Deathwish World

by Dean Ing

  Liechtenstein had once owed its prosperity to tourism, the winter sport industry, and its many editions of colorful stamps. Since its acquisition by Graf Lothar von Brandenburg it was no longer prosperous, save for Vaduz, whose working population was largely employed by the Graf himself. Tourism was barely tolerated, certainly not encouraged, and the ski resorts were either closed down or sparsely patronized. The once-famous art collection of the Vaduz Museum was now largely to be found in the Wolfschloss.

  The office of the Graf contained no desk, and had precious little else to resemble a business office. One whole wall was of glass and looked out on an unsurpassed view of the Rhine Valley over part of the castle's ward. There was but one article of decoration, a Franz Hals, which dominated another wall. The office presented an air of Spartan luxury, as it were: austere but very, very expensive.

  This morning it was occupied by three people.

  Lothar von Brandenburg, at sixty-five, was still hale and in season skied each morning, or hunted his extensive game preserves. He also made a point of swimming thirty laps of the large swimming pool he'd had installed in the courtyard of a schloss so extensive that a regiment of cavalry could have paraded there. He was only five feet four but had a lean, athletic build. His short hair, once blond, was now a platinum white. It was his eyes that were most remarkable. The irises were of flecked smoky grey and they had no expression. Whatever went on behind the smokescreen, nothing came through. With few exceptions, people newly introduced to Lothar von Brandenburg were uncomfortable about his eyes. He dressed during the day in formal business wear, complete with dark cravat, although ties had seldom been worn for half a century. His suits were invariably faultless; though it was untrue that he never wore one twice, still they gave that impression.

  Peter Windsor was of a very different sort. Possibly twenty years younger than the man he served as second in command, he was fresh of face, lime green of eye, handsome in the English aristocrat manner. Over six feet tall, his lank body gave an impression of indolence if not downright laziness, he being inclined to sprawl rather than sit. From this graceful indolence, one could easily reach a wrong impression. Peter Windsor, which was not the name with which he had been christened, had come to the attention of the Graf some twenty-five years in the past when the pink-cheeked lad gained a field promotion to brigade commander in a desperately close-fought action in East Africa. Most of the senior mercenary officers were casualties. The Graf had immediately drawn Windsor under his wing, knowing a good thing when he saw one.

  The third person was Margit Krebs, long-time secretary, stenographer, girl Friday, and brain trust of the Graf. Her hair was black, unlikely for a Dane, and her face was not Scandinavian, but broad with a wide chin and Magyar cheekbones— the kind of face that aged slowly. Indeed, she could have passed for anywhere between thirty and fifty. She invariably dressed in British tweeds during the business day, which understated her marvelous legs and figure.

  The Graf lowered himself precisely into his favorite heavy leather chair and nodded to his two underlings. "Margit, Peter," he said, even as he pressed a button set into the side of the chair's arm.

  "Good morning, chief," Peter Windsor said.

  And, "Good morning, Herr Graf," Margit told him.

  A side door opened and a servant entered. He was garbed in the medieval livery of a Germanic court and bore a tray with coffee things. All were of gold save the Dresden cups. The servant, granite of expression, put the tray on the small table about which the three sat.

  "Thank you, Sepp," the Graf said and reached for the pot.

  "Bitte," Sepp murmured, then bowed and backed from the room.

  Peter, as he watched the other pour, said, "Lothar, if the organization ever goes broke we can flog this service of yours and retire in comfort, I shouldn't wonder."

  His superior didn't smile but said, "It was ever my boyhood ambition, Peter, to start the day off having one's breakfast and morning beverage served on gold."

  When all had their coffee in hand, the Graf turned his enigmatic gaze on his second. "Und zo, Peter: the day's crises?"

  The tall Englishman, dressed with all-out informality in sweatshirt, slacks, and tennis shoes, had a clipboard beside him. He took it up saying, "No real crises this morning, Chief." He looked at the top sheet on the clipboard. "A contract has come through to have Senator Miles Deillon hit. One of his business competitors."

  "Ah, the American agricultural tycoon? Why bring it to my attention? Couldn't you have handled such a routine matter? A senator, eh, and a major landowner at that. It would be a double-A contract, very lucrative."

  Peter nodded. "But there may be complications."

  The older man nodded, waiting.

  Peter said, "The senator has had his wind up for some time. Afraid of being kidnapped or worse by the American Nihilists, you know. We supply his bodyguard. Three men per shift on a round-the-clock basis—nine men in all."

  "Yes? And the complication?" The Graf sipped his coffee, holding the cup in a small womanish hand.

  His British subordinate blinked. "I say, we can't be hired both to assassinate a man and guard him from assassination.''

  "Why not?"

  Peter put down his own cup of coffee and closed his eyes for a moment. "Well…"he said.

  The Graf waved a hand negatively. "I assume that Luca Cellini in New York is supplying the guards. If he fails in protecting the senator, it will be a mark against his reputation in the organization. I assume your hit men will come from the ranks of Jacques's Corsicans. They're the best. Very well, if they are unsuccessful in their attempt, Jacques will be shamed. Luca and Jacques are good organization men but we cannot put up with incompetence. Too many contracts inefficiently carried out would lead to a bad image and our competitors would take advantage. I would dislike seeing either of these men go, but business is business. There are many young men with us who are anxious for promotion, willing and ready to step into the shoes of either Luca or Jacques."

  Peter shook his head and made a mark with his stylo on the sheet of paper, then folded it back to scan the next one. "I've still got much to learn in this field."

  The Graf said, "Speaking of competitors, it has come to my attention that our Colonel Boris Rivas, in Paris, is again taking measures to undersell us and provide a mercenary group for some chief in Mali who wishes to overthrow a neighbor. Approach the colonel once more with a suggestion that he join with us."

  Peter said, after making his note, "There's one small item that might be of interest. One of these so-called Deathwish Policies. We get several a day, of course, but this is an exception."

  "Yes?" the older man said politely.

  "A chap named Roy Cos. He took a standard contract with Brett-James in Nassau. It seemed simply routine."

  "Really, Peter, this is a minor matter."

  "It has its element. You see, the clod's disappeared—dropped out of sight. Hasn't used the International Credit Card Brett-James issued him nor, for that matter, his own American card. The lads assigned to hit Cos can't put the bloody crosshairs on him."

  The Graf frowned. "It seems to me that we had a similar case some years ago which eventually cost us quite a bit." He looked over at Margit, who sat quietly, hands in her lap. "Refresh me on our position in this regard, my dear Fraulein."

  Margit said, "If the subject is liquidated within the first week of the contract, we receive half a million pseudo-dollars. However, this amount is lowered to a quarter million if he is not liquidated within the following week. If three weeks elapse before he is eliminated, instead of being recompensed at all, we pay a penalty of half a million pseudo-dollars for each day he survives."

  "Indeed? Yes, now it comes back to me." He looked at Peter Windsor. "I assume that you have investigated. Have you come to any conclusion?"

  "I checked this Roy Cos's Dossier Complete. He is a national organizer of the Wobblies."

  The Graf turned his empty eyes to Margit.

  She closed
her eyes and began to recite in an inflectionless voice. "A revolutionary group founded in 1903 by American unionists, anarchists, and socialists, under the name Industrial Workers of the World, or I.W.W. Their program involved organizing workers into one Big Union which would take charge of the world's economy by legal means. For a time they grew rapidly but their anarchists began to advocate sabotage and violence around 1908, and the government was able to legally crush them. By the 1930s, they had all but disappeared.

  "But not quite completely. Their goals and methods have changed until now they have few similarities to the old I.W.W. They contend that the means of production, distribution, and so forth, should be democratically owned and operated by the people as a whole rather than being private property or in the hands of the State. They believe that this would give rise to full employment and a new surge of progress."

  Peter snorted. "Full employment? With all the automation available? They're heading for the bend, if they're not already around it.''

  Margit opened her eyes. "They seem to believe that the present-day proles, now on GAS, should be put to work in the arts, cleaning up ecology problems, that sort of thing."

  Von Brandenburg sighed. "Very well, the man is a revolutionist. Does this have any connection with his taking out a Deathwish Policy? It doesn't seem consistent."

  The tall Englishman looked back at his notes. "He's beginning to get a bit of publicity, don't you know? The news media are making quite a story of it. Before, these Wobblies were seldom heard of."

  His superior snapped to Margit, "Get through to Luca Cellini in New York and have him put his best people on this. Cos is to be hit absolutely soonest."

  "Ja, Herr Graf."

  They spoke alternately in English, German, and French. One might ask a question in any of these languages and be answered in another—even occasionally in Spanish, Italian, or Russian.

  Von Brandenburg looked back at Peter Windsor. "How is that fracas in Somalia progressing?"

  "Dormant. However, the Sheik has put in an order for two hundred infantrymen and six hover-tanks, the British Vickers model."

  The Graf looked at his secretary. "Do we have them available?"

  "At the Gao depot," Margit said. "They can be available for shipping within twenty-four hours, with crews."

  Peter shook his head. "Where does the beggar get the funds for a contract of this size? One would think there would be Sweet Fanny Adams in his treasury."

  "From the Arab Union," his chief told him. And then, "Speaking of Africa, what is the latest on Mahem Dhu? I had an indignant call from the Prophet's man last night. This fanatic's movement is spreading like wildfire. He wants the man to be taken care of immediately."

  Peter nodded. "It's had its complications, you know. I put Spyros Kakia on it. He's our best cover-builder and analyzer. Spyros concluded that hitting the so-called Mahdi wouldn't be overly difficult; he's out in public constantly, for all practical purposes without guards, as befits a holy man. But Spyros sees no possibility of a successful hit. I fancied that our only possibility was to locate a gull—a patsy, as the Yanks call it. One's turned up from the States. Chap named Franklin Pinell, a deportee. Guilty of a homicide romp. He was duped into selecting Tangier for his refuge and that Aussie Nat Fraser took over. Pinell was stripped of everything and then convincingly taken under the wing of Ram Panikkar, with his usual efficiency. A bit of a swine, Ram, but unbeatable at this sort of thing. Pinell is grateful to Ram and agreed to take the Mahdi assignment. His cover will be as a media man, which will guarantee his access to Mahem Dhu. He'll perform the hit." Peter sighed. "Unfortunately, the fast chopper which is supposedly posted for his escape will never materialize."

  The Graf nodded acceptance. "Those fanatical followers will tear him to pieces." He frowned. "What did you say his name was?"

  Peter looked down at his clipboard. "Franklin Pinell."

  Von Brandenburg thought about it, his smoky eyes nan-owing. He said finally, "What was the name of Buck Pinell's son? Remember? Buck was always proudly bringing forth his wallet and insisting we look at his snapshots."

  His right-hand man thought back. "Frankie," he said.

  "The name isn't that common." The Graf looked at Margit. "Buck Pinell was before your time, Fraulein, but get me his dossier and that of this Franklin Pinell." He looked back at Peter Windsor. "What was Buck's real first name?"

  "Willard, wasn't it? He never used it. I didn't know him as well as you did, Lothar. What was it the news chaps used to call him? The Lee Christmas of the 21st century."

  "Yes," the Graf murmured. "We were young men together in the early days of the organization. My best friend, I suppose you would say. Who was Lee Christmas, Fraulein?"

  Margit Krebs had already activated the communications screen which sat next to her chair, to order the required dossiers. Now her eyes seemed to film and she recited, "Lee Christmas, most notable of the pre-World War One American mercenaries, operated in South and Central America. Almost singlehanded he was successful in several revolutions and military revolts, especially in Honduras. He would attain high rank in the new administration but inevitably step on the wrong toes and be dismissed, often to flee for his life. Later he might return and participate in the overthrow of the government he had brought to power. A lone soldier of fortune who owned a Maxim or Vickers machine gun, could gather a handful of followers and defeat a Central American army. He was considered unique among the other mercenaries because he refused to fight on the side he thought in the wrong.''

  The Graf laughed softly, which brought Peter Windsor's eyebrows up. The other wasn't prone to displaying humor. "That sounds like Buck," he said. "It was his one shortcoming."

  He came to his feet absently and went over to the huge window to stare out over the Furstensteig path along the high ridge dividing the Rhine and Samina valleys. The peaks reached six to seven thousand feet, the highest in the Leichtenstein Alps.

  The dossiers, in printout, dropped from the slot in front of the secretary. Margit took them up and quickly scanned them. She said, "You were correct, Herr Graf. Franklin Pinell is the son of Willard Pinell. Their photos are even remarkably similar."

  Lothar von Brandenburg said musingly, "And why was young Franklin deported?"

  "He had four felonies on his record. The final one was decisive. He shot a man to death."

  "Why?"

  "He refused to reveal that. His victim was evidently unarmed, shot down in cold blood." The revelation didn't faze Margit Krebs.

  The Graf turned and faced Peter Windsor, who was already eyeing his superior in concern. He said, "Find an alternative gobemouche to liquidate the Mahdi."

  Peter stood, one hand out in protest. "Oh, look here, Lothar, this is a million-dollar contract! We can't afford to flub it, don't you know? The Prophet would be incensed. This Pinell chap seems to be a natural, and I daresay it might take donkey's years to find another dupe."

  The older man's expressionless, smoky eyes took him in. "I will not condone the sacrifice of the son of Buck Pinell, Peter."

  "I didn't expect sentiment from you, Chief."

  "Neither did I. However, I suggest that instead of the Mahdi contract, you send young Pinell to Paris. Have him remonstrate with Colonel Rivas, who seems to be getting too big for his britches, as Buck would have put it. Let him accompany Nat Fraser on the assignment. The Australian is an old hand; he can report how Franklin Pinell reacts to being blooded. I'll want a full report from him and then, possibly, we'll have Buck's son here to the Wolfschloss to gather our own impressions."

  His second in command shrugged it off, clearly dissatisfied, and turned back to his clipboard. "Now: this Dave Carlton chap in New Jersey has been poaching on our military surplus enterprises. Last week he sold one hundred Skoda assault rifles to Chavez, that guerrilla in Colombia who is attempting to arouse the Colombians to throw off their affiliations with the United States of the Americas."

  Chapter Twelve: The Nihilists

  Rick Fl
avelle looked over at his sole surviving companion, who leaned against the steel wall near one of the gunports.

  Rick said, "It's damn quiet."

  "Yeah," Alfredo said. "Ever since they yelled for us to surrender and you told them to get fucked. You know what they're doing? They're bringing up something to open up this tin can."

  "Hell," Rick said, checking the clip in his Gyrojet automatic. "They'd need a laser rifle. How's your arm?"

  "I immobilized it with a syrette. But it's sure as hell useless. How's your side?"

  "Okay," Rick lied. He carefully slid back the slide of his gunport and peered out. There was nothing to be seen.

  The steel pillbox in which they were making their ultimate stand was beautifully camouflaged in almost the exact center of the Dunninger Mountain resort home, in a beautiful patio garden. Beautiful, but on the shot-up and bombed-out side right now. From the exterior, as they well knew, the pillbox looked like an innocent rock garden. One had to scramble about it quite carefully to find the well-disguised door, not to speak of the gunports.