At the desk, he brought forth his card and placed it in the payment slot, saying, "Please add a twenty percent tip."
"Thank you, sir," the screen said.
As he was returning his credit card to an inner pocket, he turned his eyes to Lee and smiled again. "How's my French?"
Her face was expressionless. "Only fair," she said. "You seldom acquire a proper French accent outside France or Switzerland. I suspect that most of your instructors were Americans. The French are fanatical about accent."
"I surrender," he said, taking her arm.
The Manhattan office of the Race Research Foundation was within easy walking distance and since it was located in the vicinity of New Columbia University, it made for a pleasant stroll. They maintained silence during the walk and Lee Garrett was surprised at the fact that he was still amused. This was a different Gary McBride. Gone was the affected front. What in the world was this all about? The fluffing of the job wasn't particularly important. But what she had told Horace Hampton had been partly correct. She was tired of the frivolous life and would have liked something worthwhile to do.
The Manhattan offices of the Race Research Foundation were modest. In the outer office were three desks, two women and a young man at them, equipped with the standard vocotypers, phone screens, and library boosters for consultation with the National Data Banks. All greeted Gary McBride by his first name, which surprised Lee. She had expected a stuffy atmosphere, at best.
He didn't bother to introduce her. His private office turned out to be a room of warmth and informality. He seated her in a comfortable chair before rounding the desk and taking his own place.
She still didn't know why she had come. Now that she had fluffed the Hampton contact, she couldn't see how she could possibly infiltrate the Anti-Racist League.
Gary McBride, smiling again, picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk and said, "This is your Dossier Complete. It reports that you attended the Lycee Janson de Sailly, one of the oldest private secondary schools in Paris. You were there for several years, invariably top in your class."
She glared indignantly at him. "What the devil are you doing with that? The Dossier Complete of any citizen can be consulted only by proper authorities for adequate cause. You need the highest priority in the National Data Banks to." He held up a hand and grinned his boyish grin at her. "Exactly." He watched suspicions chase across her face and then nodded. "We enjoy such a priority."
She was staring at him in sudden realization. "You knew all the time, there in the restaurant, that I spoke French."
"Guilty as charged."
"But. then why did you pretend to make such a fool of yourself before that. that Brooklyn Frenchman?"
He grinned once more. "Lee, the organization of which we are but one subsidiary makes every effort to recruit the best personnel. Practically every employment position filled in the United States goes through the National Data Banks computers. The computers select the most suitable person available for each job." He paused, then winked. "But we get to the data banks before the government computers even begin their selections. We skim the cream of the crop." He could see her confusion. He tapped the sheaf of papers before him.
"Lee, the Dossier Complete is possibly the most comprehensive tally of a citizen's life ever assembled. It begins before your birth, references going beyond your grandparents. And, from your birth, every aspect of your life is checked: health, upbringing, education, sports accomplishments, criminal record, employment record, travels, and on and on. Among other things checked is your ability quotient. Your dossier builds profiles of your verbal and numerical abilities, spatial ability, memory, speed of reflexes, dexterity, mechanical aptitude, emotional maturity, veracity, sensory limits, natural charm, persistence, neurosis, powers of observation, health, and a few others."
She smiled. "Depressing idea. We're all confronted with these confounded tests every few years. That is, if we have any interest in work or running for office. Maybe I should've refused to take them. But what's all this got to do with."
He held up a hand. "There are a few things, my dear, that can't be tested. Luck, for instance."
"Luck! There is no such thing."
"I'm afraid there is, just as there is accident-proneness, which also defies computer analysis. Even though you were given unbelievably high marks, suppose that when I entered the Nuits St. George I found you wearing two left shoes, or you were hunched up in posture, or you were dressed in khaki shorts and a man's shirt like a prole. Suppose further that when subjected to a 'pompous superior'-I believe that was your term-you were willing to accept him as your boss."
She laughed. "That was all put on! You were testing me."
He grinned back and nodded. "If you hadn't the other qualifications we were looking for, you might still have been employed-somehow. But we also wished to check your poise, grooming, physical attractiveness, and sensibilities. You passed with flying colors."
She looked at him levelly. "So, if I passed your exam that goes beyond the Ability Quotient tests, just what is this position you have in mind? I've already bombed out as an infiltrator of the Anti-Racist League."
The other leaned back in his swivel chair and was silent for a few seconds. "What do you know about the World Club?"
"Why, I suppose what everybody else knows: it's the think tank to end all think tanks-a multinational philanthropic organization which digs into socioeconomic problems confronting the world. Lagrange Five and Asteroid Belt Islands, too, for that matter."
He nodded but said, "It's a great deal more than that. It also keeps track of the population explosion, resources, pollution, religion, the tendencies toward the police state, terrorism, and. racism. For your ears only, the Race Research
Foundation is a subsidiary of the World Club. That would be a shocker even to the most diligent news media expose' experts."
She was wide-eyed now. "But what has this got to do with me?"
"You've been selected to work directly under the Central Committee, which likes a low profile. For the media, it doesn't exist."
She was too flabbergasted to speak. He took up a stylo and readied it over a paper pad. "Before we go further into that, suppose we get the details of this interview you had with the black from the Anti-Racist League. His name?"
"Horace Hampton. Known as Hamp." Gary McBride flicked on a desk screen and said into it, "Liz, check out a Horace Hampton, a.k.a. Hamp, of the Anti-Racist League, a black." Lee said, "I don't know his I.D. number." Gary smiled at her. He was a damned sight more likeable than he had been in the restaurant. He said, "He's black; a member of the Anti-Racist League. He'll be one of their better men if he was your contact. We'll have some record of him."
They did. Shortly, his dossier began flashing on the screen. From time to time, he read out some extract to her. "Seems to have some independent source of income, since seldom uses all of his GAS. No criminal record, though he is suspected of being one of the top trouble-shooters of the Anti-Racist League. Suspected in the slapstick fake assassination of Governor Teeter, though thus far there is no evidence."
Lee was taken aback by that. "He said that they were against violence."
Gary chuckled as he looked mockingly at her. "That's what he said. From what you've reported, he knew that you were a plant. What else could he say?"
"But he seemed sincere."
"Oh, he's sincere, all right. He sincerely believes that extreme racists, such as Teeter, should be dealt with." Gary McBride, still scanning the black's dossier as he spoke to her, grunted his surprise.
He glanced up at Lee. "This is strange," he said. "That's possibly the thinnest dossier I've ever seen-especially when it comes to the criminal record."
She wrinkled her forehead. "How do you mean?"
"He has none whatsoever. Not even a traffic violation. And, as a result, he has no fingerprint record." He thought about it. "I think I'll just forward the name of Horace Hampton to Rome. Perhaps they'll wish to look further into
this."
"Rome?"
"That's where the World Club is based. And that's where you're going, my dear." His smile was disarming. "That is, if I can talk you into it."
Chapter Eight: Frank Pinell
A voice from a far distance was saying, "Cooee, wot in the flashing hell happened?"
Frank came alive to find, groggily, that he was sitting on the sidewalk, supported by an anxious Nat Fraser, who was hunkered down on one knee.
Frank got out, "Mugged. Two of them, I think."
"Barstids," the Australian growled. "Damned buggering ragheads. A bloke's not safe to walk up the street. Come on, cobber. We best get you to a sawbones. Never know, might have some broken ribs. They give you the bloody boot?" He got a long, sinewy arm around the fallen American's body and up under his armpits.
"I. I think so," Frank got out, trying to help himself erect.
"My car's over here. Just luck I came along. Don't usually use this street, Rue d'Angleterre, but I was heading up to Panikkar's place on Cape Spartel."
Frank half staggered, was half manhandled by his rescuer, to the small sports model hovercar which was parked, door open, at the curb.
As he was wedged into the bucket seat he got out, "I.1 can't afford a doctor."
"Don't be a bloody fool, cobber. Let me worry about that."
The Aussie slammed the door shut and went around the front of the vehicle to the driver's side and got in, not by opening the door, but by winging a long leg over the side, slipping down into place. He said, as they took off up the wandering street, "It's bonzer I did a bunk from Paul's right after you left, cobber. A bit of luck, eh?"
"In English?" Frank said. The rash of the cool night air was bringing him around.
The Australian laughed and pushed his bush hat down more firmly on his head. "We'll be there in no time flat, cobber, and then the fur'll fly. Did you see them?"
"No, not well. Couple of Moroccans, I think. Native clothes." Frank hadn't the vaguest idea what the other was talking about. What fur would fly?
The streets weren't well lighted but they seemed to have left the medina completely and were now in the European part of town. The road climbed.
"Up here's the Marshand," Nat called over to him. "The more money a bloke's got in this bloody town, the higher up on the mountain he lives."
Frank felt the back of his head gingerly. He had no doubts he'd have a beautiful knot there in the morning. He felt his ribs. Nothing seemed broken, but you never knew. He understood you could go around with a broken rib for weeks and sometimes not know it. He searched for a handkerchief and came up with one, about the only thing that his assailants hadn't taken. He coughed and spat into it. There was no blood.
They emerged from the town proper. The houses were more widely spaced and reminiscent of the Spanish Colonial architecture of Southern California and the older towns of Mexico. Most of the villas were surrounded by pine and gum trees and now the road ran along a cliff with incomparable views of the sea and the Spanish coast beyond.
Frank said, "Where'd you say we were going?" He was feeling better by the minute.
"My boss's digs. He'll have a sawbones there." Shortly afterward, Nat said, "Cape Spartel. Farthest west a bloke can get in Africa."
Frank blinked at the group of buildings they were approaching, by far the most extensive estate they had passed. They were surrounded by a wall of dressed fieldstone, possibly six feet high. Wrought-iron uprights were planted at the top, and the spaces between were entwined with vicious barbed wire.
They came to a halt outside a small fortress of a gatehouse, also of fieldstone. Frank noticed that they had passed over a trigger plate in the road.
A guard came out. He was wearing a beret, what looked like a paratrooper's combat uniform, and heavy leather boots. He carried a small submachine gun which he handled with the ease of a professional. A bright light came on from the guardhouse and zeroed in on their faces. There was a series of audible clicks and Frank got the feeling that a TV lens was on them. Okay, it was their needle, they could thread it as they liked.
Nat Fraser said, "What-o, Hercule?" The guard nodded at him but said nothing. The light went out, and in a moment the clicking sounds came again. The automated steel gate swung open and the little vehicle slithered through. The winding road that lay beyond must have been a full quarter of a kilometer in length.
They pulled up before an ornate entry and a young man dressed like the gate guard, but bearing no visible weapon, issued forth.
He approached, smiled at the Australian, and said, "Willkom-men, Herr Fraser." He looked at Frank questioningly.
Nat said, "A new Yank recruit. I vouch for him, Karl. Is the colonel in?"
"He is expecting you, Herr Fraser." Evidently, the Australian had called ahead on his transceiver on the way up. Frank hadn't noticed, but he had been in no shape to be noticing things.
Nat got out of the little hovercar the same way he had entered it-over the side-pushed his bush hat back on his head, and went around to help Frank out.
Karl assisted, seeming to find nothing strange about the appearance of the soiled and battered newcomer.
They got Frank up the four stone steps and to the door. Nat took over completely there.
Karl said, "Colonel Panikkar is in the study, Herr Fraser."
"Too right," the Aussie said, and helped Frank down the short hall that stretched ahead.
There was an identity screen on the heavy carved wooden door. Almost immediately, it clicked and opened. Beyond was the most impressive study Frank Pinell had ever seen. By the looks of it, it was a combination of library study and office. Bookshelves lined the walls, floor to ceiling, filled with leatherbound books of the old style. Tasteful paintings of both East and West were represented on the walls, none of them modern. But there were also steel files and on both of the two desks were the usual office equipment, including a voco-typer on the smaller one. The furniture was heavy and functional, but in excellent taste. Only the battleship gray of the carpeting detracted from the otherwise impressive decor. It gave a military effect.
Behind the larger of the desks, looking up at their entry, was a man of possibly sixty. Square of face, gray of hair and heavy mustache, he was dark complexioned. He wore traditional Indian clothing, including a black, frock-length coat and jodhpurs. He had a dignified military posture.
Nat said, "This is the young Yank I called you about, Colonel. Strike me blind but he's got the luck of the Irish. Been in this buggering town no more than hours but a couple of the flashing ragheads set on him and leave him on the street with a broken block."
Then he became more formal. "Colonel Ram Panikkar, Frank Pinell."
The colonel came around his desk to shake hands, western style. His face was indignant as he took in Frank's dirt-fouled clothing and bruises.
He said to Nat, "Make your man comfortable, Nat. I'll be with you in just a moment."
The Australian got his still-shaky companion into a chair.
The colonel said into a TV screen, "Doctor, could you bring your bag and join us at once in my study?" He then flicked a switch and commanded, "Get me Foud, immediately."
He looked up at Nat. "Where did this take place?"
"On the Rue D'Angleterre, just up from the bloody Grand Socco."
The Indian looked at Frank. "Just what did the hooligans get away with?"
Frank took a deep breath and said, "Most important, about two hundred pseudo-dollars worth of Swiss gold francs and dirhams. Also my Moroccan police papers which I got at the airport, my pocket transceiver, and the usual odds and ends."
A face had appeared on the phone screen-a dark, evil face crowned by an orange turban. Its owner would have had no difficulty whatsoever landing a part as a stereotype fanatic assassin on Stateside Tri-Di.
The colonel said, his voice dangerously crisp, "As-salaam alaykum, Foud."
The other answered, his own voice careful, "Alaykum as-salaam. Ram Panikkar."
T
he Indian spoke rapidly in what Frank assumed was Arabic. Perhaps the colonel was Pakistani, rather than Indian.
In short order, Ram Panikkar turned back to Frank and his Australian rescuer.
"Your possessions will be at your hotel in the morning, Mr. Pinell." And then to Nat, "It was Mustapha and Jabir. The dogs become bolder each month that passes." He added with satisfaction, "I let Foud know that your friend was under the protection of the Graf."
A roly-poly little man entered from a side door, the traditional black bag of the physician in his right hand. He was a fussbudget, pink of rounded face and wearing old-fashioned pince-nez glasses on a bulbous little nose.
The colonel made introductions. "Dr. Fuchs, Mr. Pinell. Mr. Pinell has been the victim of street desperadoes. We thought it best that he be checked. Do you wish to take him to the clinic?"
Dean Ing & Mack Reynolds Page 11
