Deathwish World

by Dean Ing

  Andre murmured, "Le vin est a votre gout?"

  "Excellent," Gary McBride nodded, and the headwaiter filled both glasses two-thirds full.

  Eggs a la Bourguignonne turned out to be poached in red burgundy, and for a moment, both were silent as they sampled. Gary McBride said, "A pity to discuss business while eating, my dear, but I understand that you were contacted, as planned, by a member of the Anti-Racist League." Lee nodded. "Yes," she said. "I'm afraid I muffed it."

  "Not to worry, my dear. What went wrong?"

  "I underestimated him. He was a black; well-educated. What tipped him off, I have no idea, but he saw through me. I suppose it was rather humorous. He pretended to get somewhat tipsy and, ah, pretended to make a rather crude play for me."

  His eyebrows went up.

  t rape, and revealed that I wasn't truly material for the Anti-Racists. He told me off very efficiently, greatly amused."

  "I see. Then your cover is blown, so far as the Anti-Racist League is concerned."

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Not to worry," he said again. "Ah, the duck." The Canard a L'Orange arrived with the Richebourg '65

  he had ordered, and again went through the wine-tasting ceremony.

  When the waiter had retired he said, "You were not alone. The Foundation has several, ah, agents making the same attempt to penetrate the Anti-Racist League. You were but one. Others, it is to be assured, will be more successful."

  She said, "I wasn't told a great deal about the purpose of my mission. Actually, in spite of my silly scene with Horace Hampton, I am not particularly prejudiced so far as minorities are concerned. I was rather surprised that the Race Research Foundation was interested in infiltrating his organization. I thought its research would be along other lines."

  "It is but one ramification of a much broader project. You see, Lee, the Anti-Racist League is a racist organization itself."

  "I don't understand."

  "In much the same way that the Zionists were."

  She frowned slightly at him. "I'm not anti-Semitic, either."

  "Nor am I, nor is the Foundation. We're far above such ridiculous postures. But there are most pertinent matters involved. The Anti-Racist League was not of particular import to us so long as it was active in the original fifty states alone. The minorities they represent numbered but some sixteen percent of the population; no great danger to our status quo. However, they are now, ah, beginning to spread into Latin America and other areas of the new United States of the Americas."

  She scowled down at her plate. "I don't believe I follow you."

  "These new citizens have the vote, Lee. There are enough blacks in Haiti, Jamaica, and even the Guianas to assure that their senators and representatives will be represented in Congress by blacks—if steps are not taken. It's equally true for Mexico, Central America, and the parts of South America which are chiefly Indian."

  "So the purpose of the Race Research Foundation is…"

  "Ultimately, to maintain the status quo. To see that our people, yours and mine, do not vanish from the positions of power they now assume. Ah, but here is the cheese. I have ordered a selection of Roquefort, Brie, and Chevre."

  The cheese was accompanied by a bottle of Rose d'Anjou, following which the waiter brought Crepes de Chapitre.

  Lee, who had been silent and thoughtful through these culinary wonders, said at one point, "But since my cover has been blown, as you put it, I am no longer of value to the Foundation."

  He smiled at her condescendingly. "We'll discuss it later in my office, my dear."

  When they finished the meal, Andre returned, bowing unctuously again.

  He said to Gary McBride, "Ca vous a plu, le repas, Monsieur McBride?"

  "II etait superb, Andre," the other told him grandly.

  Andre looked at Lee. "Et Madam?"

  Lee said, ' 'Mes felicitations au chef pour ses crepes. Us etaient commes des diners de George Garin au Chateau du Clos de Veuheot. IIy avaient des autres nobles efforts."

  "Merci, Madam." Andre bowed deeply and was gone.

  Gary McBride gaped at her. "Parisian French," he said accusingly.

  "My father was in the diplomatic corps. In Paris, I attended the Lycee Janson de Sailly. I also have Spanish, Portugese, and Italian, and can get along in German. My Russian is atrocious."

  "All Russian is atrocious," he smirked, then saw irritation in her face. "Or did I make a mistake?"

  She said, evenly, "Several. Never order such a wine as Richebourg with such a dish as Canard a L'Orange. Nor any other wine, for that matter. The acid of the orange sauce destroys the enjoyment of any great wine. The sole exception is Bouzy, from the Champagne district. If you must order Richebourg it is worthy of a much greater dish, such as Venison Grand Veneur or Lievre a la Royale."

  "I see," he said coldly. "And what else?"

  "None of the cheeses were from Burgundy. A Brillat Savarin or ripe Epoisse would have been preferable. And Rose d'Anjou, a suspect wine at best, is anathema to both Burgundy food and any cheese and most certainly should never do for the crepes, which were excellent, as I told the maitre d'. By the way, his French has a horrible Brooklyn accent."

  "I see," he said. "Shall we go?" He stood, tossing his napkin to the table.

  She looked up at him. "Why? My one assignment for the Race Research Foundation came a cropper. I should have looked further into the whole thing before undertaking it. If I had, possibly I would have refused the job. I was too thrilled at the prospect of actually being employed when the computer selected me to work for you, Mr. McBride. Now, even if you did have some position I could hold down, I'm not sure I would choose to be associated with such a pompous superior.''

  He grinned suddenly, which completely altered his face. He said, "Good. We've got some things to discuss."

  She shrugged in resignation, dropped her own napkin to the table, and stood. "I can't imagine what," she murmured.

  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 i
n 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.