Deathwish World

by Dean Ing

Frank snorted at the tall, gawky Australian. "They ought to look good, you ponied up enough credits to outfit me."

  "Nothing's too good for a cove working for the bloody Graf." Nat looked up at a street sign. "Rue Monsieur Le Prince," he read. "That's it."

  Frank said, "Who's this Colonel Boris Rivas?"

  "Old-time mercenary. Mostly Africa and Near East. Last time I saw him was in Yemen. He had a contract there with some fifty commandos and a few hundred ragheads. Too bloody-minded by far for my liking, cobber. I was done on the bone but I did a bunk instead of joining up."

  Frank frowned. "Now I really need a translation."

  "I don't go for finishing off women, kids, and old folks. Fair dinkum, I don't. Rape, killing civilians, looting—old Boris gets his lollies out of it. Bad business. If the situation pickles, you might have to depend on those women and old coves. Hide you, feed you, if they're lucky enough as to have anything to eat. Maybe nurse you, if you've copped one."

  He looked up at a sign over the doorway of a dilapidated building that looked a good two centuries or more in age. Hotel Balcon.

  "This is it, cobber. Just follow me bloody lead. Rivas is competition to the Graf. This is his last bloody chance. He comes in with the mucking organization, or the barstid's had it, and that's the dinkum oil."

  "You mean we, uh, shoot him?"

  The other grinned cheerfully. "More likely he'd shoot us first, cobber. But we're here under a bloody flag of bloody truce. Let's go."

  The hotel lobby was no more impressive than the outside of the building. It had the odor of long decay. Its lone occupant was a bent old man behind the desk, obviously the concierge.

  "What room's Rivas in, cobber?" the Aussie said.

  To Frank's surprise, the old man spoke English. "Top floor. Room 505."

  "Too right," Nat said, and made a gesture with his head. "Get your arse out of here." The old-timer studied the set of Nat's jaw, then scooted out a door behind his desk.

  Frank looked at him in surprise.

  "He's been paid," Nat said, heading for the stairway. There was no elevator.

  The building was five stories high and Nat Fraser had obviously been in third-class French hotels before. At each landing he pushed a button in the wall which turned on a low wattage bulb just long enough for them to reach the next landing. The management of the Hotel Balcon did not waste electrical power.

  On the fifth floor, the pressing of the light button gave them just enough time to find room 505. Nat Fraser knocked on the door and the hall light flicked off before the portal opened.

  A huge black was there, almost as tall as the Australian and, if anything, broader of shoulder, deeper of chest. He was the blackest man Frank Pinell had ever seen—actually ebony in complexion—yet his face was more nearly European than Bantu. He was a beautiful physical specimen and his movements belied his size; he moved like a black leopard.

  Nat said, "The colonel is expecting us."

  The black opened the door wide without change of expression. Room 505 turned out to be a small suite. Since doors were open, it could be seen that there were two bedchambers and a bath. The place was better furnished, more comfortable than would have been expected of the Hotel Balcon.

  The room they had entered was filled with chairs, a table, files, piles of papers, maps, and correspondence. Behind an old metal desk sat Colonel Boris Rivas. Rivas sat straight in his chair, his posture military. His face was dark and somewhat oily, so that he looked more like a Greek or Turk than a Frenchman. His black hair was streaked with gray and looked as though it could use a shampoo. He was on the brawny side, and wore his civilian clothing uncomfortably.

  His dark eyes gleamed dislike but he said, in passable English, "Sit down, Fraser." He looked at Frank, sent his eyes over to Nat again, but then brought them back to Frank, whom he took in at greater length. "And who is this?" he demanded.

  Nat had taken one of the comfort chairs, crossing his long legs. Frank sat down in the other. The big black leaned against the wall and watched them, his face still expressionless.

  The Australian pushed his bush hat to the back of his head and said, "The arrangement was that there be two of us and two of you. Fair dinkum. This is Frank Pinell, one of the Grafs newest boys. Frank, our cheeky cove behind the desk is Colonel Boris Rivas. Who bloody well promoted him to colonel, nobody seems to know."

  "That's enough provocative talk, Fraser," the colonel snapped. "And this is Sergeant Sengor, long ago of the Senegalese Airborne Commandos, my right-hand man—and bodyguard." The colonel brought his eyes back to Frank and said, "You wouldn't be related to the late Buck Pinell, would you? There is a resemblance."

  Frank wrinkled his forehead and said, "My father's name was Willard."

  "He was a mercenary?"

  Frank said uncomfortably, "Could be. I was very young when he died and I was told very little about him."

  "If you're the son of Buck Pinell, I'm surprised to see you in the employ of Brandenburg. Pinell was a man. The Graf is a wolf."

  Nat said, "Cooee, who's giving with the mucking provocative talk now?"

  Rivas ignored him. "I've always suspected that Graf Lothar von Brandenburg was responsible for Buck Pinell's death."

  "Pull your head in," the big Australian growled. "A fine bloke you are to throw such narky nonsense around. You're crazy as a kookaburra if you think the Graf did Buck in. They cobbered up with each other when they were both no older than joeys." He looked over at Frank. "I never met Buck Pinell meself; before me time, gawdstrewth. But if he was your father, he was a wowser, from all they say."

  The colonel hit his desk a double rap in impatience. "Shall we get on with it?" he said. "You contacted me for a meeting. Very well, what do you have to say? I warn you, I will not be intimidated by Brandenburg's cheap threats."

  Nat Fraser grinned at him. "The Graf wouldn't spend his bloody time on a cheeky zany like you, Rivas. Peter Windsor sent us, strewth. The mucking message is simple enough for a dingo to get it through his block. The mercenary business is too bloody small for any competition. So Windsor says this is your last mucking chance. You and your whole bloody outfit are invited to join up with Mercenaries, Incorporated."

  Boris Rivas's dark face went darker still. He made little attempt to conceal his rage. "Or else?"

  "Windsor thought you'd know," Nat said easily.

  "Fraser, you can take this message to that pig Windsor. I am in control of all contracts in this part of Common Europe. I shall continue to be. I am not afraid of the Graf. His organization hasn't handled a sizeable mercenary operation for years. His contracts these days are almost all individual hit jobs which, of course, are more in keeping with his talents. Sergeant, see the gentlemen to the door!" Boris Rivas pushed out of his chair and made his way over to his improvised bar where he sloshed a sizeable drink into a highball glass, adding no mixer to it before knocking it back.

  Without speaking further to the French mercenary, Nat Fraser came to his feet and made a gesture with his head to Frank. "Let's do a bunk, cobber. This bloody arse is asking for it, strike me blind if he isn't."

  The sergeant, his face still empty of expression, opened the door for them.

  When they were gone, the colonel, still in a rage, snarled to his guard, "We'll see about Nat Fraser, the lickspittle. That Windsor scum has his gall sending two of his gunmen to try and intimidate me. Me! Why, I've seen more combat than Brandenburg and Windsor put together."

  He sat down again at his desk and angrily dialed on his TV phone.

  When the face appeared, he snapped, in French now, "Captain Bois, get over here with as many of your lads as you can assemble within a few minutes, to man my hotel. The Graf has thrown down the gauntlet. We'll have to confer. I'm getting in touch with Major Dupres and Captain Flaubert as well. There's a possibility that we might have some trouble with that Australian swine, Fraser."

  The face on the screen was that of a thin man, somewhat bucktoothed and now looking cautiously unhapp
y. "What did Fraser have to say? Dupres informed me that you were to meet with him."

  "Peter Windsor demands that we ally with the Graf. In a subservient position, without doubt."

  Captain Bois said, still cautiously, "And what did you tell him?"

  "I threw him out, of course—Fraser, that is. But now I'm alone here with Sergeant Sengor. I think we'd better move some of the lads into the hotel, just to be sure. One doesn't know what that murderous Fraser's orders might be."

  The thin man shook his head. "Sorry, Boris. You're not big enough to go up against the Graf. He tolerated small organizations such as ours in the past, while recruiting our best men. But now contracts are too few and far between for him to allow competition. He's amalgamating every mercenary group still outside the ranks of Mercenaries, Incorporated."

  "Traitor!"

  The other shook his head again and his tone was apologetic. "I talked it over with Flaubert. We've both had offers from Windsor to go on the Graf's full-time retainer, with promotions. I'm afraid we're taking the offers, Boris. I suggest that you make your own peace with him. He'd probably promote you to brigadier."

  "Brigadier, you ass! He hasn't had a brigade-sized contract since '80."

  The other's face was rueful, even as it faded from the screen.

  Boris Rivas was livid. He came to his feet again, went back to the liquor, and repeated his performance of a few minutes before. He said to the impassive black, "Get a drink, Sergeant," and returned to the desk.

  Sengbr went over to the bottles, poured himself a small gin, and returned with it to his place against the wall, near the door.

  Rivas flicked on the phone screen again and dialed. When the face appeared, it was that of a coarse, middle-aged man who looked as though he was half drunk. In fact, even as he sat there before the screen, he lifted a glass to his lips.

  Rivas snapped, "What's the matter with you?"

  "Nothing."

  "Well, confound it, get over here with any of the men you have in mat bistro with you. We're having a fracas with the Graf and his pigs."

  "I know. The word is all about town."

  The colonel stared at him. "Spread by whom?"

  "By Bois and Flaubert, among others. They said that you're washed up, Boris. They're signing with Brandenburg."

  "And what do you think, Henri?" the colonel snarled in a high rage.

  The other took another drink. "I've stopped thinking. I can't afford it. Peter Windsor hasn't approached me. If he doesn't by the weekend, I'll offer him my services. If he doesn't want them, it looks as though I'm retired."

  The face faded and Rivas slumped back in his chair for a long moment. Finally, he got up and poured himself another drink, a smaller one this time. Carrying the glass with him, he went over to one of the curtained windows. He said to the black, "Turn off those lights."

  The sergeant brushed his hand over the switch at the side of the door. Rivas stood to one side of the window and pushed back the curtain a few inches. Across the street, he could make out a figure standing in a doorway. He let the curtain back and for a moment leaned against the wall, breathing deeply. He knocked the drink back and threw the glass across the room, shattering it against the far wall. His hand went beneath his coat to emerge with a small Gyrojet, a silencer attachment on its muzzle.

  "Come on, Sergeant," he muttered. "It's you and me now. We'll go to ground and start recruiting for our counterattack. That scum Brandenburg doesn't know what fighting men are. He hires lads to do his dirty work; hasn't been in action himself for decades. I just wonder how impregnable that Wolfschloss of his really is."

  The sergeant opened the door, peered up and down the dark corridor, then let the colonel precede him. They hurried down the stairway, the colonel pressing the light button, as had Nat Fraser, at each landing. And at each landing they shot glances up and down the hotel corridor. The lobby was empty.

  "This way," Rivas snapped. "Out the back. To the alley."

  They went behind the desk and utilized the same door that the concierge had disappeared through on Nat Fraser's orders. They went down a dark, narrow corridor to the portal leading out into the alley. The colonel, gun in right hand, cautiously opened it and peered through.

  The alley was dark, very black, and led to the left. It had no lights at all. One end led out onto the street; the other was a cul-de-sac blocked by a high brick wall. On each side, the walls were blank and tall. The only light came from the street, fifty feet away. The door through which they emerged was at pavement level. The alley was cobblestoned, going back to the days of Napoleon the Little. As they emerged into it, two figures entered from the street, cautiously, half crouched.

  "Damn!" the colonel snarled. "We can't afford a shoot-out here. The flics would lay it at my door. Back, back the other way!"

  But then he slowly, as though with great care, leaned forward and went down onto his knees. He coughed softly, then leaned forward again and put his hands on the cobblestones in front of him. The Gyrojet pistol clanged to the paving. He slowly bowed his head, as though staring in fascination at the cobbles before him. There was a splashing sound. His arms and legs seemed to give way at the same time and he fell forward into the puddle of his own aortic blood.

  Nat Fraser and Frank Pinell came up, tucking their guns back into holsters beneath their coats. They stared down at the body. A four-inch combat knife handle protruded upward from the body of Boris Rivas. The Australian looked up at the sergeant and nodded. "Be with you in a meejum minute, Sengor."

  He turned and led Frank, who had been staring at the fallen man in dread fascination, twenty feet down the alley.

  Nat said, his voice unruffled and unhurried, "You do a bunk back to the hotel and get your things. I'll stay here with the wog and do the necessary. Your orders are to go to Vaduz, in Liechtenstein, and to the Wolfschloss—that's the Graf's stronghold. You're to contact Peter Windsor there. I won't be seeing you again, cobber, not this time." He stuck his right hand out. "It was bonzer getting to know you, Frank."

  Frank Pinell ignored the hand and looked into the other's face coldly. He said, his voice even, "I won't shake hands with you, Fraser. You're no friend of mine. You and Panikkar had it all worked out to set me up for that Mahdi job. Anybody with a brain in his head could see that it was a one-way trip. I don't know what happened, or why, but at the last minute this Peter Windsor, or somebody else on the Graf's staff, diverted me to this instead. I played along with you for a while, Fraser, just to see what the hell was going on, but I never would have taken that Mahdi job. It was suicide."

  The big Australian nodded. He took off the bush hat, reset the brim, then returned it to his head. "What you say's the dinkum oil, cobber. Sorry. It was out of my mucking hands. I have to take whatever orders they give me. You see, they've got a lock on me."

  He turned and went back in the direction of the sergeant, who had the body of Boris Rivas under the arms and was hauling it back into the dark hallway of the hotel.

  Frank took the rocket shuttle from Paris to Zurich, then a vacuum tube to Buchs, on the Liechtenstein border. The vacuum tube line crossed the tiny principality on its way to Vienna but didn't stop in Liechtenstein. There was evidently no shuttleport, nor even an airport. Frank began to get the idea of just how small and remote this country was when he had to take a surface bus to complete his journey.

  There had been no customs inspection at the border; that was taken care of in Vaduz itself. He didn't spot any police but the bus station had an official look about it and there were several men lounging about clad like those stationed at Colonel Ram Panikkar's fortress-like estate in Tangier—berets, commando-type uniforms, and paratrooper boots. They carried Gyrojet carbines as naturally as though they had been bora with them in hand. None of them paid any particular attention to Frank, who was the sole passenger debarking at Vaduz.

  There was a desk with a sign reading Customs and Immigration and, carrying his own two bags, he made his way to it. The young man there,
dressed in civilian garb rather than a uniform, looked up at Frank's approach.

  He frowned slightly and said in English, after taking in the newcomer's appearance, "I'm afraid you have made a mistake, sir. Liechtenstein is not a tourist country. There is nothing particular here to attract visitors. If you hurry, you can return to the bus, which makes its next stop in Feldkirch, in Austria. You can take the vacuum tube from there to Innsbruck or…"

  Frank said, "Thanks for the wholehearted welcome, but I'm here to see Mr. Peter Windsor at the, uh, Wolfschloss, whatever that is."

  The other's voice became more brisk. "I see. May I see your identification?"

  Frank brought forth his International Credit Card, which had been given him by Colonel Panikkar in Tangier. He had wondered at the time if it was a forgery, but evidently not. He had drawn on it for credit when traveling without any difficulty. He wondered how many pseudo-dollar credits he had to his account.

  An International Credit Card, as always, doubled as a passport. The customs man glanced at it and then put it in a slot. In moments, a voice from the desk screen spoke in German. The official nodded and handed it back to Frank. He must have pressed a button with either hand or foot, since one of the uniformed men came up.

  The customs man said, "Escort Mr. Pinell to the Wolfschloss. He is to see Mr. Windsor at the donjon."

  "Right," the other said, and took Frank in. He lifted one of the two pieces of luggage and said, "This way."

  Frank followed him out to a small parking area and to one of the several jeeps there. They put the bags in the back and climbed into the front.

  The other looked as though he was probably American and spoke like it as well. He must have been roughly Frank's own age but had a toughness about him somewhat reminiscent of Nat Fraser.

  As he started up, he said, "First trip here?"

  "That's right," Frank said.

  "Bore you shitless unless you're quartered up in the schloss. Not bad up there."

  "What's a schloss?"

  "Castle."

  Frank said, "American?"