"I'll be damned," Hamp said thoughtfully. He finished his brandy, went back to the autobar and dialed another. He looked at his reluctant host. "Want a drink? It's a pleasure for me to be knocking back guzzle that the Graf will eventually pay for."
"Beer," Frank said.
Hamp dialed the brew, brought it over, and resumed his own place.
Frank said cautiously, "Why did you think I wasn't a danger to you?"
"Because you're a fake. When I told you I own the bank your father used in Berne, I wasn't joking. I own controlling interests in various other banks as well. When Cellini told me you'd been sent to hit me, I had you checked out and then your father as well."
"All right, great. But why do you say I'm a fake?"
"You were deported, picking Tangier. Tangier is the biggest base of Mercenaries, Incorporated outside Liechtenstein. Anybody wanting to make contact with the organization couldn't do better than to go there. You were deported because you had supposedly committed four felonies and the legal computers automatically ordered your deportation."
"What do you mean supposedly?" Frank said, his voice flat.
"The first two felonies, well, they were probably genuine. Certainly the first one, back when you were a kid. Kind of a kid's prank which turned sour. But the third one and the fourth? Nope; you faked them. The murder, the crime that made it definite that you'd be deported, you didn't commit. You confessed to it, but you didn't do it. The way my agents reconstructed the thing, you hung around in the most rugged area of Detroit, possibly the toughest big city in the country, during the most dangerous time of night, for a period of weeks. Eventually, you found what you were looking for, a fresh corpse. You set the stage for getting the blame and you got it, guaranteeing deportation." Hamp took another pull at his brandy. "You're no killer, Pinell. It was all a scheme to get next to the Graf and it evidently worked out even better than you must have hoped."
Frank glared at him. "Why would I do that?"
Hamp shrugged. "It would seem obvious that you want to get your hands on that money your father left. Forty-five million pseudo-dollars isn't chicken feed-not a poultry sum, as the expression goes."
The younger man ignored the pun and said sullenly, "I had no idea it was that much."
"It wasn't originally, but it's been sitting there in Berne for almost twenty years, invested in Swiss gilt-edged securities."
"It's my money," Frank said. "I didn't even know about it until my mother told me on her deathbed. She hated the very thought of the stuff but she hated the Graf even more and didn't want him to get his hands on it. I'm my father's only living relative. My mother suspected, but had no proof, that my father was killed by the Graf. The last time she saw him, he hinted that they were on the outs with each other. My father, it would seem, didn't like some of the new fields into which Brandenburg was expanding. My father was a soldier of fortune, not a hit man."
The black eyed him questioningly. "Why didn't you just go to Switzerland and demand your inheritance?"
"It's tied up in some complicated way I don't understand.
Evidently, my father was on the way to change that when he was killed. I'm not sure about the details but I suspect that the Graf is part of the complication."
"If Lothar von Brandenburg could get his hands on that money, he would. The sonofabitch is just about bankrupt now. His overhead is astronomical. With your father's money he could retire, or do just about anything else he wanted to do."
"That's what I've suspected, damn it. I think there must be some kind of requirement that both of us must appear, or sign something, before either can get his hands on the amount."
"So what the hell are you doing tailing me around? By the way, didn't Windsor tell you I'm supposed to be a little on the dangerous side? You're a bit inexperienced when it comes to taking me on."
"I don't think Peter Windsor is in on it. I don't think the Graf has told anybody about it, not even Margit Krebs, his secretarial thinking machine." Frank finished his beer and put the glass down. "The Graf put on a big show of friendship. Welcomed me with open arms as the son of his best friend. The implication is that I'm now one of the inner circle and they're breaking me in to the workings of the organization."
"And this is your first, uh, assignment, eh?"
"Not exactly. They sent me along with one of their top operatives to see a competitor named Rivas in Paris. He was invited to join up, or else. He turned down the offer, mentioning in passing that he thought the Graf was responsible for my father's death."
"What happened?"
"It would seem that Windsor, or somebody, had bribed all of Rivas's people out from under him. His bodyguard knifed him to death."
Hamp looked at him in surprise. "And you participated in a thing like that?" His tone turned sardonic. "A nice clean-cut boy like you?"
Frank flushed. "Listen," he said. "I'm not as much of a milksop as you seem to think. As far as I'm concerned, Rivas was no better than Nat Fraser, the hit man who arranged his death. Nor Peter Windsor, the Graf, nor any of the others. I didn't mind seeing him killed at all. Not at all! He was a professional dealer in death. He was the type of man that I
would have no moral reserves about seeing killed-or given the circumstances, doing it myself."
Hamp pursed his lips and chuckled before getting up and heading for the bar again. "Another beer?" he said.
"No thanks," Frank said nastily. "And you act as though you're half drenched already."
"The complaint has been made before," Hamp told him, dialing another double brandy. "But I can still operate."
"And I've heard that story before," the younger man told him in sarcasm. "Sometimes from drivers who explain that they can drive better when they have a couple of drinks in them. Famous last words before they plow into a tree. You're on the death list of the most dangerous people in the world and here you are getting drenched. Hell, even I could take you and, as you so nicely explained, I'm inexperienced."
"Don't try it," Hamp said mildly, taking a pull at the double brandy. "But now we get to the nitty-gritty. What were you doing at the Synthesis meeting if you're not really interested in doing chores for the Graf?"
"I had to go through the motions," Frank said, all fed up with the conversation. "I had to look as though I was trying to get to you. For all I know, some of Peter Windsor's other people were there."
"They were," Hamp told him. "What the hell did you mink you were going to do to put over your act?''
"I don't know," the other said. "I was trying to play it by ear, hoping something would come up that would enable me to report back, admitting failure but for some good reason. I have to stay in the game, supposedly in the Graf's good graces, until I can find out what's going on. I haven't the vaguest idea, so far, what kind of hold he has on my father's fortune."
Hamp thought about it some more. He said finally, "The reason the Graf was willing to send you after me was that he wanted to get something to hold over you. Some lever that would help him persuade you to do whatever has to be done to get his hands on your father's fortune. If you'd killed me, as ordered, then he'd have had his lever." He knocked back the remaining brandy in one gulp and added, "I just dropped in to let you know I was onto you and to warn you to stay off my back. So now I'll. what the hell was that?"
"What was what?"
"That news commentator. What did he say?"
"I haven't been listening."
"Play it back. The last couple of minutes."
"All right." Frank shrugged, pressed the replay buttons, and turned up the volume.
He missed the first sentence or so. The commentator was saying, ". the famous rocket-set leader, of recent years turned recluse. Indications are, his sports car left the road, either forced off as suggested by the French authorities, or out of control as a result of overindulgence in alcohol or narcotics at a party he had just left. Executives of the far-flung Auburn empire have thus far issued no statement. Wall Street in the City, London, and
the Common Europe Bourse are expected to react heavily in the morning."
Horace Hampton, staring unseeingly, staggered to his feet and headed for the autobar. He demanded of the other, "Play that back again, from the beginning."
Frank Pinell, his expression denoting complete lack of comprehension, obeyed.
The commentator said, "Flash from the French Riviera. The multibillionaire playboy of this century, Jeremiah Auburn, died today in a car accident near Nice when."
"Switch it off," Hamp yelled.
Frank obeyed, staring blankly.
The black sank back into his chair. He swallowed the drink in one gulp. "Jim," he said, meaninglessly, so far as the other was concerned.
"What the hell's the matter?" Frank said.
"Shut up." The black sat there, staring unseeingly. "Jim," he muttered. "Oh, hell, Jim. Why was I such an asshole? I laid you wide open to that murderous bastard Windsor."
"What the devil are you talking about?" Frank said.
"Shut up."
Frank Pinell twisted his mouth in resignation and got up to get himself another beer. He hadn't the vaguest idea what had floored his visitor. Evidently, some bigshot playboy had a traffic accident in southern France. So what? He didn't follow the social news by any means but he had vaguely heard of Jeremiah Auburn, one of those upper-class characters who would spend five thousand on a bottle of wine laid down during the time of DeGaulle. Frank had never paid more than five dollars in his life for a bottle of wine, and then he was splurging.
At long last Hamp shook his head, as though in despair, and got up and went over to the room's small desk. He sat down in front of the phone screen and deactivated the video before dialing.
The face that faded in on the screen looked as though it had recently received a great shock.
Hamp said, "Barry, this is Auburn."
The eyes widened in absolute disbelief. "But. but. on the news I just."
"I know, I know. So did I. A case of mistaken identity, undoubtedly. Now, this is what I want you to do: refuse any comment to the news media whatsoever. For the time being, above all, don't let it get out that I am still alive. To nobody, understand?"
"Well, yes sir." And then, a touch of suspicion there. "How do I know this is really you?"
"Damn it, you know my voice. Besides, who else has access to this phone number?"
"I. yes, sir." There was relief in the tone now.
"Wizard. Now, I want you to send Captain Wayland and the plane to pick up two men here at the Chicago North Side Airport. He is to fly them to Europe and the crew is to take their orders as though they were my own. The men's names are Horace Hampton and Franklin Pinell. They will make only one stop, in New York. Mr. Hampton will leave the aircraft just long enough to go into the city and acquire some, uh, equipment at my headquarters there. Have a limousine waiting for him at the airport. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir. A Mr. Hampton and a Mr. Pinell."
"That's all, Barry. I'll get in touch with you shortly. Meanwhile, mum's the word." He flicked off the phone and turned back to Frank. "Pack your luggage," he said.
The other had been completely flabbergasted by the phone talk. He hadn't any idea whatever of what had gone on. He said, "Why?"
Hamp went back to the bar and dialed another drink. He said, "We're going to Liechtenstein to see the Graf and my old chum-pal Peter Windsor."
The younger man ogled him. "Are you out of your mind?"
"Probably, but your orders were to get Horace Hampton. Wizard; you've got him. He's going back to the Wolfschloss with you." The autobar delivered a full liter of French cognac. Hamp took the top off and applied the bottle directly to his mouth. He then retopped it and handed it to Frank. "Put this in your bag. I won't be taking any luggage."
Frank was still gaping at him. "Bringing you back to the Wolfschloss! Now I know you're completely around the bend, Hampton. That place is a fort. You can't get in carrying any kind of a weapon and once in there's no way of getting out. The Graf will have you by the balls. And probably me as well."
Hamp shook his head. "No. Your story is that I had something interesting to tell you and wanted to relay it to Brandenburg himself. And I'll have the most powerful weapon in the world to take into that fort."
"What? I tell you, they search you all ways from Tuesday, both electronically and physically."
"My weapon comes in a checkbook. Come on, let's get out of here. Wayland will be at the airport by the time we arrive."
The pilot checked their identities with care, obviously somewhat taken aback by this assignment. However, there was nothing to fault them. He handed back the International Credit Cards, saying with a frown to Hamp, "Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"
"I doubt it," Hamp said laconically. "I've never been there."
"Yes, sir," Wayland said, touching the visor of his cap in an informal salute. "What are your orders, aside from the stop-over in New York?"
"Fly to the airport nearest to Vaduz, in Liechtenstein."
"Yes, sir. That'll probably be in Austria."
"And while we're on the way, call ahead and have a vehicle waiting for us, with any clearance that might be required to enter Liechtenstein."
"Yes, sir. I'll check that out. Gentlemen, shall we go aboard?"
To Frank Pinell's absolute surprise, the black seemed to drink himself sober on the flight across the Atlantic. The bar on the huge aircraft was more elaborate than any Frank had seen anywhere and was presided over by a uniformed bartender and two stewards to serve. Hamp kept them earning their pay.
Frank found himself a stateroom and slept almost all of the way to Austria. He had a suspicion that he was going to need all the rest he could get. He didn't like the prospects for the morrow. When he rejoined his companion, it was to find him sitting in the same chair in the main lounge. Whether or not he had gotten any sleep at all, Frank couldn't tell. If anything, he looked less under the influence of the liquor he had been drinking than he had back in the room at the Drake. There was a new shift of bartender and waiters waiting on him.
Even as Frank seated himself, the chief steward entered and said respectfully, "We shall be landing within the hour, gentlemen."
Hamp looked down at himself. "I suppose I ought to have a change of clothing," he said. He was dressed in a cheap suit, just above prole quality.
The chief steward said, "But, sir, we didn't pick up any luggage for you. The other gentleman, yes. But you came aboard without any bags at all."
The black came to his feet. He said sourly, "I suspect that Mr. Auburn's things will fit me."
The steward goggled. "Mr. Auburn's things?"
Hamp eyed him. "Weren't your orders to take my instructions as though they were those of your employer himself?"
"Why. yes, sir."
"Wizard. I'll go and check out his clothes." Hamp started for the corridor which led down to the aircraft's staterooms.
The chief steward, still looking distressed, called after him, "The master suite is at the far end of."
"Yeah, yeah," Hamp muttered.
At Feldkirch it was found that there were no difficulties involved in driving the sports hover-car that was waiting to take them into the tiny principality. They took off, Frank driving, Hamp next to him with brandy bottle in hand, taking an occasional nip from it.
When they reached Vaduz and began driving out the road to the Wolfschloss which loomed before them on the mountain top, Hamp said, "You'd better call ahead and tell them we're coming. From what I've heard about this place, you run a chance of getting your ass shot off if you approach unannounced."
"Don't you know it," Frank told him, bringing out his transceiver. He went through the routine of dialing the special number Peter Windsor had given him.
When the Englishman's easygoing face appeared on the tiny screen, it was to express surprise. "Frank!" he said. "I say, this isn't an overseas call. Where are you?"
"Coming up on the schloss," Frank told him.
"Then. well, you completed your mission?"
"In a way," Frank said. "I've got Hampton with me."
That made Peter Windsor blink.
Frank redirected the transceiver so that the face of Hamp was shown to Windsor. He said dryly, "Peter Windsor, meet Horace Hampton." And then, before either of the others could speak, "I'm coming down the road toward the cable car terminal, Peter. Do you want to clear me through?"
"Of course, dear boy. Come immediately to my office in the keep. Be seeing you, old chap. Cheers." His face faded, still expressing bewilderment.
"First hurdle," Hamp muttered. He put the half-empty bottle in the glove compartment. "Reserve supply," he said. "We might need it later."
Dean Ing & Mack Reynolds Page 35
