Victor Carew. Leave a message.” His old man, well that one’s no good. Let’s see what number two does for us. “Blue Mountain Airport. This is Pamela, how may I help you?” Nick had to think fast. You’d better make this good, ol’ buddy, he told himself. “Hello?” the woman said. “Are you there?” “Uhh, yeah. This is Victor Carew calling. I need to get an urgent message to my son, Louis.”

Nick chose his words carefully. “Has he arrived?” “Why yes. He arrived a while ago. In fact, he’s already airborne. Why do you ask?” The PI scratched his brain for an excuse. “Oh, I see,” Nick said. “Well, I have a business contract he forgot to sign before he left the office, and if it doesn’t have his John Hancock by tomorrow he stands to lose a great deal of money.” “I don’t know what to say, sir. I’d radio him, but I’m sure he’s beyond our range by now.” Nick tried one more gamble. “Oh, yes. I see. Well, I could try to meet him. Umm, I’m sure he filed a flight plan. I don’t know any other way to save this deal, but to try and catch up with him. Can you help me with that?” There was a long pause. “Miss, I’d really appreciate your help.” “Well… I suppose it would be all right. Let me check the log.” A minute later, the airport clerk was back on the line. “He had three other passengers with him. His destination is Reykjavik, Iceland.” “Iceland? Oh that’s right, he did mention he was taking a trip there. You say he had passengers. Fine son he is, not inviting the old man along,” Nick joked. Pamela giggled. “I don’t think his children were too thrilled to go.” “His children?” Nick said. “I think they were his son and daughter.” Click. “Hello? Hello? Sir, are you there? Hello!” Nick redialed Jan’s phone. “This is Jan.” “I thought I told you to hang on!” Nick said. Jan stood and walked the room in circles. “I did, the line went dead on your end.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Jan said, “Nick, Joachim Nussbaum just got here. Between the three of us, we should be able to turn Louis Carew’s world upside down. So did you find what you’re looking for?” “Yeah, I did, but it ain’t good.” Jan’s hand gripped the phone. He took a deep breath and prayed, Oh God, please let him be alive. “You were right about the rendezvous being an airfield. It’s Blue Mountain Airport. Louis keeps a plane there. I found out where he’s taking your son and the girl.” Jan stopped his pacing and stood stiff as a barge pole. “Tell me,” he said. The detective replied with one word, “Iceland.” Jan swayed on his heels. “Say again?” Nick repeated the name. Iceland. Jan stared at Joachim Nussbaum. The ex-Mossad spy had been listening to one side of the conversation. As if in a trance, Jan dropped the phone to the floor, where it spun around on its back. Joachim retrieved the phone and said, “Nick, this is Nussbaum. What’s going on?” The big man listened to Nick’s summary of events, then said, “Thanks. We’ll be in touch.” Jan looked at Joachim and then to Amal, who had just joined them. Then he whispered the name, “Al-Qâdi.” Amal and Joachim exchanged puzzled glances. “What does Iceland have to do with al-Qâdi?” Joachim asked. Jan leaned on Amal’s arm. Frantic, he gasped the name—“AlQâdi!” Stunned into disbelief, Jan’s mind stabbed at the reality. They had his son! What could he do? Where could he turn? He was one of the most powerful men in the world, and yet in this crisis, he felt as

impotent as a eunuch. The vision of Soo Kwon weeping, begging for his life, swirled in his brain. The room was quiet, yet something, a soundless message, boomed in his ears. The curse of the al-Qâdi leader dragged itself from the corners of Jan’s fearful memory. We know who you are. Your house will be pulled down, and you will weep for your lost sons. The threat Sebastian Faust so cavalierly dismissed was now a reality. At the time, it appeared to be hollow bravado, but that was before Colin. Now nothing else mattered, only Colin. “Jan, I don’t understand,” Joachim said. Jan whirled around and grabbed the Israeli by his jacket lapels, and shouted, “Al-Qâdi has taken Colin! Those savages have my son!”

Forty

“COME with me!” Jan said as he raced up the spiral stairs to the top floor of the building. There, at the end of the long hallway, a door of polished stainless steel stood closed against a secret room. Amal had often wondered about this cold metal panel. There were many doors in his master’s house. Some were wooden, some were made of paper, and others of cloth in the Japanese style, but they all had one thing in common, he could open them. This door alone, with its seamless face, was locked. Jan turned and saw that the Egyptian had followed. Could he let this man, who up until now he had trusted with his life, enter? Time was too precious to debate the matter now. “Joachim, Amal, what you see in this room is never to be spoken of outside this door. Do you understand?” Both men nodded gravely. “Say it. Say you understand and agree.” “I agree,” Amal said with tear-rimmed eyes. “I also agree,” Joachim said. Jan nodded and inserted a small key into an equally small slot in the door. A panel opened, and Jan placed his palm on a black screen. The black screen faded into a light green color. Jan removed his hand, and the door slid silently open. Joachim and Amal followed Jan into a large rectangular room that was swathed in dim black light. Three of the room’s four walls were paneled with computers the color of crude oil. Dozens of tiny parti-

colored lights blinked randomly as the giant mainframes captured and processed data and then regurgitated it in human friendly terms. All was absorbed, analyzed, and posted to sister stations around the world. Only six others like it existed. Joachim looked around the windowless room. Impressed, he said, “Well, well, who would have thought all this was up here?” “Effendi,” Amal said nervously, “what… what is this place?” “Amal, this room is where I access the Mundus command center for North America,” Jan said. Jan turned to the two men. “I need you both to understand what I’m going to do. For that, you’ll have to see how I’m going to do it. I don’t have time to explain everything in detail, so pay attention.” Amal looked on wide-eyed. Joachim Nussbaum merely watched. Jan pulled a chair back from a workstation and typed in a password. Seconds later a flat-screen monitor sprang to life. More keystrokes and the coordinates for Reykjavik, Iceland, appeared. I’d better be right, or my son is lost. Jan picked up a slim-phone headset. His fingers pecked at the keypad like a hungry crow. He turned on the external speakers and waited for a wide-screen monitor to come to life. Phoebe Threefoot’s face suddenly appeared. Daughter of a Lakota medicine woman, Phoebe was lecturing on terrorism and its impact on minorities when Jan met her at the University of Toronto. Jan was taken with her insights and passion on the subject, so he offered her the opportunity to become part of Mundus. Although Phoebe gave Jan a weekly digest of Mundus operations worldwide, they rarely met face to face. “Phoebe, this is Jan Phillips. The snow leopards are awake.” “But they will sleep tonight,” she replied. “There’s always tomorrow,” he answered.

After a short pause, Jan’s Mundus station chief said, “How may I help you, sir?” “Phoebe, get me data on all noncommercial aircraft leaving Philadelphia area airspace after nine o’clock this evening. Concentrate on any plane making for 64° 8’ N 21° 56’ W. Please.” Jan could hear Phoebe typing at her keyboard. Miles away, in a secure bunker buried beneath a peak known for its ski slopes and exclusive resorts, Phoebe read the encrypted line, and then she looked up and scanned a huge monitor devoted to tracking global events. Land and sea masses glowed and then dimmed as passing satellites crisscrossed high above them. Banks of computers recorded every occurrence, from an undersea earthquake to the thundering ordnance of human conflict. Even the birth of an heir to some forgotten throne was noted. Phoebe said, “Well, sir, you’ve got one hit, a Beechcraft Hawker 800XP. She’s cruising at 35,000 ft. Satellite tracking has her making five hundred miles per hour. That’s her top speed. Hmm, she must be in a hurry to burn fuel like that.” Phoebe finished reading the coded text. “Assuming she doesn’t change course, she’s headed for… Iceland!” The station chief arched her eyebrows. Iceland was highlighted as a red-code watch. “Anything else?” Jan probed. “Yes, her location and speed indicate she’s been aloft for just over four hours. I give her ETA at about another hour and a half, give or take.” Phoebe hastily added, “That’s assuming no headwinds. She’s also ignoring the northern arc. The pilot is either very experienced, or he’s a cowboy.” Deep in harried thoughts, Jan ignored Phoebe’s last remark. He checked his watch and frowned. Amal wondered what would be expected of him? Would he be able to meet whatever task Effendi assigned? He had always been aware of his master’s secret Mundus world, yet until now, it had not touched him. At this moment, Egypt, with all its present day dangers, seemed safe as a baby’s crib.

For his part, Joachim Nussbaum became concerned that Jan intended to use Mundus resources for a personal project, a violation of the spirit, if not the charter of the organization. “Sir,” Phoebe prompted, “is there anything else I can do for you?” “I have to meet that plane in Reykjavik. What aircraft do we have flight ready?” Jan said. Phoebe typed another line, thinking, Something’s got the boss upset! “Umm, well, we have a Beechcraft Hawker 800XP, same as the one in the air now. We have a LearJet-60 that can make Reykjavik in just under six hours, again assuming no headwinds. Let me check the wind current forecast for the next forty-eight hours.” Phoebe moved to another computer and brought up a weather icon. “Sir, the latest from CNN is—” “CNN! Can’t we do better than that?” Jan complained. Phoebe breathed an indulgent sigh, keeping her focus on the weather monitor. “Actually, sir, they’re pretty accurate,” she said. “Hmm, that airborne Hawker is in luck. She’s got strong tailwinds. If her pilot is any good, he can make Reykjavik in less than six hours, or five— maybe less, if he’s lucky.” Jan’s station chief felt entitled to know what was happening. Finally, she asked, “Excuse me, sir, what’s this all about? This isn’t a drill, is it?” “No.” “Sir, I’ll need an authorization code to complete the request for the flight.” Once again, Jan ignored her. Once again, he checked his watch. Joachim’s eyes shifted from the monitor to Jan. Why the hell isn’t he answering her? “What else?” Jan said anxiously. “Sir?” “My God, woman, what have we been talking about!”

Joachim reached out and took Jan’s upper arm in a firm grip. “Steady, Jan—steady.” Jan acknowledged the big man’s caution with a stiff nod. Softening his tone he said, “Aircraft, Phoebe, aircraft—what else do we have on hand?” Phoebe brushed aside her hurt feelings. With just a few keystrokes, she brought up a screen listing the station’s current assets and their status. “The MSST-3 Delta wing is in the Philly hanger. It’s just finished air trials. It’s the one that can fly vertically like the British Harrier. Theirs isn’t supersonic,” she added smugly. “But, sir, that plane isn’t fully vetted yet. I….” Jan nodded. “Okay, have it ready in an hour. I’m on my way now.” “An hour!” Phoebe protested, “But… but, sir!” Jan was already on his feet and headed for the door with Amal and Joachim following. He wheeled around and yelled to the still open line, “Tell whoever’s on duty tonight he has one hour to be flight ready!” “Yes, sir. Good Luck.” Phoebe broke the connection and thought, Well, this is what I trained for. I wonder what it’s all about?

OUTSIDE the steel door, Jan reset the lock by entering the alphanumeric code Dragon4. It was Michael’s Chinese birth date. As he did so, Jan realized that in his haste he hadn’t seen Michael anywhere. “Amal,” he said, “where’s Michael?” “He is in Chinatown visiting his sister and her husband.” Jan leaned his back against the wall. He needed a plan. The SST delta wing was one of Mundus’s biggest assets. He’d have some tall explaining to do when this was all over, but that would have to wait. Then his mind turned to personnel. Who should be involved? Marsha?

Yes, he owed her and Tim that much at least. Joachim? Jan knew he needed muscle combined with brains. The ex-Mossad agent fit the bill perfectly. Michael? Absolutely. Whatever the outcome, he would need Michael’s loving arms to comfort him. Amal? Yes, he needed someone he could rely on to take care of the lesser details. “Okay then, Amal, here is what you must do. Get Michael’s passport from his desk, and be sure to bring yours too. Pack bags with warm clothes. Have Guthrie drive you to Chinatown. Call ahead and tell Michael what has happened and that you will be coming to get him. After you get Michael, go to Rittenhouse Square and pick up Alexandra’s mother. I’m sure she will want to be with her daughter when we find her. I’ll call her and have her ready to meet you. From there, Guthrie will take you to hanger T-9. A jet will be waiting. I’ll phone ahead and have the plane ready. I want Michael and Alexandra’s mother to follow me to Iceland. You come too. Joachim will be coming with me. Do you understand?” “Yes, Effendi, I understand,” Amal said solemnly. “Good luck to us all, then,” Jan said as he and Joachim Nussbaum descended the spiral stairs. “I need to go to my apartment and get some warm clothes,” Joachim said. Jan glanced at his watch, mentally calculating the speed of the stealth plane. “I’ll pick you up in half an hour.” Joachim nodded. “I’ll be ready.” Jan hurried into the bedroom where he snatched a parka from the closet. He sat on the edge of the bed and changed from street shoes to thick-soled hiking boots. He paused and looked at the phone. You should call Victor Carew, his angel said. Screw that son of a bitch! He’s made his son what he is. You wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for that asshole, Jan’s devil chided. Jan drew his corporate phone book from the nightstand drawer and quickly found Victor Carew’s private phone number. The conversation was brief and one sided. Jan explained the situation in detail, devoid of the hatred he felt toward Victor’s son,

much in the form a lawyer would use in a brief. His better self resisted the urge to pile invectives on the man’s suddenly wounded spirit. “If I can bring Louis back alive, Victor, I will, but I make no promises except one—if he harms my son, I’ll kill him!” Jan said. “Phillips, wait! Please don’t hang up. Take me with you.” “Are you crazy!” “Please, I’m begging you as one father to another. Let me come with you. Please.” “Victor, your son has kidnapped my boy. He’s involved in the Bocalora affair. Jesu! Carew, how can you defend him?” Jan couldn’t see the tears, but he could hear the overwhelming sorrow in Victor’s voice. “Do you think Judas’s father loved his son less than Joseph did Jesus?” Son of a bitch! He always did know how to hit below the belt. Jan’s heart softened, but not his tone. “Victor, do you know where Jerusalem Plaza is?” “Yes, it’s a restricted area down by the river. I guess it has something to do with the government.” “It is restricted but it’s not a Fed site. Go there. Stay in your car. I repeat, stay in your car. I’ll come to you when I arrive. I repeat, I’ll come to you. Do not approach me. You’ve got thirty minutes. I won’t wait. Victor, don’t forget your passport. Do you understand these instructions?” “Yes, Thank yo—” Victor spoke his gratitude into a dead line. Jan calmed his anger long enough to phone his law firm’s airport hangar and arrange for the corporate jet to be made ready for a flight to Reykjavik. Just as he hung up, his phone rang. Marsha’s frantic scream assaulted Jan’s ear. “Jan! It’s Marsha. Is Alexandra there? She wasn’t home when I got in. Nobody’s seen her. I thought about calling the police, but then I thought she might be there and….”

“Marsha, I was just going to call you. Colin and Alexandra have been kidnapped by Louis Carew.” “Oh my God! Oh my God!” “Calm down and listen. I know where he’s taken them. I’m sending my limo to get you. Pack some warm clothes and your passport.” “My passport? Why?” “You’re going to Iceland. Be ready when the car arrives.” “Jan, you’ve got to save my baby,” Marsha said breathlessly. “Yeah.” Next, Jan went to a small table, drew open a tiny drawer, and grabbed his passport. As he did so, he noticed the barrel of a pistol protruding from underneath a sheaf of blank paper. Jan pulled the gun out and passed his hand over the weapon’s slick metal. Frowning, he returned the gun to its home in the drawer and left the room.

Forty-One

COLIN felt the Beechcraft tip sharply to the left, level out, and begin a bumpy descent. He glanced at Ben. The Arab was reading a book and mumbling to himself. Colin then looked over at Alexandra. “Zan, Zan,” he whispered. Alexandra’s eyes fluttered open. “What?” she whispered. “I think we’re gonna land soon. The plane feels like it’s dropping down.” “Yeah, I thought I felt something too… where do you think we are?” Colin’s voice trembled. “I don’t know.” “Can’t we try to get away?” “Do you want to get zapped again?” he said. Alexandra pushed her forehead deep against the plane’s rough carpet. “Colin, I think they’re going to kill us.” “If they were going to kill us why would they take us flying?” Colin’s clumsy humor only served to make Alexandra cry. “Zan, please don’t cry. I’ll think of something.” “Like what?” “Well, we have to land someplace, there will be people around, so

we can just make a lot of noise, and they will come, and we can explain what happened, and that will be that.” Alexandra brightened. She turned toward Colin with a faint smile. “Hey, that just might work.” Colin said, “Shh, he’s coming back.” “We will be landing soon,” Ben said. “You will take a seat and strap yourself in. You will remain silent.” Ben motioned with his stun gun. “You, boy, you first.” Colin stood and slid into the plush leather seat and buckled the safety belt. Alexandra followed. She began to cry again. Colin’s heart was breaking for her. He glared at their tormentor. “Why are you doing this to us!” he demanded. Ben’s answer was a backhand across the teen’s cheek. “I do not answer to you!” he said. A soft warning bell sounded throughout the plane, and the Arab took a seat facing the young lovers and strapped himself in. Louis guided the Beechcraft to a bumpy landing on a small airstrip near the foot of the Murderküll glacier. Colin and Alexandra looked out of the side windows, eager to see crowds of people at the airport, strangers who’d help them, who’d rescue them. Colin’s heart raced, first with expectation, then with panicked disappointment. He looked at Alexandra and shook his head. No airport. No crowds. No police. No rescue waited for them. From his window, Colin saw a broad meadow of green turf and patches of loose shale-like rock that stretched far away to a ridge of hills. Looking across the aisle through the opposite window, he saw a wall of whitish-gray ice soaring high into the cloudy sky. Louis cut the engines and set the brake. He quickly exited the plane to set the wheel chocks. He looked around at the barren landscape and spied a Jeep parked across a patch of ice and rock. He had seen the all-wheel drive vehicle as he brought the plane down for landing. There was no welcoming committee, but he assumed the Jeep was left for them. Louis breathed in the clean Icelandic air. He coughed and instantly regretted he had quit smoking. Back in the plane, Ben kept watch on the teens. He spoke no

words but sat transfixed. The final act would come soon. His mission as a loyal member of al-Qâdi was nearly completed. Louis climbed back into the plane and said, “There’s a Jeep parked about a hundred yards off the tarmac.” Ben smiled. “My superior has seen to everything. We will take the Jeep to the glacier. There is a pass leading through the crevasse to the first plateau. It is a difficult climb but not a long one. My superior will meet us there. At that time your task will be completed, and you will return to your plane and leave.” Louis added, “Yeah, well, it’s kinda cold. I have some warm jackets stowed in the overhead compartment. The kid can wear one, and I think I have one that will fit you.” “I have no need for warmth,” Ben snarled ungratefully. As Louis pulled the coats from the bin, he also grabbed the plane’s emergency flare gun. Furtively slipping it into his jacket, he thought, This might come in handy. Louis looked almost apologetically at Colin as he handed him a down-filled jacket. To Alexandra he said, “Good thing you wore a coat. How’d you know you were going camping?” “What kind of a man are you?” she spat. “Just a guy tryin’ to make a living,” he joked. Ben said, “Enough talk.”

Forty-Two

“ARE you sure it is wise to involve Mundus in what is essentially a family problem? Personally, I do not think it is right for you to do this,” Joachim Nussbaum said. Jan’s mute and immediate reply was to push the Ferrari’s supercharged engine harder as he forced a path through the late-night truck traffic that routinely shuttled between Philadelphia and the city’s airport. He was headed for a private hanger on the fringe of the airport complex where the delta winged supersonic aircraft, resembling a needle rather than a plane, waited, engines idling. Jan wheeled the sleek sports car past warehouses stuffed with contraband confiscated by the US customs service, driving at breakneck speed toward the Mundus complex. As they approached the main gate, Jan stabbed the brake pedal causing the car to swirl around on the loose gravel that had collected on the parking pad. He looked around. Victor Carew sat in his limousine about fifty yards from the hanger’s security fence. He turned to Joachim and said, “This is my son we’re talking about. For him, I would reach into the sky and with my bare hands pull the sun out of heaven—do you understand! If not, then stay behind. I’ll go alone.” “So, it is your will that dictates here.” Jan’s eyes bulged at Nussbaum’s audacious remark. “How dare you! You of all people dare to quote Hitler to me! I would have thought better of you,” Jan said bitterly.

“I am only saying what others will say when they hear of this.” “I am a man, not a machine, Joachim, and I’m certainly not a hero. If the other five Mundus Masters have a problem with me, then I can step down.” “That will not happen, and you know it.” “I know nothing of the kind,” Jan snapped. Joachim made no reply. Jan pushed the accelerator again, inching the car forward until it was parallel with a security pad identical to the one in his command center. He turned and eyed Joachim. “Well, old friend, Reykjavik?” “What do you think?” Jan smiled. “I won’t forget this.” Joachim looked past Jan and jerked his chin toward the driverside window. “We have company.” Jan turned to see a man dressed in dark overalls approach the car. Jan caught Joachim’s forearm as the ex-spy’s hand went for the gun holstered at his side. “Easy, it’s just security. We have to show ID,” Jan said as he lowered the Ferrari’s driver-side window. Jan flashed his Mundus ID. Joachim fished out his Interpol identification card and handed it over to the man, who up until now had not spoken a word as he stood beside the car. The man swept a red laser light over each ID card’s barcode with a handheld scanner. Satisfied, he smiled as he returned the identification cards. Confident they wouldn’t be shot, Jan and Joachim exited the Ferrari. “Victor Carew’s here too. He’s coming with us.” “What? Why?” “Because I say so,” Jan said as he walked off. The security officer nudged Joachim. “Say, is that guy really in charge of this place?”

“Yes, why do you ask?” “He looks like a kid, you know… like he should be shooting hoops or riding a skateboard.” Joachim took a long look at the man who ruled from the shadows one sixth of the world. Jan was by most standards short, just five feet seven inches. His smooth face showed none of the ravages of worry, while his slim body remained more like a boy’s rather than a middleaged man, and yet he was, unmistakably, the man with the power. He thought of a saying he learned as a boy, Whom the gods would destroy they first make powerful. As Jan and Victor joined Joachim and the security officer, a man in a black jumpsuit approached them. “Mr. Phillips, we’ve been expecting you. My name’s Amos Mink. I’ll be your pilot tonight. Do you have coordinates for me?” Amos read the small card Jan handed him. 64° 8’ N 21° 56’ W. “Hmm… looks like Iceland,” he said. “That’s right, and before we land I need to know if a Beechcraft Hawker 800XP landed at Reykjavik.” “What if the plane’s not there?” Amos said. Jan looked up into the black sky and said, “It’s got to be there.” Amos was on a need-to-know basis with Mundus operations. Still, he wondered why he was making a one o’clock in the morning flight to Iceland, of all places. Jan reached into the Ferrari and pulled his artic parka from the rear of the car while Joachim slung a small rucksack over his shoulder. “Ready?” Joachim said. Jan nodded to Amos, who led the three men to the rear of the hanger where the delta winged MSST-3 squatted like a giant dragonfly. The black plane’s silhouette was all but lost against the night sky. “Jesus!” Victor said, standing wide-eyed. Until this moment, Victor had known Jan as a powerful, if pesky, lawyer, but this was something out of a fantasy novel.

“I’ll bet you’ve never seen anything like this,” Jan said. Victor shook his head in awe. “Never.” Once inside the craft each man donned an inter-cabin headset. Amos slung himself into the pilot’s seat while Jan took over the copilot’s spot. Ignoring Victor, Joachim reclined his seatback as far as it would go and stretched out. He wrapped a loose buckle around his waist and immediately fell into a snooze. His motto… You never know when you won’t be able to sleep, so grab it when you can. Victor sat uneasily in a wide leather seat, glanced around the spacious main cabin, and fastened his seat belt. The interior’s soft lighting and cool air failed to soothe his frayed nerves. He rested his head on the seat’s high back and closed his weary eyes. Where did I go wrong? Oh God, I didn’t see this coming, not this! Louis wanted space, so I gave him space. No, that’s not true. I wanted the space. I didn’t want to see what he’d become, and so I ignored him. If only…. If only. Then Saint Augustine’s words came back to him, Too late, have I loved Thee. After performing what seemed to Jan an endless round of systems checks, the black wedge rolled onto the tarmac where Amos brought the engines to an earsplitting roar. Jan went over the copilot’s checks a second time. A long black squeegee swept over the plane’s cockpit window as the damp became mist, then rain. Minutes later, the jet, cleared for takeoff, dashed along the runway and skyward, north to Iceland and Jan’s personal battle with alQâdi. Outside, silver lightning flashed brilliant warnings.

Forty-Three

AFTER a little more than an hour’s flying time, Amos Mink banked the jet, dipping the wing slightly. Tapping Jan on the shoulder, he pointed to a small green radar screen set at the center of the plane’s instrument console. A thin light traced a dim arc from right to left, making a single blip before disappearing. “That’s our bird,” Amos said. “How can you be sure?” Jan asked. “There’s an automatic tracking signal coming from those coordinates. It matches the kind used by Beechcraft’s manufacturer. We’ll be able to make a visual in a few minutes, then we’ll know for sure.” The pilot slipped the plane below the clouds so that Jan could get a look at their updated destination, the Murderküll glacier. What appeared to be an unbroken block of ice and snow extended for as far as they could see. The origins of the glacier dissolved in a swirl of snow and frozen mist well beyond the gleaming horizon. Joachim moved up and squatted between the two men. Awed by the sight, he whispered, “You know, I’ve been all over the world, but I’ve never seen anything like this.” Jan thought of a line from scripture. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting unto everlasting, Thou, art God. “Yeah.” Jan breathed deeply. “All you have to do is look at this and you believe.” Jan looked at the radar. Once again, the pale arc swept over the

dull screen. Once again, the blip flashed, this time larger and brighter. Jan knew from Mink’s suppressed grin that the pilot had been right. Ignoring his smirk, Jan said, “Amos, get me a secure frequency. I need to contact Reykjavik HQ.” Amos nodded, flipped a switch, and gave Jan a thumbs-up. “You’re good to go.” Jan waited for his Mundus counterpart to answer with the code for the day. “Dagmar, this is Jan Phillips.” “Jan,” she said anxiously, “what is going on? Have you lost your mind? You cannot go joyriding in a billion dollar plane! Our GPS saw your new SST delta wing entering Icelandic airspace. Coming here unannounced is a breach of protocol—you know that! And, I’ve got the Interior Minister wanting to send up a fighter jet to shoot you down! What am I supposed to tell him?” Jan’s first impulse was to scream into the headset. Jan’s devil prodded, Tell that bitch where to head in! His angel whispered, Be calm. Remember why you’re here. There’s more at stake than your pride! “Dagmar, this is anything but a joyride, and you can tell your Minister anything you want. I don’t have much time, so I’ll be brief. Al-Qâdi has my son, Colin. In a few minutes I’ll be landing at the base of the Murderküll glacier.” “What? How do you know?” “All my intelligence information says al-Qâdi has taken him. They’ve brought him to Iceland in a Beechcraft. That plane is sitting at the foot of the glacier.” Jan shoved sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “God only knows what they’ll do to him. They also have a fifteen-year-old girl. Her name is Alexandra Betterman. She’s a US citizen too, so you know their lives depend on my getting to them soon. I’m landing with Joachim Nussbaum. We will begin immediately tracking them on the glacier.” Whatever the Mundus Master felt as a woman and mother, she set

aside for the time being. “Jan, you may be in a little luck.” “What do you mean?” “Then you have not heard?” “Heard what, Dagmar? I’ve been busy chasing the bastards who have my son for the last eight hours. I haven’t heard anything.” “Well, just about the time your son was taken, my team raided an al-Qâdi camp on the Murderküll glacier. The police were brought in, and they arrested six men. We caught them in the act of making a crude nuclear bomb. When your kidnappers get to the glacier they won’t have any support.” Jan considered these facts. Grateful that he wasn’t going up against a band of thugs, nevertheless, he was frightened for his son’s life. “Jan,” she said, “let me send a team to the glacier. We know the beast. You could get lost up there!” “Dagmar, we’re about to land. I can’t wait.” “At least let me have my people meet you at the glacier,” she pleaded. “I can send a helicopter.” “You can send one, but I won’t wait for them.” “Agreed, but I should warn you that there’s a storm brewing on the glacier. It may move off, or it may come straight at you.” Jan brushed the warning aside. No snowstorm was going to stop him from finding his son. “Dagmar, I’m going to need lodging for three people who’re following me in another plane. They’ll arrive at Reykjavik in a few hours. The plane’s a Lear Jet, not a commercial flight. As for your helicopter, please have it stand by at the glacier. We may have injured. Say a prayer we won’t need it.” There was a long pause as Dagmar considered pulling rank. Iceland was her chapter. Here, her decisions were final. She knew Jan’s taking the plane and flying into another master’s domain would raise serious issues when the details came out in the next meeting of the

Mundus Masters, but now was not the time to discuss it. “All right, Jan,” she said. “I understand. I’ll be standing by if you need me.” Jan broke the connection without further comment. He was staring blindly out the cockpit window when his eyes focused on a black all-terrain vehicle parked near the base of the glacier. He nudged Joachim and said, “What do you make of that?” “Looks like a Jeep. There’s no snow on it. That would suggest it was recently used.” “Do you think Louis used it, or do you think someone else is around?” “I guess we are going to find out.” Minutes later, Mink guided the MSST-3 over the small airstrip and let the plane settle into an agonizingly slow descent until it touched solid ground. Jan turned to Amos and said, “As soon as we’re clear, you can leave. Thanks, Amos. I….” Jan’s reference to his son and the nature of the situation was the first inkling the pilot had as to what was going on. He looked Jan in the eye and said, “It’s okay, Mr. Phillips, no need to say more.” Once on the ground and safely away from the big plane, Jan waved an all clear. “That’s Louis’s plane!” Victor said, pointing to the Beechcraft parked at the edge of the tarmac. “That means they’re here, right?” “It means they landed here, that’s all,” Jan said. “Come on, we need to check out that Jeep.” The men pulled their parka hoods over their heads, checked their climbing gear, and then struck out for the point where the glacier spilled onto solid ground. The wind picked up. An earlier snowfall had welded itself onto the frozen ground. Alternating between jogging, trotting, and walking across the broken ground, they were already breathing hard in the thin air as they approached the Jeep, parked near what looked like a ragged split in the glacier’s frozen face.

Joachim pulled his gun and slipped up to the car’s window. He peeked inside. Empty. “The car’s clear,” he said. Jan scanned the barren ground and then looked at the massive wall of ice. “Where could they be, Joachim? They didn’t grow wings and fly away!” “Maybe there’s a cave near here,” Victor said hopefully. “They could be really close, right?” Jan squatted near a boulder, his eyes fixed on a piece of broken shale. “I don’t know,” he said wearily. Victor wiped his face with the back of a frozen glove, slid down against the Jeep’s rear fender, and said, “I’ve gotta sit for a minute.” Suddenly, Joachim said, “Jan. Look at this!” Jan watched as Joachim reached under the Jeep. He retrieved a square plastic case. A garish design identified the CD as Nectar by Black Azalea. Joachim opened the CD’s cover, glanced at the silvery disk, and then handed it to Jan. “Smart boy you’ve got there,” Joachim said. Jan looked first at the case and then read a note scratched across the CD. “First Plateau.” Alive! He was alive when he wrote this! Jan’s brain whirred into action. He pulled out a palm-sized handheld computer, typed in a few coordinates, and a map showing the Murderküll glacier and its plateau levels appeared. His eyes panned the glacier’s icy façade. “Damn!” Jan said. “What?” Jan looked at Joachim, pointed to the slit in the ice, and said, “It’s not a long climb, but it’s straight up and through that!” Joachim eyed the vertical rip in the glacier’s otherwise unbroken face. The raging storm swirling high up on the glacier’s rim stood in

surreal contrast to the eerie silence that surrounded the glacier’s base. “Victor,” Jan said, “you stay here with the Jeep.” “No! I want to go with you.” “That’s not an option, Victor. You’re not trained to do this kind of thing.” “But… Louis. I….” “What I said before still goes. You’d better pray he hasn’t hurt my son.” Jan turned to Joachim. “Okay, I guess this is it. Ready?” Joachim nodded to Jan and then led the way toward the glacier’s frozen heart.

Forty-Four

“FINALLY!” Louis gasped as he pulled Colin up and out of the crevasse, which had narrowed into an upward slope. The climb from the valley to the first plateau was an indictment against excess. Strewn with boulders and large blocks of jagged ice, the area of no more than a few hundred square feet was little more than a flat shelf. A narrow pass opposite the crevasse Louis had just left was the only way inland. Eyeing the plain made up of sheets of thin shale, ice, and frozen snow, he vowed if he got back alive, he would join a gym, swear off red meat, and perhaps even beer. He looked around the empty ledge. Ben’s promised allies, and more importantly his money, were conspicuously absent. Shit! So where the hell are they? Colin collapsed on his side and pulled the jacket Louis had given him tighter around his chest. He looked anxiously back for Zan. Louis grabbed him by the hair and pulled the boy to his feet. “Get up, get up! We’ve no time for that,” he growled, just as Ben prodded Alexandra over the rocky rim. With barely enough strength to make it across the ice and rock and onto the warmer surface of the plateau, Alexandra rolled onto her side and gulped frigid air into her oxygen-starved lungs. Stunned and exhausted, she could only mouth a silent plea for help. Colin broke away from Louis’s grip and bent down, smoothing the tangled hair from her face. “Where the hell’s that damn Arab!” Louis grumbled.

As if in answer to his incautious remark, Ben heaved himself up onto the flat surface of the plateau. He darted a scornful sidelong glance at Louis, then called out in Arabic. Nothing. He called again. Only the wind answered. He stood still, ears cocked, hoping to catch a voice. “We have to go on. Something seems to have delayed my colleagues.” In a rare display of machismo, Louis stepped in front of Ben. “What about my money. You said I’d get paid when I delivered the boy. Well, you’ve got yours, now where’s mine?” Ben ignored the challenge and looked past Louis. He regarded Alexandra, exhausted and lying in a weeping heap. Weak Americans. They are all alike. He said to Louis, “We will leave her. She is done for.” Colin screamed. “No! She’ll die!” “That’s the idea, stupid!” Louis sneered. “I’m not leaving her!” Colin screamed. He struggled to his feet and swung a feeble fist at Louis. Alexandra watched in horror as the older man, taller and stronger, cuffed Colin with a backhand, sending him sprawling across the sharp gray shale. The skin on Colin’s palms tore open as he scrabbled across the loose, ice-covered stone. Blood quickly formed cold clots as the sharp rock bit deep into his bare flesh. His right cheek began to swell from the blow. Alexandra crawled to her lover and reached out a trembling hand just as Louis wheeled around and swung his ice axe at Colin. Missing his intended mark, he caught Alexandra on her left shoulder, ripping through her parka and slicing her flesh. “Ahh!” she cried, as she rolled around on the ground. “Mama! Mama!” Colin forced himself up on aching legs. “Leave her alone, you filthy bastard!” he said, his words barely audible against the mounting wind. Wild with bloodlust and frustrated fury, Louis again turned on Colin. Swinging the axe in a haphazard arc he bellowed, “You little brat, I’ll kill you myself!”

Forty-Five

JAN and Joachim inched their way along a ledge formed from the blue ice that made up the glacier’s main crevasse. A coil of nylon rope wound around their waists connected the two men. Caught in the icy cleft’s twin embrace, they stopped to catch their breath. The walls of the crevasse looked like watery crystal shimmering in pale northern sunlight. The strong wind gusting through the frozen fissure had blown away most of the snow that had fallen the previous day. Footsteps in the now shallow snow were the only signs that they were on the right track. Jan recognized the imprint of the Deerstalker boots that he had made especially for Colin. “Listen,” Joachim said. Jan strained his ears, but no sound seeped below the rim of the mighty glacier. “I don’t hear anything,” he said. “Shhh, I thought I heard voices.” Jan listened again, harder this time. Yes, he could hear them too. Two, perhaps three people, somewhere ahead. He nodded. Just ahead. Joachim fingered the Glock 9mm pistol in the breast pocket of his Arctic parka. Passing over it, he drew out the seven-inch assassin’s knife he had bought at a weapons show in Chicago the previous year. Perfectly balanced for throwing, the knife fitted the situation he and Jan found themselves in, and it was mercifully silent.

Jan stopped and tapped Joachim on the shoulder, pointing to messy depressions made by Colin and whoever was ahead. The footprints shifted onto the ledge on the other side of the narrow slit that fell away into darkness. Jan whispered, “Let out some rope. I’ll cross over. You stay a little behind.” Joachim nodded. He wished Hansford Ward or Sonya Jelski was here. Two against an unknown number was not a good thing. Both agents were trained and, when necessary, very ruthless, but Han retired from killing people and was living the good life in Paris, while Sonya was nursing her latest newborn. Jan washed the worried look from his face and smiled at the big Israeli. He nodded, took a deep breath of cold, searing air into his lungs, and stepped across the chasm. Once on the slippery shelf, Jan held onto the frozen wall like a babe at its mother’s breast. Half out of his mind with rage and fear for his son, he prayed from the psalm of David, Oh Lord, Thou hast seen my wrong. Judge now my cause. “You okay?” Joachim whispered. Jan merely nodded, afraid to speak for fear of losing his concentration, all of which centered on not falling backward into the void. Slowly, he turned, moving along in tandem with Joachim as they followed the ridge toward the voices.

Forty-Six

PHYSICALLY and emotionally exhausted, Colin could only wait for Louis’s axe to fall on him. “Stop!” Ben stepped in between Colin and Louis. “The son of the infidel belongs to me!” “Wrong! He belongs to me!” Everyone turned to see who had spoken. Jan stood at the rim of the crevasse with no visible weapon, arms at his side. Joachim stood off to one side. Jan had been firm in his instructions. You handle the Arab, Louis Carew is mine. Understand? Out of the corner of his eye, Jan saw Colin kneeling with Alexandra in his arms. Alive! “Thank you God,” he whispered. “Colin, look! It’s your dad. He’s come for us!” Alexandra wept as she fell back into Colin’s arms. Colin stared as if his father was a mirage. He came… he came! Louis raised the ice axe, advancing on Jan. Laughing, he said, “Phillips, you son of a bitch! Who the hell do you think you are, some cartoon superhero? You’re not going to ruin my life again!” Jan leapt forward, hitting the ground and rolling underneath the swinging axe. The swift move caught Louis at the knees with a cracking sound, causing him to fall back onto the hard ice pack. Stunned, he lay immobile, his lungs aching for air.

Jan was not much better off. His shoulder, now badly bruised, ached from the impact. Getting up, Jan staggered to where Louis lay, heaved him to his feet, only to knock him down again with a savage blow. Ben watched, fascinated, as the two men fought. I wonder which one of these fools I will end up killing. Jan dragged Louis once again to his feet and swung him around in a circle before letting him go. Exhausted, both men sagged to the ground. Jan fell back onto the rock-strewn ground. Rubbing his shoulder, he looked over at his son. During the fight, the flare gun Louis brought from the Beechcraft slipped out of the side pocket of his jacket. The snub-nosed pistol had skittered along the ground, stopping just inches from where Colin cradled Alexandra in his arms. Colin looked at the gun, so tantalizingly close. Alexandra looked at the gun too, and then at Colin. “Yes,” she whispered. This is all my fault, Colin thought. I have to do something! Colin licked his chapped lips and glanced at the gun. He looked at Ben, expecting the Arab to grab for it. Instead, Ben stood, looking past him with a puzzled look on his face. Colin craned his neck around and saw a big man walking out of the heavily swirling mist toward them. The air was getting colder, and the man’s breath puffed out like a steam locomotive. Is this the mysterious associate Ben talked about? Jan also saw the man stepping out of the fog that had begun to move across the plateau. He scrambled to his feet and pulled Louis, bruised and defeated, up on unsteady legs. “Damn it, Victor! I told you to stay behind!” Jan yelled. Victor yelled back, “Never mind that now. I’ve come for my son.” Ben now realized the struggle was no longer two against two. The arrival of Louis’s father threatened not only his life, but also his sworn mission to Allah. He brought out his stun gun. A tiny blue light blinked, “Battery Depleted.” He swore in Arabic, reached around to his

back, and drew a Bowie knife from a leather sheath fastened to his belt, the very knife he used to snuff out the lives of Allah’s foes. Colin, with Alexandra in his arms, drew back as Ben moved toward them. The weather, which had produced the heavy gray fog, now added sleet mixed with snow. From out of this icy haze, Joachim Nussbaum bore down on the murderer of so many innocents. “Drop the knife!” Ben whirled around at the sound of the heavily accented voice. A Jew! Better still! Allah is indeed great and merciful. He rewards me in all things! Ben eyed the big man, now only a few feet away, and weighed his options. Kill the infidel’s son, or begin a fight to the death with the Israeli. The Arab turned on Colin just as Joachim closed on him. The Israeli grabbed Ben’s collar, pulling him back. “Allah will not be fed on the blood of innocents today, murderer!” Wheeling around, Ben shouted, “We shall see, cousin, who is stronger!” The two men struggled across the loose rock. Arm to arm, knife to knife, the two enemies lashed at one another. The cold air made each lunge an ordeal in itself. In a desperate move, Ben pushed Joachim back and swung a deadly arc, cutting the ex-spy across the back of his wrist, slicing down into vein and sinew. Joachim howled as pain swept up his arm. Another, much stronger pain followed as Ben plunged his blade into Joachim’s side. The big man sagged to his knees. The sleet and snow mix changed over to all snow and began to fall in gentle sheets. Yanking his Bowie knife from Joachim’s weeping ribs, he turned his fury toward Colin. Through it all, Victor Carew stood confused. Who are these people? Joachim’s fall was a disaster. Until this moment, he had seemed invincible. Now Jan and Victor stood alone and unarmed against a ferocious maniac.

Jan prayed under his breath, God, if you love me, give me strength. Then he reached down and snatched Louis’s ice axe from the ground. From a kneeling position, he hurled the axe in one swift movement, hitting Ben with a glancing blow, painful, though not fatal. Alexandra, weak from exposure, fainted in Colin’s arms. He laid her down gently and then grabbed the flare gun. Jan’s challenge infuriated Ben. The Arab knelt down, picked up Louis’s ice axe, grinned at Jan, and then threw it aside. “Now you will know that Allah is great,” he bellowed. A dull pop followed by a whoosh of hot air slowed the Arab’s charge. Ben stopped, looked at Jan, and then staggered forward. He dropped the knife and gave a bewildered groan. A phosphorescent fire glowed in his intestines. For a pain-racked moment, the Arab tore at his steaming guts. He staggered sideways, turned, and plunged headlong over the rim of the crevasse, landing first on the shelf he had just climbed, and then into the abyss. An eerie calm settled momentarily over the plateau. Jan grabbed Louis by the neck and gave him a hard shake. “Louis, I’m going to my son. If you make one false move, so help me God, I will kill you!” Louis shrugged and stepped back toward the oncoming blitz of snow and fog. Jan turned and rushed to his son’s side. Colin was kneeling, head down and sobbing, the smoking flare gun still clutched in his hand. Jan pulled him to his breast. “You’re safe now, son, you’re safe.” Colin pushed himself away from Jan. “I’m okay, but Zan’s hurt! She’s bleeding!” A few feet away, Louis and Victor engaged in a battle of words. Absorbed in their private pain, it was as if the life and death struggle that had just taken place had never happened. Jan heard only fragmented phrases before the gusting wind snatched them away. “Get away from me, old man! I can’t be what you want. Can’t you see that?” Louis cried. “I tried. I really tried, but you never liked me! Nothing I ever did was good enough, or important enough. It was all you could do to have me in the house. It’s true, and you know it!” Louis doubled over with the pain of his sorrow. Years of stifled emotion erupted like a sleeping volcano.

“I wanted so much to be like you—strong and ruthless—all business—no nonsense. Well take a look around, this sure as hell isn’t nonsense.” “Louis, I’m your father. I love you. We can fix this thing. We’ve done it before.” Louis’s earlier fury seeped away, replaced with self-loathing and despair. He shook his head and knuckled tears from his eyes. “It’s too late… too late for that now.” “No, Louie, you’re wrong, son. I’m here for you now. Maybe I wasn’t there for you in the past. Maybe I didn’t understand, but I do now! C’mon, we’ll make a go of it, just you and me. After all this is over, we’ll go away someplace where we can start over again. Louie, I want to love you for who you are, not for who I think you should be… just like when you were a boy. I—” Louis shook his head. His words, drowned in a mix of sobs and mumbles, became even more incoherent. The wind carried his voice away as the blinding snow continued its relentless progress across the plateau. Only a few hundred yards to go and it would swallow them all in wall of white. Jan grabbed a piece of rock and threw it at the two men. Puzzled, Victor turned see Jan waving to him. “Come on, Victor, I need you,” he yelled. Louis gestured for Victor to follow. “Go on, Dad, help the Phillips kid. Go on, I said!” Reluctantly, Victor ran to where Jan knelt. “Can I help? What can I do?” Victor said. “Yes, go check on Joachim.” Victor nodded and hurried over to where Joachim lay, breathing heavily. Jan pulled out his cell phone, punched in a number, and prayed. Alexandra roused from her faint and groaned. “Zan,” Jan said, “do you think you can walk?” “I think so,” was her weak response. Blood trickled in clotted blots from her jacket cuff.

“I’ll take care of her,” Colin said. Alexandra gave a weak smile. “Love you,” she murmured into Colin’s breast. Jan snapped the cell phone off. His voice raw from shouting, he pressed his mouth to Colin’s ear. “A helicopter will be here in a few minutes. They’ll drop a harness. Get Zan into it. Be sure to hang onto the belaying line to keep her from swaying. Then you go up. Understand?” Colin nodded. “Okay, I have to help the others,” Jan said. He gave his son a reassuring smile and then ran to join Victor. Joachim sat lopsided, pressing his hand against the gash in his side. Moments later, the thundering sound of a helicopter’s rotors swept over them, the Mundus emblem of a bright yellow and red flame surrounded by protecting wings emblazoned on its sides. “I am okay,” he yelled, competing with the chopper’s roar. Jan had witnessed the stabbing. Unconvinced, he yelled back, “You sure?” Joachim nodded. He stood, swayed, and leaned his heavy frame on Jan’s slim shoulder. A few minutes later, Jan looked up just as one of the copter’s crew pulled Colin safely inside. Suddenly, Victor shouted, “Where’s Louis?” Panicked, the older Carew chased in circles, calling, “Louis! Louis! Son, where are you!” Jan stopped and turned, looking for any sign of his son’s tormentor as Victor dashed toward the oncoming storm. “Victor! No! Come back! Victor!” Jan cried, his words no match for the wind as he shouted after the older man. Joachim groaned, distracting Jan. When he looked around again, Victor too had disappeared into the churning mass of snow. Above the roar of wind and snow the chopper’s bullhorn operator shouted, “Mr. Phillips, we have to go now! Get on the harness!”

SAFELY within the cocoon of the B/A609 helicopter, Jan quickly ordered the chopper to Reykjavik’s Lanspitaliti Hospital. Two female medics tended to Joachim and Alexandra’s wounds. Both were strapped onto stretchers to keep them from tossing around as the twinengine chopper twirled through the fierce storm that now swarmed over the Murderküll glacier. One woman gave each a sedative as well as a strong dose of antibiotics, while another slathered an antibiotic salve on Colin’s hands and wrists, then wrapped a light thermal bandage over them. Jan continued to hold Colin in a tight embrace. “He should be okay, Mr. Phillips,” the medic said. “No frostbite, thank God, but you’re going to suffocate him if you hold him any tighter!” Jan smiled apologetically and eased his hold on his son. “What about Zan?” Colin asked. The medic looked over at Alexandra, then to Colin. “She’s suffering from exposure. The wound needs stitching, but it’s not serious. As they say, a little blood goes a long way.” The medic smiled at Colin. “You two were lucky—very lucky. They don’t call that glacier Murderküll for nothing.” The vibration and roar of the big chopper’s motors, combined with fatigue and sore vocal cords, made conversation pointless. Colin slipped into a dazed sleep. Jan looked through a side window to the frozen world below. There was no trace of Victor or Louis Carew. Both men were lost. He thought of Victor’s tortured plea. Louie, I love you for who you are… just like when you were a boy, and then he recalled a line from Shakespeare… they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain. Jan hung his head and wept unashamed tears.

Forty-Seven

THE rescue helicopter swooped from the cloudy sky and landed with pinpoint accuracy on the Lanspitaliti Hospital helipad. During the flight from the glacier, Jan had called Dagmar, alerting her that they did indeed have casualties and that the chopper was heading to the hospital. As soon as the rotors stopped, emergency personnel raced out to whisk Alexandra and Joachim to the emergency room. Jan and Colin were escorted into a lounge where they found Marsha already waiting. Her face marked with worry, Marsha rushed up to Jan and Colin as they entered. Looking past them she blurted, “Where’s Zan?” “She’s been hurt, but she’ll be all right,” Jan said. “Hurt! My God! Where is she?” “They’ve got her in ER.” “I’ve got to go to her!” “Marsha, they won’t let you see her right now. We just arrived, so you’ll have to wait until the doctors finish their examination.” Marsha cast a scornful eye at Colin, who by now was surviving on spent nerves. “So,” she said, “Zan’s hurt, and you look just fine. Why’s that?” Jan stepped between them and led Marsha a few feet away. “Louis Carew was going to leave Zan on the glacier to die,” he said. “Colin fought him and saved Zan’s life. He delayed Louis just long enough for us to catch up.”

Marsha scuffed the floor in angry frustration. Jan could see she was fighting a losing battle to retain her self-control. The aloof professional gave way to the lioness mother. She pointed an accusing finger at Colin. “It’s all his fault, and there’s nothing you can say to get him out of this mess!” Jan lowered his voice and pushed his face close to hers. “Marsha, Colin killed a man today to save my life. He’s only fifteen, for God’s sake! There’s no telling what kind of fallout there will be when he finally realizes he’s taken a human life, so if you have to kick something, go find yourself a dog or a cat. Don’t you dare try to kick my son.” Marsha stared dumbly at Jan as what he had just told her began to register. She looked back toward Colin. Their eyes locked briefly. Startled by the look of wrecked innocence she found there, Marsha’s anger crumbled. “I need to be with Zan,” she said stubbornly. “You’ll have to talk to the nurses first,” Jan said. Marsha ignored Jan’s remark and hurried off to nab the first person dressed in white she could find. Jan turned to Colin. He wanted desperately to hug him. Just as he reached for him, Michael burst through the door. He flung himself onto Jan’s sore body. “I was so frightened,” he said, half crying and half laughing with relief. “I’m okay, Michael. Where have you been?” “Oh, the security people held us up. I guess all the confusion made them nervous. We’re here now. That’s all that matters.” “Michael, stay close, okay? When this is over I’m going to need you.” “Of course, where would I go? Have you talked with Colin about all this? I mean, do you know why he ran off?” “No. I’m not sure I want to know.” “Jan, you must speak with him. He is so young. You must try.” Michael looked at Colin standing nearby with his head hung low. Bruised in body and soul, the boy wept with remorse. He went to the teen and gently lifted the boy’s chin with a finger.

“Colin?” Michael whispered. “I’m okay… I… I’m really sorry… I don’t know what to say. I really messed things up… didn’t I?” “Colin,” Michael said, “you gave us such a scare, but everything is going to be fine now.” Michael leaned forward and said, “If I were you, I would say something nice to your father.” Michael smiled sweetly at Colin and stepped away, looked at Jan, then left the room. Amal jabbered in Arabic as he fussed over Jan, shoving coffee and a sandwich into his hands. “Effendi, sit, eat, rest.” Amal’s words ground down to a buzzing noise as Jan gave way to a collision of emotions. He was angry, so angry it frightened him. He was grateful to be alive. He was also proud of Colin, so much like himself and yet so different. He was fearful too. Even now, Colin’s feelings remained a cipher. What’s he thinking? Where do we go from here? he wondered. Jan’s devil sniggered, If I were you, I’d kick that little snot’s ass from here to kingdom come! Jan’s angel yelled back, Watch it, buster! More of that talk and you’ll get to kingdom come sooner than you think! Jan rubbed the palm of his hand across his forehead. “Amal?” “Yes, Effendi?” “I need some time alone with Colin, understand? Oh, and Michael looks tired. Please find him and make sure he eats something.” “Of course. I will see no one interrupts you.” Jan turned and scanned the room. He and Colin were alone at last. A battered sofa, so cozy and inviting, squatted against a wall painted a sterile white. Jesu, I wish I could lie down, just for a while—later, later.

Forty-Eight

COLIN had walked to a huge window that looked out over the city. The storm, still raging high up on the glacier, had caused a fog to settle in. Reykjavik’s midday lights danced like blurred fireworks in the mist’s silvery shroud. Jan came up behind him and rested his hand on his shoulder. He offered him the sandwich Amal had produced as if by magic. “You should eat something.” Colin shook his head. He wasn’t hungry. In fact, he was in so much pain he thought he’d never be hungry again. He looked at their reflection in the window, father and son, mirror images separated by an ocean of distrust. I wanted to be big and ended up being small, more like a kid now than ever. Colin spoke to his father for the first time since the nightmare began. “What did they say about Zan? Will they let me see her?” “I think she’ll be okay. You’ll have to ask her mother about seeing her.” “You’re angry, aren’t you?” Fearing his father’s wrath, Colin quickly looked away, ashamed. Jan stood silent. From the very first, he’d offered love and support to his son. Colin returned that love and support with the back of his hand. Any reasonable man would feel betrayed, and Jan Phillips

was every inch a reasonable man. Jan swayed on aching legs. He needed rest. He needed time, but as it was, the time was now. He decided not to mince words with his son. “Angry? Yes, Colin, I’m angry. I’m angry because you’re so damn vulnerable, just as every person born into this world is vulnerable… and I can’t change that. You’re fifteen, and no matter how grown up you think you are, in this world, you may as well be toothless and naked.” Colin began to cry. “Why? Why did Louis do that to me? I never did anything to him? Why are people so bad?” “Colin,” Jan said, “not everyone who frowns at you is your enemy, and not everyone who smiles at you is a friend.” Colin blotted a tear from his cheek and murmured sadly, “I think I found that out the hard way.” “Yes, you did, but don’t be too hard on yourself. Louis and his friends are the worst kind of people. Once they set their sights on you, you didn’t stand a chance against them. What I want to know is why? What we all want to know is why?” “I love Zan. I want to be with her all the time. I thought if I had a job, I could get a place of my own and we could be together, but it all blew up in my face. Stupid! Stupid!” “Is that the only reason?” Jan probed. Colin hung his head low and murmured, “Guess not.” “What then?” Silence. “Is it the gay thing?” Colin’s quivering voice stumbled over the words, “Yeah, I mean, it was at first. The whole idea of you and Michael made me crazy. I thought I was going to turn gay if I stayed with you. Then after a while, I was kinda okay with it, but then you got me the computer, and I thought it was a bribe… I don’t know… I don’t know! It all just piled

up, and Louis seemed like a way out… I….” The deep cuts on Colin’s hands began to hurt. He wrapped his arms around his waist and shifted on leg muscles aching from the stun gun. Bending over, he whispered, “That man… I killed that man! I didn’t know he was going to die! Am I going to go to prison?” “No. Nothing is going to happen to you. Do you believe me?” Colin nodded an uncertain yes and said, “I… I’m afraid this will happen again. I don’t know if I can live being afraid all the time. How will I know who my friends are?” Jan puffed out a weary breath and said, “Colin, this is not a world I would have made for you, and no matter how much I want to, I can’t protect you from it—no one can. Right now, all I can do is set you on the path I think you should take. I can walk a little way with you, if you want me to. If you fall down I can help you up, but I can’t walk for you. The world is a very dangerous and scary place. It’s here, and we’re in it. We can be in it together, or if you insist, you can be in it alone. I can’t change how you’re feeling.” How am I feeling? Colin wondered. “Don’t you think you should sit and rest a while?” Jan said. Colin shook his head no. “I’ll be okay, but there’s something I don’t understand.” “What?” “You came up on the glacier unarmed. You didn’t even have a knife. Weren’t you afraid?” Jan thought of the Archangel Michael and the inscription: Call Upon Me Sayeth the Lord, and I Will Answer. “Well, I had some help.” Puzzled by the cryptic answer, Colin continued to gaze out the window, and then he asked, “Who was that man, the one who went after Louis?” “That was Louis’s father. I called him after I found out that Louis had kidnapped you. I told him I was coming here to find you, and he asked to come too.”

Jan’s voice became hard as flint. “I also told him that, if I had to, I would kill his son to get mine back.” Jan looked away. “It can’t have been easy for him, I mean, loving a son everyone else hates.” “If he knew what Louis was like, why did he go after him? He saw the blizzard was coming. Didn’t he know the helicopter was leaving?” “He knew.” “Then, why? Why did he stay with Louis?” “It’s what fathers do.” Colin stared out at the city. He pondered Jan’s last words. It’s what fathers do. Jan sighed. He toyed with the frayed end of a sleeve. As had happened so many times before, the communication between father and son flourished and then wilted into silence. Even in this crisis, the same silent wall rose between them. Then, unexpectedly, Colin leaned back, resting his head against Jan’s chest. “Dad…?” Jan’s heart skipped a wild beat. “Yes?” “Can I come home?”

Epilogue

THE taxi carrying Jan and Colin from their Osaka hotel dropped them off at an intersection where no posted street signs designated either location or direction. Colin said, “Dad, are you sure we’re in the right place? There aren’t any street signs or house numbers. How can anyone find anything?” “The instructions the desk clerk gave me say to look for the house on the corner where the pear tree is in bloom. Cross diagonally from there and walk halfway down the block until you come to a high fence with a dragon door. That will be the house of Mr. Tsukamoto. How hard is that?” “And what happens if one day the pear tree gets blown over in a storm, or if it happens to be winter, or what if you don’t know what pear tree blossoms look like? Tell me that?” “You’ve got a point there, but as it is, there’s the pear tree, and it even has tiny pears on it, so come on.” For a while, the two walked shoulder to shoulder along a narrow walkway. Suddenly, Jan stopped before a polished oak door embossed with the figure of a sleeping dragon. Colin traced the dragon’s sensuous coils with a fingertip. “Hmph!” “Now what’s eating you?” Jan laughed. “Nothing. It’s just that if I was going to put a dragon on my house it would rear up with fire shooting out of its mouth. It sure wouldn’t be asleep!”

“For the Japanese, the sleeping dragon represents confident power. It tells all who approach in peace that they are welcome, but to rouse the sleeping dragon would be to invite its wrath. It’s like having a big sign that says, “Beware of Dog.” The good thing about doing it this way is you don’t have to feed the dragon or walk it,” Jan said, laughing. “Oh, and one thing more, remember that Japanese culture is a lot about manners and gestures, especially speaking out of turn.” “You really love this, don’t you?” “Love what?” Jan said. “Being the wise father,” Colin said affectionately. “Actually, I do—any complaints?” “No complaints.” Jan pulled a bell cord. If there was a bell attached to it, Colin didn’t hear it. Arata Tsukamoto’s teenage son, Seiji, opened a small square door set in the dragon’s breast, briefly eyed Jan and Colin, and then snapped it shut. Seiji quickly opened the dragon door and said, “Mr. Phillips, it is good to see you once again. Please come in. My father is waiting for you.” Colin caught his father’s sleeve. “You’ve been here before!” he accused. “Guilty.” “And all that business about the pear tree was….” “True. I needed the directions the first time I came here, and if it’s any consolation, I got lost,” Jan admitted. Shedding their shoes at the front door, the three entered the house of one of the most powerful men in Asia. Seiji stopped midway along the hall, drew back a panel of rice paper and lath, and stepped inside. Jan and Colin followed him into a long, sparsely furnished rectangular room. Three ebony chairs and a low table of the same wood, surrounded with cushions, held center stage on a yellow bamboo floor. The room’s outside wall was slid back, allowing a full view of the gravel and rock garden.

Arata Tsukamoto, the Mundus Master for Asia, rose from the ebony table where he sat writing a letter. Smiling, he extended his hand in western fashion and said, “Phillips-san! Welcome to my home. What a pleasure! What a pleasure.” Jan grasped Arata’s hand and then bowed slightly from the waist. “It is good to see you again, my friend.” Then, making reference to Mundus, Jan asked, “Is Asia well?” “Asia is well. And America—is America well?” Colin took all this in, wondering what the Asia and America references meant. “America is well also,” Jan said. “Arata, I want to introduce my son, Colin.” Colin stepped forward and offered a slight bow. “I am honored to be here, sir.” “Please accept my gratitude for this visit. Regard my home as your own.” Arata turned to his son. “Seiji, why do you not show Colin your spider collection?” “Of course, Father. Please, come with me,” Seiji said to Colin. After the two teens left the men, Seiji stopped in the hall just outside the door and asked, “Do you like spiders?” “Not particularly,” Colin said, wrinkling his nose. “I mean, they’re interesting… I suppose. I guess I never paid much attention to them.” Seiji laughed. “Me neither, I mean, I liked them when I was younger, but I have lost my desire to keep them. My father does not know this, and he keeps bringing them in from the garden for me. I keep them for a few days out of respect for my father, and then I release them.” Seiji scratched his head for a thought. “I know! Do you want to hear my latest rock album? The band is called Hard Jelly.” “Yeah!” Colin said. “I’ve never heard Japanese rock before. I think it’s getting more popular back home, but I don’t know anybody who has any.”

“Come on, then!” Behind Tsukamoto’s study door Jan said, “My friend, Seiji knows we can hear him, doesn’t he?” “Jan, you have forgotten your Japanese customs. Whatever is said, or done, behind a closed door does not exist.” “But the spiders, if you know he has outgrown his interest in them, why do you continue to bring them to him?” Jan wondered. “Yes, I know he no longer cares for the spiders.” Arata stepped out to the long gallery that faced an ancient azalea garden. “You see, Jan, the love of a child for a parent is the only love that is intended to grow apart. One day he will find the courage to tell me he has lost interest in spiders. On that day, he will begin to pull away from me and start the road to manhood, and on that day, my heart will sing a sad song.” Jan nodded. “I’m just beginning to know my son… so little time before he leaves me. He already has a girlfriend back home, so I see him less and less. If we could only slow time, just a little.” The two men stood side by side and shared a reflective moment. Tall cedars embraced the garden. A seamless patchwork of moss, white gravel, and azalea gave way to a rock-strewn stream. Above, sun and clouds shoved shadows across the ground. Beyond, the cedars broke apart to reveal a glade of wild flowers. Arata broke their silence. “Well, now to business. They are in the garden. My daughter, Akiko, is entertaining them while they wait. They do not know it is you who is here to see them.” The folds of his silk kimono slid down his arm as Arata pointed the way. “Follow the path across the stream, then through the cedars and around the pond. There you will find a small shrine to Emma-O, the god of revenge. You will find them there.” Jan stood, exhaled a long sigh, and then headed out into the garden. Minutes later, he reached the shrine. The weathered idol looked as fearsome as it did the day it was carved. On seeing Jan approach, Arata’s daughter excused herself and hurried off toward the house. Jan couldn’t help but notice the young girl’s tear-rimmed eyes.

“Mrs. Kwon, Dr. Kwon?” Jan said quietly. Startled, the Korean couple turned and stood at the sound of Jan’s voice. “Mr. Phillips! Have we been brought all the way from Seoul to meet with you?” said Mrs. Kwon, her voice betraying disappointed anger. Her husband added, “I was told there was information concerning our son. After our meeting in Paris, I assumed you were unwilling to help us. Please tell me, what more could we possibly have to say to one another?” Jan understood the couple’s anger. He had, after all, dismissed the Kwon’s and their anguished plea, believing that there was nothing he could have done to ease the pain of their only son’s brutal murder. That was before Colin, before he understood what it meant to have a son, and what it meant to come so close to losing him. The memory of his struggle with al-Qâdi’s chief murderer shook Jan’s soul like a rag doll in the hands of a careless child. He kept Ben’s Bowie knife in a locked drawer, a reminder of how near he came to losing the most important battle of his life. Blood began to drain from Jan’s face. His voice dropped to a bare whisper. “The man who killed your son is dead. I thought you deserved to know. When we last met, you asked me to deliver vengeance to a murderer. Fate, it seems, has delivered justice in place of revenge. It was done without me.” “How do you know this?” demanded Dr. Kwon. “I was a witness to his death. I also have physical evidence that it was he who wielded the knife.” The reference to the manner of his son’s murder caused Dr. Kwon to slump onto a stone bench and begin to weep. “My son, my beautiful son.” Mrs. Kwon took his hand in hers and said, “At last, my husband, at last, you are free. You can cry.” A silent breeze stirred in the tall Hanoki cypress. Their feathery fronds swayed, as if the trees themselves were weeping. Jan stood awkwardly by for a few minutes before touching Dr.

Kwon lightly on the shoulder. “Well, I just thought you would want to know. I’ll leave you now.” Dr. Kwon looked up at Jan. “Mr. Phillips?” Jan turned to face the couple. “This man who killed my son… did he… did he die well… I mean, bravely?” Jan considered the absurdity of the question. Was this a cry for closure? A wry smile crossed his lips. “Bravely, Dr. Kwon? He died as he lived, with hatred and violence in his heart. I know something of the Muslim faith. Your son was an innocent. Because of this, there will be no place for his murderer in paradise.” Jan left the couple in a comforting embrace. As he walked back to the house, he noticed Arata Tsukamoto crossing the gravel garden. Jan gave a silent wave. Arata smiled broadly and held up a tiny cage. Inside, a spider furiously wove her snare, unaware of her captivity.

About the Author

MICHAEL HALFHILL was born in West Virginia just as World War II in Europe was coming to an end. After high school came college at the University of Baltimore and then a stint in the US Army. Michael has traveled widely in the USA, Europe, Central America, and Asia. After building a 37-year career in analytical science with the DuPont Company, Michael retired in 2001. In 2002, after a year of hectic boredom, he produced the first of three novels. What began as a distraction has become a passion. Michael currently lives in northern Delaware. When he’s not writing, Michael, along with his longtime partner, Peter, shows borzoi at local AKC dog shows. You can reach Michael at http://www.michaelhalfhill.com.

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