"I thought Paul said you pulled nothing off here. That Tangier was sort of neutral ground. The boys, as he called them, didn't want to foul their own nest."
"Fair dinkum. We don't do anything here in Tangier. Just recruit blokes who want to earn a little money, and put the operation together. The Graf's sometimes got other operations going. We crew some of them, too. Aren't as many bloody contracts these days as there used to be, but some. Bush wars down south between all the dictators, presidents for life, and that whole mucking lot. Some in the Far East, too. But we don't handle those operations. They're based in Singapore and Penang. The Graf's got his representatives there as well."
Frank said, "Soldiers of fortune, eh? Hiring yourself out to kill for money." There was disgust in his voice.
The ordinarily amiable Aussie looked at him coldly. "What other reason is mere to fight, cobber? A soldier's job is to win wars. If you pick that pro-bloody-fession, you wind up killing people, usually other soldiers who've picked the same trade."
Some of his exaggerated Aussie slang seemed to have dropped away.
Frank said, "The theory is that the usual soldier is fighting for his country. He's doing his duty, defending it."
"Too right. That's the theory, but it's not the reality. I'm not talking about blokes drafted during wartime. They can't get out of it, even if they want to. But your professional soldiers are a bunch of hypocrites. At least a mercenary can choose what side he fights on. But your career soldier rights whoever the politicians tell him to. Look at the Germans in the Nazi war. Were they fighting for their country? Fucking well not. They were fighting for that dingo barstid Hitler and his gang."
Frank was irritated by the other's strong opinions. He said, "Even granting that doesn't excuse a mercenary, fighting for whoever will pay him."
"Half a mo, cobber. I've never taken a contract for some rucking barstid like Hitler or any other politician I thought was buggering up his country. Sometimes I've been offered contracts where I wouldn't fight on either side."
Frank stood and said, "I'll get another, ah, buggering beer."
Nat said, reaching into a pocket, "You ought to let me shout the suds."
"Why?" Frank said. "I'm not a potential recruit. No reason I should be freeloading on you."
At the bar, while Paul Rund was getting the fresh bottles of Stork, the wizened bartender said, "Signing up with the Graf, Frank?"
Frank eyed him. "I don't think so. Do you know of any other jobs kicking around?"
The other popped off the two beer caps, then ran his thin fingers through his bedraggled Vandyke. "You might get a berth on one of the boats. Not as many of them as there used to be, but I heard Sam McQueen needed a couple of men."
"What kind of boats?"
Paul Rund looked at him as though he had hardly expected that question. "Smugglers."
Frank said, "For Christ's sake, I thought you said there was nothing illegal pulled off in Tangier!"
The bartender said patiently, "Smuggling ain't illegal. You buy a cargo of hashish or tobacco here, perfectly legit, and run it to one of the countries where it's taboo, get it? And you sell it there, so you haven't broken any law in Tangier. Smugglers are reputable citizens here, get it?"
The American shook his head and took up the two beers. To his relief, they cost only two dirhams apiece in Paul's. Back at the table, after they had both poured, Nat Eraser said, "So you're not interested?"
"I suppose not. Look, I'm not holier than thou. In fact, I suspect my father was some sort of mercenary; possibly in espionage, I don't know. He and my mother were separated when I was a kid; I didn't see him much. He was usually out of the country, I think. At any rate, he was finally shot on one of his trips. I haven't any desire to end the same way."
The other shurgged broad shoulders. "The Grafs got other operations, like I said. Maybe he could find a place in the organization for a nice presentable cove like yourself."
"From what you've said so far about his operations, I doubt it," Frank said, finishing his beer. He stood. Somewhat to his surprise, he could feel the drink. Possibly, Stork was stronger than the gassy anemic American brew he was used to.
He said, "Thanks anyway, Nat. I'll see you around."
"Too right, cobber. If you change your mind, I'm usually here this time of night."
Frank sent his glance out of one of the dirty windows. It was dark out on the Grand Socco. He hadn't realized they'd been talking for so long.
He left after waving to Paul Rund and stood for a moment before the door. Not a fraction of the teeming Moroccans were still on the streets or in the souk. Evidently, everything folded in the medina with the coming of night. He made his way past shuttered stalls, past steel-barred store fronts, retracing his route as best he could.
He shook his head over the experiences of the past few hours. No crime in Tangier, eh? Uh-huh. Aside from the IABI men ripping off eight hundred of his thousand pseudo-dollars, the customs officer had lifted his camera, his cab driver had stolen his luggage, he had been offered a job as a mercenary despite his lack of experience, and had been told he might land a berth on a boat smuggling narcotics.
He came to a street that might be Rue de la Liberte and headed up it. It was too dark to make out the signs. He thought the street should have had more pedestrian traffic and more lights than this. The blow that struck him on the back of the neck took him completely unawares. He felt his mouth sag open even as he crumbled.
At first, he wasn't completely out but agonizingly paralyzed. He could feel hands hastily going through his pockets, turning them inside out. Two more shadowy figures came hurriedly to his side. He tried to last but could feel no power in his limbs. One of his assailants thoughtfully kicked him in the side of the head and then the fog rolled over him.
Chapter Six: Roy Cos
From Greater Miami they were lobbed over to the island of New Providence by laser boost in approximately ten minutes.
Roy Cos, strapped into his enveloping seat, took a deep breath as acceleration loads mounted and said, "Never been in one of these things before."
"I wish I could say the same," Forry Brown told him, in his usual sour voice. "I hate the damn things."
Roy looked out the small, thick glass porthole at the unbelievable blue sea with its occasional frothed ripples of waves. "That's the Gulf Stream, eh?"
"Yeah," Forry told him. "It keeps the Bahamas at a constant year-round temperature of between seventy and eighty in the shade. George Washington was one of the first tourists here. He called them 'The Isles of Perpetual June.' "
Below, the Wobbly organizer could already see small islands. He said, "How many of them are there?"
They had reached the peak of their arc now, and for a few seconds were in free fall before their shuttle began the deceleration.
The little ex-newsman said, "Most people think of the Bahamas as only the town of Nassau, but actually, there are about 700 islands and nearly 2,000 cays and rocks." His tone took on a cynical singsong parody of a tour guide. "Scattered like a fistful of pearls in turquoise waters extending over an area of 70,000 square miles."
Roy looked over at him. "You've been here before, eh?"
"That's right. Actually, it's one of the most beautiful resort areas in the world. Ah, we're coming in."
The shuttle landed at the Windsor International Airport and Forry Brown had a cigarette in his mouth before they started down the gangway, jostling along with their fellow passengers.
Roy Cos hadn't experienced much in the way of nature's charms in his forty-some years. It cost money to seek nature out on the mainland and he'd never had more than GAS. Now, his first impression as they walked in bright sunlight toward customs was one of flower-scented breezes. Even here at the shuttleport, there were gaudy Bahamian flowers-purple and red bougainvillea, yellow and red hibiscus, pink, white, and red oleander, royal purple passionflowers. Their mingling perfumes gave a subtle fragrance to the southeast trade winds. Not that Roy Cos knew their
names. Beyond roses, daisies, and tulips he was lost in the world of flowers, as his parents before him. He was a prole born, and proles seldom had gardens.
Customs was the merest of formalities. Forry Brown's attache case and Roy Cos's battered briefcase weren't even opened. However, Roy's credit card, which doubled as his passport, brought up the eyes of the black man in the Bahama immigrations uniform.
He said politely, "Suh, GAS credits are not valid in the islands."
Forry said, "Mr. Cos is my guest." He handed over his own Universal Card.
"Jolly well, suh," the other told him, returning the ex-newsman's credit card and then touching the brim of his cap in an easygoing salute.
They passed on toward the metro station, where everyone seemed to be heading.
Roy looked over at the other from the side of his eyes and said, "I didn't know that immigrations men could tell what type of pseudo-dollar credits were accredited to a Universal Credit Card by just looking at it. And what was that about GAS credits not being valid?''
"You can't spend your GAS outside the limits of the United States of the Americas," Forry told him. "The government wants you to spend it at home. Why subsidize foreign countries by spending unearned credits in them? The Bahamas, along with Cuba, are the only Caribbean islands that don't belong to the United States. The Bahamas won't join because it's more profitable to stand on the sidelines and offer gambling and offbeat banking practices, such as numbered accounts, and multinational commercial deals like
Deathwish Policies. Anything goes in the Bahamas; they haven't got the restrictive laws we rejoice in at home. They figure any adult should be allowed to go to hell in his own way, just so that doesn't interfere with anyone else."
"I'll be damned. You mean you can even buy heroin here, openly-and things like tobacco?"
"Yes," the other told him ironically, flicking his cigarette butt into a waste receptacle.
The metro system had probably been imported from the United States, Roy realized. The vacuum cars had them into downtown Nassau within minutes.
They emerged from the central metro station onto an avenue teeming with pedestrians and bicycles but even more devoid of cars than an American city would have been. This was the downtown area, the harbor immediately before them. Roy's first impression was that the whole place was a museum. Only in historical films had he seen buildings which seemed to go back to at least Victorian days.
Forry looked around too, a warmth in his squinting eyes. He obviously liked the town. He said, continuing his tour guide lecturing, "This is Bay Street, the main tourist shopping center. It's a free port, no taxes, so the tourists go hog wild. Over there is Rawson Square, with the government administration buildings. Over there's the post office, and that statue's Queen Victoria. The garden behind contains the Public Library and museum, which dates back to 1799 and was originally built as a jail."
They turned left on Bay Street, walking along as rapidly as Ae shopping traffic would allow. The buildings seemed completely devoted to tourist stores, bars, and restaurants.
Roy said, "I wouldn't think they'd have much need for jails in a place like this."
His small gray companion laughed. "In its earliest days, this island was a pirate center. Blackbeard himself built a lookout tower down the beach a ways. After the pirates were kicked out, the Bahamas went into a depression until the American revolution, when they became prosperous smuggling military supplies to the colonists. Then they went into the doldrums again until our Civil War, when they became the clearinghouse for sneaking cotton out to England and France and smuggling guns in to the Confederates. Then another depression until Prohibition, when they all got rich running rum. Eventually they hit on becoming an all-out, any thing-goes resort area. Now they've parlayed that up to include international banking-and other criminal activities. Oh, never fear, they've always been able to use a good jail here in Nassau.''
They turned down Parliament Street, and shortly the shops gave way to small business buildings and private homes. Even business was housed in ancient structures. The private homes were largely built of island limestone with upper porches that hung over the streets. To protect them from the sun, wide verandas had been built in graceful wooden construction with louvers to admit cooling breezes.
The Wobbly organizer stared at something coming down the street. He said, "I don't think I've ever seen a horse-drawn carriage before."
"That's a surrey," the other told him. "They hate cars out here. You seldom see one, except those used by government." The newsman looked at a card he drew from his jacket pocket. "This seems to be the address."
It was a prosperous-looking business establishment, in the Victorian tradition. There was a small bronze plaque which Roy couldn't make out above the entry, and a uniformed black standing before it. The man touched his cap at their approach and held open the door. They seemed to use more manpower here than in the automated States.
The interior continued the Victorian motif, with a few concessions to the tropics. There was a pervasive Britishness about it all. Roy had expected the company would be American, with some affiliation to a sinister background such as the Mafia.
Forry Brown seemed to sense what his companion was thinking and said, "This outfit is a subsidiary of one of the big insurance companies in Hartford. It's multinational, of course, specializing in Deathwish Policies, though it has some other far-out bits of business going.''
There was a sterile reception office presided over by a live receptionist, plain of face, her dull hair done up in an unfashionable bun. She wore a washed out, shapeless light dress.
Forry said, "Good morning. Mr. Roy Cos on appointment to see Mr. Oliver Brett-James."
"Very good, sir," she clipped, checking a notepad. "You are expected. Mr. Brett-James will see you immediately." She did the things receptionists do, speaking into a comm set, saying, "Yes, sir," a couple of times, and then pressing a button.
She came to her feet saying, "This way, please," and led them down a short hallway.
She held open a door and bestowed on them what she probably thought was a smile.
Roy and Forry entered a moderately large office, once again with a Londonish feel-stolid, spotless, cold. Mr. Oliver Brett-James was standing behind an old-fashioned wooden desk. He was tubby, almost naked of scalp, red rather than tanned, his complexion more from bottles man the Bahamian sun. His smile was conservatively polite, though he seemed surprised to see two of them. "Mr. Cos?" he said.
"That's right," Roy told him. Neither of them made a motion toward shaking hands. Under the circumstances, it didn't seem exactly called for.
"And you, sir?" the Englishman said to Forry.
"Forrest Brown," Forry said. "I'm Mr. Cos's business agent."
"Business agent? Well, no reason why not, I daresay. Be seated, gentlemen. Shall we get immediately to business? Here is the contract. It goes into effect tomorrow. And here is your International Credit Card, drawn on our Swiss bank in Beme. Each day, as you undoubtedly know, you will have one million pseudo-dollars at your disposal. It doesn't accumulate, of course, but each day you have that amount available."
Roy and Forry had taken chairs in front of the desk. Forry said sourly, scratching a thumbnail over his meager mustache, "Suppose we read the contract before signing."
"Certainly, old chap," the Briton said. "I merely thought that you were already cognizant of its contents, in which case there'd be no point in mucking around." He handed a three-page sheaf of paper to each of them and then leaned back patiently in his swivel chair.
His two callers read what he had given them carefully.
Forry had already dug up copies of the standard Deathwish Policy and this didn't deviate from it.
After a few minutes, while they were still reading, Brett-James cleared his throat and said, "Please take note of Clause Three. You must understand that we will not tolerate frivolous expenditures. That is, suppose you decide to purchase a diamond or a painting. If the price is
over 10,000 pseudo-dollars, we will have an expert evaluate the item. We do not expect to have you spending, say, 50,000 pseudo-dollars on something which is really worth but 15,000. We expect our specialists to check out the true value, within reason. Of course the gem or painting, as the case might be, reverts to us upon your, ah, unfortunate demise."
Forry looked up finally and said, "Just how much does the policy pay off in benefits to you when Mr. Cos, ah, passes on?"
Oliver Brett-James stiffened. "I say, that isn't really a concern of yours now, is it?"
Forry took him in. "Yes," he said. "The details of this transaction will help me in supervising his interests."
The other didn't like it, but he said finally, "Our corporation will receive ten million pseudo-dollars in the way of benefits."
Forry said gently, "And how much are the daily premiums that you must pay?"
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