Black Gold

by Paul Kenyon

  "My sentiments exactly," Franz Bohm laughed. He was a ruddy, jovial Bavarian who had been elected to the board of Biotikum UberGesellschaft after the huge combine had eaten up his own highly respected pharmaceutical manufacturing firm. He'd been a lot thinner the first time Farnsworth had met him: Farnsworth's OSS team had saved Bohm's life by smuggling him out of Dachau in the closing days of the war, when the Nazis, like mad beasts, were slaughtering potential witnesses against them. They'd kept in touch over the years. Franz was a useful contact.

  The rest of the board of Biotikum UberGesellschaft was filing out the door, stout, expensively dressed men with gold rings and diamond cuff links, on their way to a caviar and lobster lunch at Humplmayr. The air was fragrant with cigar smoke. Farnsworth had been sitting in the outer office, waiting for the meeting to break up.

  "You're free for lunch, I hope." Farnsworth said.

  "Of course. John, it was good of you to stop by. I know you're busy."

  "I couldn't leave Munich without seeing you. How do you like being a part of BUG?"

  Franz looked at the departing directors. He lowered his voice. "They made me an offer I couldn't refuse. They would have squeezed me out, anyway. I can't complain about the money. But the people who run things…" He shook his head. "The type you and I fought against in the war; you know what I mean. A real clique. They play things close to the vest. Do you know that I and some of the newer directors can't even get into the research laboratory in Frankfurt? Imagine that! Security they tell us."

  Farnsworth looked at the long conference table. There were ashtrays and coffee cups at less than a third of the places.

  "It wasn't a very well attended meeting, was it?" he said.

  Franz said, "No, most of the board members are in Scotland. We only decided a few minor matters. They left proxies."

  "Scotland?" Farnsworth kept his voice casual.

  "Yes. They're having a hunting and fishing holiday. Paid for out of our profits, naturally. The entire Frankfurt clique."

  "Tax-free, I hope."

  Franz laughed. "Oh, yes, you can trust them to turn it into a business expense."

  "How so?"

  "They're staying at Sir Angus Bane's estate. You know, the great bacteriologist."

  "Oh?" Farnsworth said. "Do they have some sort of a business arrangement with him?"

  Franz's eyes darted toward the door. The last of the BUG officers was out of the room. "Yes," he said. "Between you and me. It's highly confidential. You know what competition for new products is in this business. The Frankfurters won't tell the rest of us what it's all about, but they've sealed off a whole wing of the research laboratories to do development work."

  "On Sir Angus' project?"

  "Yes. He does the basic research up in Scotland. Keeps the most promising cultures up there. But he flies down to Frankfurt all the time to look after things."

  "That's very interesting, Franz," Farnsworth said slowly. "Well, I suppose it will all come out eventually. How about lunch?"

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, stuffed with Geselchtes and dumplings and beer, Farnsworth was back in his hotel room, putting together a transmitter from the innocent-looking objects in his luggage and shaving kit. He strung an array of folding hangers into an antenna that could reach a MESTAR satellite three hundred miles overhead, and then plugged it into an electric shaver that would have given him a rotten shave.

  He'd found the connection between Sir Angus and Biotikum, and he'd made sense out of what Joe Skytop had reported from Israel. Perhaps the Baroness could put it together with what she'd been uncovering at Castle Bane.

  There was no response. Farnsworth frowned. The Baroness was out of touch.

  It could only mean that she'd had an accident — an accident serious enough to have smashed her wristwatch. If she was still alive, he knew she'd get back in communication eventually.

  He hoped it wouldn't be too late.

  * * *

  The KGB colonel gave Eric a hard stare. "You are a traitor," he said.

  "I suppose so," Eric agreed.

  He slumped back in the hard chair. He was stark naked, and the cold seat had made his testicles shrivel up into a tight ball. He was covered with goose pimples; this stone-walled interrogation room, deep in the bowels of Lubianka Prison, stayed damp and chilly despite the August sun that was warming the rest of Moscow.

  He looked curiously around the dungeon. He could see, now that they'd turned off the bright light that had been shining in his eyes. Not that there was much to look at. Just the colonel and his desk, and over by the wall a steel utility cart with a number of interesting implements on it. There was a fitted walnut case with a graduated set of screw presses shaped to fit various portions of the anatomy. There were sharp little knives, needles, pliers, a little bottle of acid, and an electrical apparatus whose two wires ended in an alligator clip and a copper rod. It was designed for either sex. With a man, you attached the alligator clip to the penis and inserted the rod in the anus. With a woman, you let the current flow between the vagina and one nipple. Either way, the results were astonishing.

  Eric shivered, not from the cold.

  "I am against this, Colonel Kiprensky," said the woman who was standing next to the utility cart. She was a big cow of a creature, dressed in a white uniform like a nurse. Eric shivered again. She was no nurse.

  "I know you are, Miss Panova," the colonel said placatingly. "But the decision has been reached on the highest level."

  "A little touch of the electrodes, that's what he needs," the woman said.

  "Perhaps," the colonel said.

  "It's getting late," Eric suggested.

  The colonel sighed. "You are a traitor," he repeated. He got up from behind the desk and walked over to Eric. Eric's testicles tried to crawl into an even tighter ball.

  The colonel slapped him on the shoulder. "But, then, I am, too," he said. "Get him his clothes, Miss Panova."

  The woman left, looking disappointed. "You'll have to forgive Miss Panova," he said. "She's been dying to try out the new equipment."

  "I'm sorry she won't have a chance to practice on me," Eric said dryly.

  "We're not barbarians, you know," Colonel Kiprensky said. He was a big, fatherly man in a wrinkled uniform. "There were some who thought a little — severe — interrogation might shake your story, in case this were a CIA trick. I myself thought it wouldn't hurt…"

  "That's what you think," Eric said.

  "But when you betrayed the CIA agents in Baku — that was the clincher."

  "I can't tell you how glad I am that you were convinced."

  "Do you know what they were doing when we caught them? They had managed to lower incendiary devices and oxygen tanks deep into four of our newest wells, at points that blanketed the major Baku reserves. They were timed to go off simultaneously. The entire oil deposit would have gone up in flames. It would take years, maybe decades, to put it out. Perhaps it never could have been put out."

  "And what would the Soviet government have done if they'd succeeded?"

  The colonel gave a look of fatherly disapproval. "It would have been considered an act of war. You tell me what we would have done."

  "I'm glad we were able to stop them, then," Eric said. "I hope your people understand that the agents, you caught had no proper authority for what they were trying to do. We have a very big espionage establishment. Sometimes it tends to get a little out of control."

  Colonel Kiprensky sighed. "We have such madmen in our intelligence apparatus, too," he said. "Sometimes it's up to us — traitors — to keep them in line."

  "Ne shto eet," Eric said.

  "Ne za shta."

  Miss Panova came back with Eric's clothes. She watched him while he put them on. Her expression reminded him a little of the dieter who's just watched the cake being locked away in the cupboard.

  "That NATO disaster," the colonel said. "You didn't have to tell us about that."

  "On the contrary, Co
lonel," Eric said. "I thought it was important that you should know, to prevent a miscalculation."

  The colonel shook his head. "There are those in our government who would have urged a quick military strike across Europe while you are weak."

  "But of course, Colonel, you are weak, too."

  Colonel Kiprensky laughed. "But your people don't know that."

  "They will when I get back."

  "Stalemate again," the colonel said. "Perhaps it's all for the best. But there is still much opposition to letting you go free with the information."

  "It's the only way, Colonel. You had to know that we weren't behind SPOILER. And we had to know that you weren't behind SPOILER. I'll see that it gets passed on to the right people."

  The colonel shook his hand. "Good luck," he said. "I hope you catch them. It's important to both our countries."

  "Thanks, Colonel. When does my plane leave?"

  "In less than an hour. I have a driver ready to take you to the airport. You'll be in London in five hours." He looked shrewdly at Eric. "Why London?"

  Eric finished buttoning up. "That's where I catch my other plane," he said.

  "To where?"

  "Now, now, Colonel. That would be telling." He looked at Miss Panova and her utility cart. "And I'm through telling."

  Chapter 8

  The Baroness stood naked in front of the full-length mirror and applied flesh-colored makeup to her breasts. She studied the result with a critical eye. It looked fine, except for the angry, yellowing stripe across the undersides, and that wouldn't show above the gown, anyway.

  Tony came up behind her, buttoning his evening shirt. "Beautiful," he said. "I wish I could fix up my car that easily."

  "I've bought you a new one, darling," she said. "I phoned the Triumph agency in Aberdeen. They'll be delivering it here tomorrow."

  "How the hell did you wreck it?" he said. "Looking for monsters instead of keeping your eye on the road?"

  "That must have been it, darling."

  His eyes followed the lifting of her breasts as she raised her arms to get into her gown. She pulled it down over her and straightened it until it clung to her body like a midnight-blue shadow. The top was hardly more than a pair of triangular ensigns that billowed alarmingly when she moved her shoulders. Down into the monumental cleavage trickled an icy cascade of diamonds.

  "You'll knock poor Sir Angus' eyes out," Tony said.

  "Is he really going to make an appearance tonight?" Penelope said.

  "That's the word. The ritual appearance of the laird. He'll have those poor nouveau riche upstairs creaming in their knickers." He made a tentative move toward her. "Speaking of creaming…"

  She put a protective hand in front of her breasts. "Darling, I'm still terribly tender. You'll have to make love 'no hands' for a few days. And you'll have to forget it altogether until after dinner. 1 don't intend to miss a moment of Sir Angus' company."

  "Oh, we'll get a few precious words from him, like everybody else. He doles out his presence like a miser."

  She went back to his room with him to help him knot his tie, then descended the stone spiral staircase with him to the main hall. The Germans were already at their table, noisy as schoolboys, keeping the serving women scurrying back and forth for drinks. Tony was the only one in evening clothes, she noticed. The Germans were dressed in their overpriced Scottish fantasies of herringbone and tartan. One fellow with apple cheeks and fat knees was actually wearing a kilt and sporran, bought God knows where. He was oblivious to the hostile stares of the male staff. The tartan his tailor had given him belonged to the Dewar clan, hereditary enemies of the Banes. In an earlier day, he never would have left the castle alive.

  They found their corner table and settled down with a couple of glasses of the pure malt Crombie Scotch. Around them, the Germans were acting up. One chubby businessman was pelting his fellows with pieces of shortbread, laughing uproariously. Schmidt came over, his face flushed with drink, and leaned over their table.

  "Ah, milord Tony. And Baroness Orsini! Guten abend. How nice to see you. We have missed you at dinner. This is a pleasure for me."

  Penelope parted her lips in the barest effort at Smile Number Four. "I'm sure it is for you, Herr Schmidt," she said.

  Schmidt beamed with pleasure. He sat down at their table, uninvited, and snapped his fingers for more drinks.

  "You have been working too hard, Tony," Schmidt went on, "commuting in your helicopter. You should enjoy your holiday."

  "I'm bloody trying," Tony scowled.

  "And, Baroness," Schmidt said with a fawning smile, "I was so sorry to hear about your accident. You are all right, I trust?"

  "Just a pair of sore tits," Penelope said, giving him Smile Number Eight, the sweet one used for soft-drink ads.

  Schmidt looked shocked. After a moment he laughed uneasily. "Oh, you English!" he said, shaking his head.

  "I'm American," she said. "Italian by insertion."

  "What the Baroness means," Tony said, "is that her title comes from her second husband, the Baron Reynaldo St. John-Orsini."

  "Dead," Penelope said. She gave him Smile Number Fourteen: mysterious beauty. It was the one for perfume ads.

  Schmidt floundered for something to say. "I'm so sorry," he managed.

  "Don't be," Penelope said. "He left me oodles of money." She flashed Smile Number Two, remote and deadpan, for high fashion and new cars.

  It was finally getting through to Schmidt. He stood up and hovered. "Well, I must get back to my table." Nobody said anything. He swallowed, smiled, and left.

  Tony laughed. "Penny, you're dreadful!"

  "That's me, Penny Dreadful."

  "I was beginning to feel sorry for the poor chap."

  "Tony, darling, how did you say you knew him?"

  He looked uncomfortable. "I told you, sweet. We're on a board of directors or two together. You know I have a million interests."

  "What company did you say?"

  Was there a shade of hesitation? "A West German pharmaceutical firm. Rather an accident. Caledonian just happened to become a majority stockholder of a little electronics firm in Hamburg that sold us some of our sounding equipment. And BUG bought the electronics firm so as to have a firm grip on one of its sources of supply for laboratory electronics instruments, and…" — he spread his hands — "…I just ended up on the board."

  "BUG?"

  "Stands for Biotikum UberGesellschaft."

  "They wound up with the right initials, didn't they?"

  "In German it means the bow of a ship."

  Somebody lurched by. It was the fat-kneed German in the Dewar kilt. "Hello, Cavendish, how goes it?" He continued on past their table, heading in the general direction of the bathroom.

  Penelope raised an eyebrow. "Another friend of yours?"

  Tony became very busy with his drink. When he put down his glass he said offhandedly, "He's on the board, too."

  In the distance a wail of bagpipes could be heard, getting closer. Tony looked up expectantly. The Germans were quieting down. Heads turned toward the entranceway.

  "Here comes The Bane," Tony said.

  Sir Angus stepped through the doorway, two puffing and perspiring bagpipers close behind him. He moved with a matter-of-fact step, as if he were unaware of all the eyes on him or of the ceremonial escort behind. He was a tall, straight old man with hair as white as spun glass and a rugged patrician face. He wore the kilt with unselfconscious dignity, a fine old tartan in the Bane colors, topped by an aged tweed jacket and vest. Penelope had to admire the performance: Sir Angus, gracious and remote, began to circulate around the hall, greeting his guests, while the pipers continued marching to the kitchen, not missing a note.

  "After they've piped in Sir Angus," Tony said sarcastically, "they pipe in the haggis."

  Penelope looked thoughtfully after the pipers. One of them was a large, bulky man whose sporran was missing.

  She turned toward Sir Angus. He was having a drink at one of th
e tables, nodding politely at some complicated Teutonic oration. He lifted the laird's cuach, a two-handed silver cup, in a toast. She watched as he raised his arm. Sir Angus, unlike his ancestors, was right-handed.

  He got to their table just as the fish was being served. "May I have the honor?" he said. He had a resonant, cultivated voice with just the faintest rough edge of a Scottish burr behind it.

  "Sir Angus," Tony said, "allow me to introduce you to the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini."

  "Ah, Baroness, delighted," Sir Angus said. "May I?" He pulled up a chair and sat down. He must have made some signal, because one of the serving women appeared and set a place for him. It dawned on Penelope that Sir Angus was actually going to have dinner with them.

  "And how are you enjoying Scotland?" he said, picking at his cold salmon.

  "It's fine — when I'm not having motor accidents," she said.

  "Yes, yes, I heard about that, of course. Terribly unfortunate."

  "I'd been out at the loch, trying to catch a glimpse of the Crombie Beastie. Did you hear about that, too?"

  "My dear Baroness, there is no Crombie Beastie."

  "That's what Black Tom told me."

  "Yes, my people try to discourage talk about the monster. I've instructed them to. Superstitious nonsense."

  "The Japanese don't think so. I passed their expedition."

  Sir Angus threw back his white head and laughed. "Oh, those chaps!"

  "They had an accident just a few minutes before I did. Do you suppose the kelpies did it?"

  "You've been talking to some of the local people."

  "No." Fiona wasn't exactly local.

  "Oh? I thought you had. Some of them believe the Japanese are jinxed. They've been plagued by bad luck."

  "What sort of bad luck?"

  "Defective equipment, accidents, that sort of thing. And they've been hoaxed by false sightings. And they have trouble buying supplies. They seem to rub the local people the wrong way."